POITIERS, _September 15, 1844_.
If I have delayed a reply to your letter of last month, which I found on
my arrival here, it is not, as your guilty conscience will whisper, in
retaliation for your remissness in sending me any word of yourself. You
let ten days pass without even so much as thinking of writing me a line,
which was very bad of you.
You speak in your letter of your reflections while at D. I suppose you
enjoyed yourself there very much, and I am compelled to believe that you
enjoy yourself only when you have an opportunity to play the coquette.
Since leaving Paris I have had the most tedious sort of time. Like
Ulysses, I have seen many customs, men, and cities, and I have found
them all hideeously ugly. Then, I have had fever several times, which
has surprised and also annoyed me, for it means that I am losing health.
The country about here is the most level and the most uninteresting in
France; yet there are a great many woods, with magnificent trees, and
solitudes where I should love to have met you.
Your memory is now associated in my mind with a host of places, but I
like to think of you especially in the woods and the museums. If it is
any pleasure to you to know that you occupy a place--a large place,
too--in my thoughts, you may be gratified to know that you are not
forgotten in the midst of the busy life I am leading. Each tree recalls
such and such a conversation. I spend my time meditating on our rambles.
I applaud Scribe most heartily for having made a virtuous and
non-Catholic audience laugh at the expense of virtue. I am equally
astonished at what you tell me of his delivery. Formerly he read like a
cabby. One must believe that it is the Academic uniform which imparts
this self-possession, and this thought consoles me not a little.
Since leaving Paris I have not unrolled my dissertation twice. If this
continues, I do not believe, really, that I shall be able to change a
line of it, and I have no doubt that at the last moment I shall be
terror-stricken because of the quantity of nonsense I have allowed to
remain. Until I have really set my sails in the direction of Paris I
shall not know with any certainty the date of my departure. If the
government does not compel me to go farther than Saintes, I fancy we
shall reach Paris about the same time. What happiness if I could see you
the next day! Good-bye. Write to me at Saintes; I expect to reach there
soon, and to remain several days.
C
PARTHENAY, _September 19, 1844_.
Your letter, which I received while at Saintes, proved a slight
diversion to the tribulations which I endured there. I was forcibly
prevented from plunging into despair four thousand of my fellow-citizens
who sent delegations to me with extravagant appeals.
Between my sense of duty and my natural tenderness of heart, I was
miserably unhappy. Finally, I took the wisest course, and acted the
proconsul, but I shall not dare to show my face in Saintes next year. I
observe with delight that you still remember Paris. I feared you had
forgotten our woods and our grassy sward. As for me, every day makes me
more eager to see them again, especially now that I have started towards
Paris. From the indications, I shall reach there in advance of you. I
shall be there in ten days at the latest, barring accidents impossible
to foresee.
And you? This is the all-important thing. To be in Paris without you
will seem infinitely harder than tramping over the country, as I am
doing at present. I am thirsting to see you, with a craving which to you
is incomprehensible. Can you, will you come once more to say farewell to
your domains on the left bank? I try not to think about it, but I can
not succeed. In order to prepare myself for disappointments, like
_Scapin_ returning from his travels, I try to imagine your ladyship as a
statue, armed against me as she has sometimes appeared. ‘Tis of no use;
I can picture you only as you were the last time we were together,
seated so comfortably on a mass of rock. To tell the truth, I think of
this because, in the first place, you gave me your promise, and again, I
can never persuade myself that we have changed, united in thought as we
have been in our separation. If you have any thought of returning, write
to me at Blois, where I shall soon be.
After the twenty-fifth, write to me in Paris, and tell me when I shall
see you, and make it as soon as possible. I am writing to you from a
wretched town, infested with owls, and with but one abominable inn,
where they keep up an infernal noise. I find so many hairs in my food
that I can hardly eat. I saw to-day at Saint-Maixent women who dressed
their hair in the style of the fourteenth century, and with bodices
belonging to almost the same period, which were made so as to show the
shirt, which was of coarse linen, buttoned below the neck and split open
like that worn by men. In spite of the ginger-bread on the lower edge,
it seemed to me very pretty. I almost sprained my hand to-day, and it is
not strong enough to write longer.
Good-bye.