TOULOUSE, _August 18, 1845_.
I have just found your letter at this place, which is very fortunate,
indeed, for I was furious not to have any news from you at Poitiers, as
I had expected. You will say, in reply, that I had no business to expect
you to think of me sooner than you have done. How could I help it? I can
not become accustomed to your ways. You are never so near forgetting me
as when you have tried to persuade me that you were thinking of me.
Happily for me, between these periods of forgetfulness there are oases
of recollections, and it is of these that I think without ceasing.
I see none of those beautiful grottoes of which you tell me, and have no
need of them in order that my mind should be filled with thoughts both
sad and gay. When it comes to scenery, I am not hard to please, as you
know very well. When out walking with you I pay no attention to the
scenery.
I should like to flatter you as you ask me to do, but I am in too bad a
humour. For two weeks I have been in a continuous rage, first with the
weather, then with the architects, and finally with you and myself. The
weather, which has been abominable all this time, cleared unexpectedly
yesterday, but the heat is now overpowering, accompanied by a sirocco,
which is most exhausting to the vitality. I spent twenty-four hours at
the home of a representative, and if I had ever had the ambition to be
a politician, that visit would have caused me to change my mind. What an
occupation! What kinds of people one must visit, and be on good terms
with, and flatter! I will say with Hotspur: “I had rather be a kitten
and cry mew.” If one must be a slave, I prefer the court of a despot:
most despots, at least, wash their hands.
I regret to learn that you were starting so late for D., which means, I
fear, that it will be an age before you return. What enables me to
endure my present occupation with patience is the thought that upon my
return I shall see you again standing beside the lions of the Institute,
and that after you have plagued me to death for a quarter of an hour you
will make me forget all my troubles. How long shall you remain at D.?
This is what I am now anxious to know.
You will go, very likely, to England, and Lady M. will once more expound
all her beautiful theories about the baseness of falling in love. I
should like to be sure that yours would be the first friendly face to
greet me on my return. Unfortunately, this can not be, and you will wait
until every leaf has fallen before returning to Paris. God only knows if
you will not come back three-quarters an Englishwoman. Give me your
promise that this will not be, that you will try not to stay away too
long, and that you will not be any worse on your return than you are
now. You are well enough as you are.
Write to me at Montpellier, from which place I am going to bring you a
hand-bag. Write again to Avignon. I am planning my time so that I shall
return September 20. This will be difficult to accomplish, but I hope to
succeed in it.
Good-bye. Your letter ends very nicely, but why do you never speak to me
in the way you sometimes write?