PARIS, _March 12, 1844_.
That is all right. As if I had not vexations enough of every kind! A
hundred calls to make! A library which orders me to write and discuss
forty pages of prose matter! Proofs to correct! It seems to me that,
knowing all this, you might at least send me a few lines of
encouragement. I have almost reached the end of my courage, and of my
patience. Fortunately, it will all end next Thursday.[9] Thursday, at
one o’clock, I shall become once more an ordinary biped. In the
meantime, is it too much to ask you to send me a few words of affection,
such as you found to say the last time I saw you? It is three o’clock,
and I must leave you for my proofs of _Mademoiselle Arsène Guillot_.
Monday, or, rather, Tuesday.