  Sunday, 8.30 p.m. (1833). Before beginning to copy or count words, Do not therefore give way any more to melancholy; permit yourself to be loved and to be happy. Fear nothing from me, never doubt me, and we shall be blissful beyond words. I am expecting you shortly, and am ready with warm and tender caresses which, I hope, will cheer you. Your Juju. (1833). Since you left me I carry death in my heart. If you go to the ball to-night, it must be at the cost of a definite rupture between us. The pain I suffer at imagining you moving among that throng of fascinating, careless women, is too great for you to be able to J. Wednesday, 2.30 p.m. (1833). I cannot refrain, dearly beloved, from commenting upon the profound melancholy you were in this morning, and upon the doubt you manifest on every occasion as to the sincerity of my love. This unjustifiable suspicion on your part disheartens me beyond all expression. It intimidates me and makes me fear to confide to you the incidents my dubious position exposes me to. To-day, for instance, I concealed from you the visit of a creditor, who presented himself to the porter, but was not shown up. I paid him out of my own resources, without your knowledge, because you are always telling me I do not love you. This expression from you makes me feel that you hold a shameful opinion of me and my character, rendered possible perhaps by my situation, but none the less false, unjust, and cruel. I love you because I love you, because it would be impossible for me not to love you. I love you without question, without calculation, without reason good or bad, faithfully, with all my heart and soul, and every faculty. Believe it, for it is true. If you cannot believe, I being at your side, I will make a drastic effort to force you to do so. I shall have the mournful satisfaction of sacrificing myself utterly to a distrust as absurd as it is unfounded. Meanwhile, I ask your pardon for the guilty thought that came to me this morning, and which may possibly recur, if you continue to see in my love only a mean-spirited compliance and an unworthy speculation. This letter is very lengthy, and very sad to write. I trust with all my soul, that I may never have to reiterate its sentiments. I love you. Indeed I love you. Believe in me. Juliette. Wednesday, 8.15 p.m. (1833). Here is a second letter. Forgive my epistolary extravagance. Honestly, I imagine you must soon tire, to put it as mildly as possible, of this superabundance of letters. The reason of my writing again is no novel one: it is merely to repeat that I love you every day and every instant more and more; that I feel convinced you are only too eager to return my sentiments, but that between your desire and your capacity there stands a wall a hundred feet high, entitled “suspicion.” Suspicion leads to contempt, and when that exists, no real love is possible. There is no answer to what I have just stated. I feel it, and am crushed by my sorrow. I know not what to do, where to go, what plans to make. I can only suffer, just as I can only love you. Juliette. If ever this letter is found, it will be seen that my love was insufficient in your eyes to atone for my past. 2 a.m. (1833). My Victor, I love you truly, and neither know, nor can conceive, any personality more deserving of devotion than yourself. I look up to you as a faithful, reliable friend, as the noblest and most estimable of men. It hurts me to feel that my past life must be an obstacle to your confidence. Before I cared for you, I felt no shame for it, I made no attempt to conceal or alter it; but, since I have known you, this attitude of mind has changed in every respect. I blush for myself, and dread lest my love have not the strength to erase the stains of the past. I fear it even more, when you suspect me unjustly. My Victor, it is for your love to sanctify me, for your esteem to renew in me all that once was good and pure. I care for you so much that all this is possible. I will become worthy of you, if you will only help me. Farewell. You are my soul, my life, my religion; I love you. Juliette. Your appreciation of my letters is one of the best proofs of love you have yet given me. I will set to work to reconstruct them. Nothing has happened since you left me yesterday, except that my love for you has increased. (1833.) Before reading this letter, look upon me once more with affection. My poor friend, I am about to grieve and surprise J. (1833.) Since you insist upon a denial of offences which exist only in your imagination, I owe it to you to make it comprehensive and without restriction. It is not true that I have tried to offend you by reproaches unworthy of yourself and of me. It is not true that I have ever held any opinion of you, but this one, that I esteem you above all men. The real and irrevocable cause of our estrangement, is the certainty that your love for me is incomplete. I am more persuaded of it every day, and particularly to-day, when you have actually told me that you thought I had misled you as to the state of my affections. This is a grave offence towards a woman who has never deceived you on the subject of her heart, and whose only fault is to love you too much; for her very excess in this respect, has given her the sad courage to risk losing your esteem, in order to preserve your love one day longer. But I am unwilling to think you intended to hurt me by allowing me to see the canker in your heart. I prefer to believe that we are equally the victims of a calamity, under which our only resource, is to separate from one another. Possibly our wounds will heal when they are no longer exposed to the continual friction of carping suspicion. Good-bye. Forgive me if I have offended you. I am loath to hurt you. J. I beg you not to attempt to see me again. This is the last sacrifice I will ask of you. (June 1833.) My dear Victor, my Beloved, Do not be anxious! I am as well as a poor woman, who has lost her happiness and the sole joy of her existence, can expect to be. If I could let you know my place of refuge without exposing us both, but more particularly myself, to useless wretchedness, I would do so. Confidence, the indispensable ingredient in a union such as ours, no longer exists in your mind. God is my witness that I have never once deceived you in matters of love, during the past four months. Any concealment I have been guilty of, has only been with the intention of sparing us both unnecessary worry, in view of the attitude of mind we have been in lately. I may have been wrong; the purity of my intention must be my excuse.
9.45 p.m. Saturday, August 13th (1833). While you are on your travels, dearest, my thoughts follow you in all love. Though I still feel somewhat sore, I will strive to control myself, and speak only those gentle words you like to hear. It was dear of you to allow me to come to your house. If you have any pity for me, dear love, you will assist me to rise superior to the lowly and humble position which tortures my spirit as well as my body. Help me, my good angel, that I may believe in you and in the future. I beg and implore you. J. (1833.) It is not quite six o’clock in the evening. I have just finished copying the verses you gave me yesterday. I am not very familiar with the forms of compliment I love you. My heart melts in admiration and adoration. There is more rapture of love in my poor bosom than it is capable of containing. Come then, and receive the superabundance of my ecstasy. If you only knew how I long for you, and desire you! If you knew more still, you would come, I am very sure! Come, come, I beg you, come! You shall have a kiss for every step, a recompense for every effort, more smiles, and more joy, than you will encounter fog and cold. Juliette. I am writing this a little later because, before turning to business, I had to unburthen my heart. I came home yesterday, read your poetry, dined, did my accounts, and went to bed. I read the newspapers you sent, went to sleep, dreamed of you, and woke up this morning at 8 o’clock. I rose almost immediately, did some housework, and mended yesterday’s frock. In the middle of breakfast Lanvin arrived, bringing After dinner. I have heard the children’s lessons, and been obliged to punish your protÉgÉe, Claire, who is the laziest and idlest of all the pupils. I have just read your poem to Madame Lanvin; she was deeply moved. The poor thing understands you, therefore I need not explain that she loves you. Good-night, until to-morrow, I hope. I suppose you did not come to-day because you had arrangements to make for our journey; that is why I am able to possess my soul in patience. J. Sunday, 4 p.m. (1833). I have just come in sad and depressed. I suffer, I weep, I wail aloud and moan under my breath, to God and to you. I long to die, that I might put an end once and for all, to this misery and disappointment and sorrow. It really seems as if my happiness had disappeared with the fine weather. It would be folly to expect to see either again. The season is too far advanced for fine weather or for happy days. I love you, I love you, I love you, happy or unhappy, merry or sad. I love you! Do with me what you will, I still shall love you. J. Monday, 1.50 a.m., 1833. I have been standing at the window all this time, my soul stretched towards you, my ear attentive to every sound, fearing always lest your courage should fail you before the end of your weary walk. It is half an hour since you left; I have listened hard, but no sound has reached me that could make me The last seven months of my life have been absolutely honest and pure! Yet, have you kept your word? If I were the only one to suffer I should be more resigned, but you are as unhappy as I; you are as ashamed of the insults you heap upon me, as I am, of receiving them. Now that I perceive fully the canker that lies at the root of our position, it is my part to arrest the progress of the evil by cutting out my soul and my life, to preserve what can still be saved of yours and mine. Listen, Victor, I urge you not to refuse me your assistance in carrying out the plan I think indispensable for the honour of us both. If anything can give you courage it must be the knowledge that I have been faithful to you alone, these seven months. Ah, truly I have never deceived you! Truly! truly! Yet in the course of these same Surely you can see that we must no longer hesitate! I will go away by the first Saumur omnibus. The health of my little girl can serve as a pretext. When I am with her, I shall be able to reflect upon my position, and see what I can do in order to render it tolerable. If, as probably may be necessary, I were to leave the theatre, the furniture would cover my debt to Jourdain, and if you were unwilling to be worried, I could request any man of business to sell it, up to the amount of my bill to Jourdain, which is the only one for which you are responsible. I shall go abroad. Such as I am, I am still capable of earning my living, which is all that is necessary. But all this is beside the question. The important point is that I ought to start as soon as possible, to-day even, in order to protect us both from ourselves. Before going, I hope to see you once more, unless your condition should become worse—which is a horrifying thought when I consider that I am the cause of it. But whether I see you or not, whether you are the victim of my temper or not, I leave with you all my love and all my happiness. I do not reserve even hope; I give into your keeping my soul, my thoughts, my life. I take only with me my body, which you have no cause to regret. Juliette. (December 20th, 1833.) My beloved Victor, I have been very unjust to you. You have had cause to call me ungrateful and unworthy. You My Victor, do not leave me! I beg you on my knees, not to be daunted before a public responsibility. Who has the right to demand from you an account of the measure of the sacrifices you have made for me? What does it matter if you are denied the justice you deserve? What matter that you should be held responsible in part for my troubles? The point to be considered before all others, is your private relations with me. The responsibility you must accept is towards me only; it concerns only our two selves. If you repudiate it, it will kill me, for my whole life is wrapped up in you and your presence. I breathe only through your lips, see only with your eyes, live only in your heart. If you withdraw yourself from me, I must die. Reflect! This is not a threat, to keep you near me. I am not exaggerating the extent to which you are necessary to my very existence—I am only telling you what I feel. It is the truth, but the truth under restriction, for I hardly dare acknowledge it in its entirety, even to myself. I need you! Only you! I cannot exist without you. Think of it. Try to love me enough to accept the charge of my life, with all its attendant bad luck. Juliette. 2 a.m., January 1st, 1834. To Thee, my Victor! I dare not say anything. Guess what I am feeling and do with me what you will! I love you ... the memory of what has gone before, and my fears for the future, prevent me from describing my emotions as freely as formerly. Forget the past, take the future into your own hands, and I shall regain the faculty of saying “I love you,” as earnestly as I mean it. I love you.... Juliette. Saturday morning, 1834. To Monsieur Victor Hugo, In Town.
It is a quarter to one. I have been to your printing-works, numbers 16 and 19; you had not been seen. I went on to your house; you had not come in. I wrote you a line; I waited for you.... At last I came home hoping to find you; but you had not been here. My thanks to you for treating me like a vagrant dog. You had informed me that you were You forgot your promises at once, and you apparently hold my love very cheap. If you, indifferent though you may be, could see me in imagination, as I sit writing to you, you would be horrified at the condition your injustice and disdain have reduced me to. It is evident that you no longer love me, and that you are only bound to me by the fear of causing some great calamity if you desert me. It is indeed grievous that this should be the only sentiment which links you to me, and I am unwilling to accept a devotion so hollow and humiliating. I give you back your freedom. From this moment you have no responsibility towards me, although my heart is broken, although my soul is still fuller of love than it is able to contain, although my eyes, as I write, are drenched with bitter tears. I shall still have the courage necessary to bear my life as it will be, when bereft of happiness and laughter. You have been very cruel to me. I forgive you. Forgive also my tempests of rage. I am ashamed of them, and thoroughly wretched. I swear to you by that which I hold most sacred in life, namely my child, that I am unable to explain how I can have been guilty yesterday of a thing I utterly disapprove of, and which seems to me the acme of effrontery. I swear I never saw those men. I am innocent of any crime. I can say no more. You have crushed me by referring again to my past life, and even while I am assuring you of my love and repentance, and while I still hope for a reconciliation, I tremble to feel that you can suspect me so Farewell! May you enjoy greater tranquillity and happiness than will fall to my lot. Do not forget that, for a whole year, we were happy solely by means of our love. Good-bye! I have indeed received my full meed of punishment for the imaginary crime of yesterday. Farewell. Think of me without bitterness. Juliette. Monday, 2 a.m. (1834). I returned from the Place Royale about two hours ago. It was ten o’clock when I arrived there, and I left at about midnight. I had hoped to bring you back with me, or, failing to do so, to catch at least a glimpse of you. I waited patiently all that time, hoping that you would become aware of my presence, and reward me for it by one glance. But everything remained dark and gloomy for me, though it was easy to see the lights through the drawn blinds, and the shadows of many people moving about. It will not be the last time, in all probability, that I shall have the opportunity of seeing that, while I suffer and weep, you make merry. Forgive me, my Victor, forgive me for this comparison of our respective lots. It is the last time I shall make it, perhaps even the last time I shall write to you, for you have said that you will not read any more of my letters for a long time ... a long time signifies “for ever,” for you will forget me and I shall die. Your love was my whole life. To-night I feel as miserable as I should be if you no longer loved me. God, how sorely I need pity! I have just obeyed your wishes by putting all your works away carefully. As for my own relics of you, I have collected them in an English desk, under lock and key, and hidden them under my bolster, where they shall always remain. Farewell, the performance of this duty has been a mournful satisfaction to me. Saturday, 6 p.m., 1834. To Thee, my Beloved. You promised that as soon as your work was finished, you would devote all your time to me; you also said, when you were leaving me yesterday, that you would come early this morning. Neither of these promises have you kept; yet I have never longed for your presence and your love more than at this moment, when anxiety seems to have taken up its abode with me. I have been so worried that I do not know whether I could endure another day like this. I am thankful to leave this house; it is so haunted by ill-luck and sadness, that to be quit of it will be a relief. My Victor, what is going to become of us? What can we do to avert the misfortune that threatens us? Juliette. I have no other refuge or I should not go to Madame I write because I am wretched, because I must make moan to someone or something. I write because I shall soon be dead. These lines will be the cold remains of my soul and thoughts and love, as my body will be the corpse of my warm flesh and blood. I write to declare my faith, to obtain pardon of my sins, to weep, because my tears strangle me and will put an end to me. I shall be in the street to-night. I shall remain there as long as my strength holds out, without hope, but still, near you.... Midnight, Saturday, August 2nd, 1834. To Victor. Farewell for ever. You have decreed it thus. Farewell then, and may you be as happy and admired as I shall be hapless and forlorn. Farewell! This word comprises my whole life, and joy, and happiness. Juliette. I am going away with my child. I am just going out to fetch her and take our places. The ComÉdie FranÇaise management has no claim on my services until it has assigned me my parts. My maid has (1834.) Mademoiselle Marie, Enclosed is a letter for Monsieur Victor Hugo. If he should not come to the house, try and manage to let him know that there is one awaiting him at No. 4, Rue de Paradis au Marais, from Madame Kraftt. If he is still in Paris I expect he will understand what you mean, and will either send for it or fetch it himself. In any case, write to me by every post and tell me about Monsieur Victor Hugo: whether you have seen him, what he has said to you, whether he is still in Paris, or whether he has left; in fact, tell me everything you can find out concerning him. I am writing from Rennes, where I arrived very ill, with my child. I hope, however, to be able to leave to-morrow and go to my sister. Write to me there and address thus: Madame Drouet, Please take good care of the house. J. Drouet. (Enclosure) Rennes, My Dear Victor, I am writing this letter on the chance of its reaching you, but with the sad premonition that you will never read it. My beloved, I love you more than ever. I cannot do without you. I would willingly die for you, but I cannot consent to accept a devotion which might endanger your health and your life. I was forced to fly from you. It cost me much to resist your supplications and your wrathful glances. I suffered frightfully; and now, alas, I know that, were you with me, I could no longer withstand either your gentle pleading or your terrible anger. I am very wretched. I love and bless you. Be happy! Juliette. One portion of your curse has already come to pass. My soul and body have suffered severely. In addition, I have been harried to death by the idiotic authorities, who are suspicious of every woman without a passport. I have been at Rennes about half an hour. It is half-past two. I leave again for Brest to-morrow morning at four o’clock; I expect to arrive on Thursday at five in the evening. My Victor, I love you. I could do anything for you. Have pity upon me. I love you better than anything in life. August 5th, 1834. Mademoiselle Marie, Here is another letter for Monsieur Victor Hugo. Try to get it to him. If he is in the country near Paris, let him know that there is something at my house in the name of Madame Kraftt that will interest him. I have spent a sad and sleepless night. I am afraid of falling really ill. Answer this at once. J. Drouet. (Enclosure) Rennes, Victor, I love you. Victor, I shall die of this separation. I need you, to be able to live. Since I told you everything, since the moment when my eyes could no longer rest upon yours, I have felt as if all my veins were being opened, and my life’s blood slowly drained away. I feel myself dying, and I know that I love you the better for every pang. My Victor, can you forgive me? Do you still love me? Is it really true that you hate me, that I am odious in your sight, that you despise me, that you would grind my face to the pavement if I pressed my lips to your feet, pleading for forgiveness? Oh, if you still love me, if you still respect me, if you can forgive everything, only tell me so, and I will do all you wish! Everything, I swear! Will you take me back? I am very ill. J. 3 a.m. (1834). For my Victor. While I was expecting to see you I could not sleep. Now that the hope is dead I still cannot sleep because I am unhappy. I grieve not to have seen you; I grieve because I was cross and ill-tempered when you were gentle and charming. I rehearse in imagination all the incidents of the evening, and the pain at my heart grows unbearable. It is wicked of me to torment you, yet I cannot help myself. My offence goes by the name of “jealousy.” Much as I dread displeasing you, I yet cannot avoid giving way to that hideous passion. I make you miserable when I should like to saturate you with happiness. Oh, it is horribly wrong of me! I am much to be pitied, for I am jealous, and of whom? The most beautiful, the most gentle, the most perfect of women ... your wife! Heaven forgive me! My torment is surely sufficient expiation for my fault! God, how I love you! how I love my Victor! All is contained in these words. You do forgive me, do you not? and you love me as much as ever? I hope so ... else, I should prefer to die. Juliette. Sunday, 3 p.m. (1834). I have abandoned hope ... yet love remains. I no longer believe that any happiness is possible for me in the future, but you I love more every day; better than the first day, better than yesterday, better than this morning, better than a moment ago; and still I am not happy.
You remember what I used to say to you when To-day, it is not a theatrical part that is in question—it is my life. Now that calumny has crushed me, now that my mode of life has been condemned without my having a chance of self-defence, now that my health and reason have been expended in this struggle without profit or glory, now that I have been held up before the public as a woman without a future, I dare not, cannot live longer ... this is absolutely true ... I dare not live. This fear has brought me to the verge of suicide ... a peculiar suicide. I do not propose to kill myself like other people. I mean to sever myself from you, and, to me, such a severance signifies death. Death certainly. I have already made one experiment of the kind, therefore I am sure. I am confirmed in this project by the reflection that you will thereby be restored to liberty; that you will be free to direct your life and your genius in the way best suited to your happiness; that I shall no longer be an obstacle in your path, but an object of pity and indulgence—pity for what I shall suffer, indulgence and forgiveness for such of my faults as have made you suffer. If the excess of my love and grief should bring me back to your side, do not notice me ... shut your eyes, stop your ears, remain in your own house ... thus you may learn to forget, while I ... I ... shall die. I shall not suffer long. I shall soon be at rest. It is raining hard at this moment, and I am in a raging fever. No matter, I shall go out. I do not know whether you propose coming to fetch me. If Juliette. 5.30 (1834). You wish me to write to you in your absence. I am always unwilling to accede to this desire, for when we are separated, my thoughts are so sad and painful that I should prefer to hide them from you if possible. You see, my Victor, this sedentary, solitary life is killing me. I wear my soul out with longing. My days are spent in a room twelve feet square. What I desire is not the world, not empty pleasures, but liberty—liberty to act, liberty to employ my time and strength in household duties. What I want is a respite from suffering, for I endure a thousand deaths every moment. I ask for life—life like yours, like other people’s. If you cannot understand this, and if I seem foolish or unjust in your eyes, leave me, do not worry about me any more. I hardly know what I am writing; my eyes are inflamed, my heart heavy. I want air, I am suffocating! Oh, Heaven, have pity upon me! What have I done to deserve such wretchedness? I love you, I adore you, my Victor; have pity upon me. Kill me with one blow, but do not let me suffer as many eternities as there are minutes in every one of your absences. What am I saying? I am delirious, feverish. Oh God, have mercy on me! Juliette. November 4th, 8.30 p.m. (1834). Yes, you are my support, the stable earth beneath my feet, my hope, my joy, my happiness, my all! I do not know how these halting words of mine can be expected to convey my thoughts to your mind, but this indeed is truly and sincerely meant: that you are to me the noblest, most sincere, most generous of men. I believe this, and have absolute confidence in your power to frustrate the evil fate which holds me in its grip. My dearly beloved, you were quite charming just now, and you are perfectly right when you say that there is an element of vanity in your nobility of conduct; for nothing could be more becoming than the elegant and dignified manner in which you raised me just now from my knees. You were really great. You were a king! My darling little Toto, chÉri! I am going to bed now, because I am not certain that you will come early enough to take me out; and, after all, you are not the sort of man to be scandalised by finding a woman in bed, especially ... Juliette. 1834. My dearly Beloved, I am always wishing I were a great actress, because, if my soul and intellect were equal to yours, another link would be forged between us; but I wish it still more at such a time as this, for I should then be able to relieve you of the annoyance of being at I need not finish this letter, for here you are! 1835. It is long after 11 o’clock. I am no longer expecting you for a walk, but I still hope to see you this evening. I write you these few lines as an apology for the disappointment I feel each time you fail me. I am miserable, but not angry; I shed tears, but do not reproach you; I am often much to be pitied, but I never cease loving you to distraction. If only you would believe this, I think I could bear my invidious position with more resignation. I am afraid you misapprehend my love, and this anxiety often makes the days seem long and sad. But I must not forget that you are working and worn out, and that you have neither strength nor leisure to listen, that is to say, to read of my worries. 11.30 p.m. Here you are! I am finishing this letter more untidily even than usual. Luckily one’s character, and, more important still, one’s heart, are not exclusively interpreted by one’s handwriting. Juliette. Saturday, 3.15 p.m. (1835). My poor, dear, beloved Toto, When I see you so preoccupied with important business I am ashamed to add to your fatigues by the It is nearly three o’clock. I hope by this time everything has gone off well at rehearsal. It is high time, my admired, beloved, adored poet, you left that wretched den they call the ThÉÂtre FranÇais. You will leave it with full credit to yourself, notwithstanding the ill-will of that jealous old wretch, and the stupidity, hatred, and malice of the cabal against you. You will see, my splendid lion, whether those hideous crows will dare croak in face of your roaring. As for me, if anything could make me prouder and happier, it would be that I alone understand you. Juliette. Saturday, 1.30 p.m., April 11th (1835). Why were you so smart just now? It makes me dreadfully anxious, especially in conjunction with your early morning walks to the Arsenal. Toto ... Toto ... you do not know what I am capable of; take care! I do not love you for nothing. If you deceived me the least bit in the world I should kill you. But no, seriously, I am jealous when I see you That is my politic and literary resolve: I shall put it into execution, from to-morrow. By the way, this is my birthday. You did not even know it—or, rather, I dare say you do not care whether I was ever born or not. Is it true that you do not mind one little bit? That is all the importance you attach to my love! And yet one thing is very certain: that I was created and put into the world solely to love you, and God knows with what ardour I fulfil my mission. I love you—ah, yes, indeed, I love you—I love my Victor! Juliette. Saturday, 8 p.m. (1835). I am more than ever resolved to separate our lives one from the other. What you say about Mlle. Mars’s increasing age and the impossibility of obtaining a double success through her, literary as well as financial, and about the necessity of securing the services of Madame Dorval or some equally handsome and celebrated actress, makes me determined to sever our connection as speedily as possible, no matter where I may have to go, or under what pecuniary conditions. Your words to-night prove that you have had private intelligence about Mlle. Mars, Madame Dorval, and the theatre generally, that you have Let us hope this new resolution will conduce to our greater happiness. Juliette. Tuesday, April 28th, 1835. This is just to remind you of my love, and that it will only be purified and augmented by the ill-luck and perfidy to which you are more exposed than others, my noble poet, my king—king, indeed, of us all, though lover only of me: is that not so? I have nothing to Think of poor me, sitting at the back of a box to-night, enduring all the anguish of jealousy and love. Juliette. Madame Pierceau came at one o’clock, leaving Monsieur Verdier in a cab below. He was desperate at the loss of his stall, which, he hears, was taken from him by your orders. As I did not know what to say about it, I advised Madame Pierceau to send him to you. Monsieur Pasquier, as I anticipated, has not taken Madame RÉcamier’s box. I wonder what you have done with it. Did it reach you in time? Midnight, Tuesday, April 28th, 1835. My cup is full. Bravo! bravo!! bravo!!! bravo!!!! bravo!!!!! For the first time I have been able to applaud you as much as I wished, for you were not there to prevent it. Thank you, my beloved! Thank you for myself, whose happiness you increase with every second of my life, and thank you also for the crowd that was there, admiring, listening, and appreciating you.
I saw and heard everything, and will tell you all about it; although if the applause, enthusiasm, and Till to-morrow, then. If you knew how conscientiously I clapped Madame Dorval, you would hesitate to say or do anything to add to the soreness I already feel at the thought that another than I has been selected to interpret your noble sentiments. There, now I am giving way to sadness again, because you are with that woman! Good-night, my beloved. Sleep well, my poet, if the sound of the great chorus of praise does not prevent it. To your laurels I add my tender caresses and thousands of kisses. Juliette. Friday, 8 p.m. (1835). If I were a clever woman, my gorgeous bird, I could describe to you how you unite in yourself the beauties of form, plumage, and song! I would tell you that you are the greatest marvel of all ages, and I should only be speaking the simple truth. But to put all this into suitable words, my superb one, I should require a voice far more harmonious than that which is bestowed upon my species—for I am the humble owl that you mocked at only lately. Therefore, it cannot be. I will not tell you to what degree you are dazzling and resplendent. I leave that to the birds of sweet song who, as you know, are none the less beautiful and appreciative. I am content to delegate to them the duty of I recognise you in all the beauty that surrounds me—in form, in colour, in perfume, in harmonious sound: all of these mean you to me. You are superior to them all. You are not only the solar spectrum with the seven luminous colours, but the sun himself, that illumines, warms, and revivifies the whole world! That is what you are, and I am the lowly woman who adores you. Juliette. If you are coming to fetch me, as you led me to expect, I shall see you very soon now. I have never longed more ardently for you. Lanvin has just come. I will tell you about it when I see you. Thursday, 7.30 p.m. (1835). To my dear absent One. I hardly saw you this morning. I have not seen you this evening, and God knows what time it will be before you come to take me to AngÉlo—for I do not admit the possibility of a single performance taking place without my presence: besides, I am not sorry to know exactly how much time you spend with these actresses of the sixteenth century, and those of the nineteenth, who are no less dangerous. There, I am nearly as cross as I am sad. I had vowed I would not write at length to-day, just to teach you Never mind, I am sad. I am longing for you to-night, as the poor prisoner hungers for his pittance at the hour he is accustomed to receive it. But you are indifferent—you can calmly let my soul die of inanition—do you not love me, then? Tell me! Well, I love you. I love you my Victor. I forgive you, because I hope it is not your fault, and also, because I cannot prevent myself from loving you. Juliette. Tuesday, 8 p.m., 1835. You hurt me a little bit just now, my Toto. While I was sacrificing the happiness of being with you one moment longer, to your need of repose, you were worrying about trifles, and not giving me a thought or a farewell. In moments like these I am forced to realise that you do not care for me as I care for you, and I feel wretched in consequence. Another thing I have observed is that you never allude to my letters. You neither notice the complaints I make nor the love I shower upon you with every word. You have turned my happiness and content into sadness. My Toto, you do not love me as I love you. You have exhausted your faculty of loving. I tell myself that the enthusiastic and passionate devotion you once cherished for me has degenerated into mere partiality—then I mourn and mope, like a woman betrayed. If you knew how I love you, my Toto, you would understand the anguish of my eagerness, you would pity me, and, instead of leaving my letters unanswered, you would fly to me the moment you have read them, to reassure and comfort me if my fears are unfounded. Never mind, I give you a thousand kisses. How many will you waste? Juliette. Tuesday, 12.30 p.m. (1835). My dear little Toto, You have written me a very charming letter. I cannot send you one as fascinating; all I can do is to give you my whole heart and thoughts and life. You are quite right when you say that I shall soon give myself to you again, regardless of the sorrows that may follow. It is true, for I could sooner dispense with life than with your love. But let me tell you again the joy, surprise, and happiness, your letter caused me. You are better than I, and you are right when you think me an old idiot. I am in the seventh heaven this morning. You have never given me so much happiness, my dear little Toto. I am so grateful! I cannot love you more in return, for that were impossible; but I can appreciate in a higher degree your worth and the depth of your affection for me. You are my dear little man, my lover, my god, my adored tyrant! I love you, adore you, think of you, desire you, call upon you! Juliette. Which do you like best, quality or quantity? Monday, 8.20 p.m. (1835). I adore your jealousy when it gives me the pleasure of seeing you at an unaccustomed hour; but when it simply consists in suspecting me without advantage to ourselves, oh, how I detest it! You were rather cross to-day, but you atoned so amply by coming as you did, that I would willingly see you a little bit unjust to me every day, if it entailed the pleasure of having you one minute longer in the evening. If you only knew how true it is that I love you, you could never be jealous, or admit the possibility of my being unfaithful to you; and again, if you knew how much I love you, you would come every moment of the day and of the night, to surprise me in that occupation, and you would ever be welcomed with transports of joy. Yes, yes, I love you! I do not say so to force you to believe it, but because I crave to repeat it with every breath, with every word, in every tone. I adore you much more than you can ever wish. I love you above all things. Juliette. You attach too little importance to my letters as a rule. You forget that fine unguents are contained in small boxes, great love in trivial words. Friday, 2 p.m. (1835). You want a huge long letter ... and yet another huge long letter ... you are not very modest in your requirements. What would you say if I asked as much?—you, who write to every one in the world except me. I have a great mind to treat you accord My dear little Toto, although it is not long since I left you, I desire you with all the impatience and all the inclination that comes of a long separation. I should like to know where you are and what you are doing. I should like to be wherever you are, and, above all, I should like to be in your heart and thoughts, as you are in mine. I should like to be you and you me, in respect of love. The rest becomes you and you only. You are admired; I need to be loved. Are you capable, I ask you, of loving me as much as I love you, or half as much? even that would be immeasurable. If you only knew the extent of my love, you would treasure me, only for that. I love you, love you, love you, love you, love you! This short little word, issuing from my heart, has impetus enough to mount right up to the heavens. I love you! Juliette. I have received a letter from my daughter. This, combined with the horrible weather, makes me quite happy. Friday, 9 p.m. (1835). You gave me a delicious afternoon. How delightfully you talked! I am not alluding to your wit; a fly does not seek to raise an ingot of gold! Neither do I speak of the happiness of leaning upon your arm, listening to your voice, gazing into your eyes, breathing your breath, measuring my steps by yours, feeling my heart beat in unison with yours. There can be no happiness greater than that I enjoyed this afternoon with you, clasped in your arms, your voice mingling with mine, your eyes in mine, your heart upon my heart, our very souls welded together. For me, there is no man on this earth but you. The others I perceive only through your love. I enjoy nothing without you. You are the prism through which the sunshine, the green landscape, and life itself, appear to me. That is why I am idle, dejected, and indifferent, when you are not by my side. I do not know how to employ either my body or my soul, away from you. I only come to life again in your presence. I need your kisses upon my lips, your love in my soul. Juliette. Saturday, 11 a.m. (1835). Let me first kiss you. Of all the promises I made you yesterday, when we separated, only one has been broken. I promised to love you as I loved you at that moment—that is to say, more than all the world; but I do not know how it happened, I have come to love you much more! and I feel it will be so as long as I shall live. I beg you, my dear little Toto, to make up your mind to this, as I have already done. Do you know, my blessed Toto, you are a second little Tom Thumb, far more marvellous than your prototype; for, not merely with pebbles or crumbs of bread do you mark the roads along which you travel, but actually with jewels and precious stones. I shall always recognise the spot where you dropped an enormous ruby as big as a flint, yesterday, with as much indifference as if it had been a piece of grit from Fontainebleau. What do you suppose must happen to an insignificant creature like myself in the presence of so much wealth, in the midst of the enchantments of your mind? Will she lose her reason? That is already done. As to her heart, you stole it from her very easily, and therefore nothing remains to the poor wight but what is already yours. Her love, her admiration, her life, belong to you! My glances, words, caresses, kisses, all, are yours! Juliette. (1835.) It seems to be always my turn to write to you now. In the old days your letters called forth my letters, your love mine—and it was meet that it should be so, for, as you have often said, the man should be the pursuer of the woman. It is always awkward when a change of rÔles occurs, and I am acutely conscious of it. I feel that a caress from you gives me far more happiness and security than thousands of those elicited by me. It is already half-past eleven and you have not arrived. Perhaps you are not coming, and the prohibition you laid upon me yesterday against seek If you love me only moderately, I pray God to deprive me of one of two things: either my life, or my love. Juliette. Nearly midnight. What a night I have before me! God pity me! At Metz, Good-morning, my Toto, good morning. It is magnificently fine, and we are going to be enormously happy. We are about to resume our bird-life, our life of love and freedom in the woods. I am enchanted. If only you were here, I should kiss you with all my might and main, as a reminder. What sort of a night did you have? Did you love I was not able to read last night. I went to bed at a quarter past ten, and had horrid dreams. I trust they will not come true, but I confess I should be glad to get news of my poor little girl, whom we neglect far too much. If two more days go by without a letter, I shall write to Saumur, for I am really worried about her. My dear little Toto, I am going to dress now, so as to get to you earlier. I love you, I love you with all my strength and all my soul. I kiss you! I adore you! Till this afternoon. Your Juliette. At Metz, Good-morning, my darling Victor. I love you and am happy, for we are going to be more absolutely together than was possible yesterday, or the day before, when an inconvenient third disturbed our privacy. Also the weather is glorious, and I am madly in love with you; so everything around me glows radiant and beautiful. I stayed in bed until 8.30, although I woke up at seven o’clock; but I just rolled lazily about, thinking of you, and reading yesterday’s newspapers. I reached home exactly at seven o’clock last night, undressed, tidied my things, dined, wrote to you, did my accounts, and read Claude Gueux till half-past ten. Then I put my hair into curl-papers, and got into bed at eleven o’clock. I went to you in spirit, and I love you with all my heart, I embrace you in spirit, I adore you with my whole soul, I admire you with every faculty of my mind. Think of me, come to me, come to me as soon as possible. My arms, my cheek, my whole being, await you. J. At Metz, My dear, good Toto, I should have got back without adventure, had I not met an enormous and horrific toad in the road, which sent me flying home, shrieking as if the devil was at my heels. I was here by ten minutes past seven, began my dinner at five minutes past eight, and am now sitting writing to you, to thank you for all the bliss you lavish upon me. This day, drenched with rain though it was, has been one of the most beautiful and happiest of my whole life. If there had been rainbows in the sky, they would be reflected in our hearts, linking our souls together in thought and emotion. I thank you for drawing my attention to so many lovely things I should never notice without your assistance and the touch of your dear white hand upon my brow; but there is one beauty greater and nobler than all the combined ones of heaven and Good-night, my adored one; good-night, my darling. Sleep well. I send you a thousand kisses. J. Metz, Great indeed was our misfortune yesterday! I agree with you in that, my Victor, because I love you. For over a year I have suffered much; oftener than not, without complaint. I always trusted that my love and fidelity would engender in you feelings of esteem and confidence, but now that hope is for ever at an end; for, far from diminishing, your suspicion and contempt have grown to terrible dimensions. You love me, I know, and I worship you with all the strength of my being. You are the only man I have ever loved, the only one to whom I have ever given this assurance. Yet I now implore you on my knees to let me go. I cannot urge this too strongly. You see, my dear, I am so wretched, so humiliated, and I suffer so acutely, that I shall have to leave you, even against your will; so it would be kinder of you to give your consent, that I may at least have the sad satisfaction, if I must forsake you, of knowing that I have not disobeyed you. Farewell, my joy; farewell, my life; farewell, my I shall go to my child, for I am anxious about her since she has been at Saumur. Perhaps I may bring her back with me. I think I was very wrong to send her away. I mean to repair my fault if there is yet time. The pretext of her health will be sufficient before the world. My heart shall be dumb upon all that concerns you. I will keep everything to myself. I must get work. If you can do anything to help me find some, it will be good of you. I mention this for the first and last time, for, if you were to forget me, you know very well that I should be the last to venture to recall myself to you. Good-bye again, my friend; good-bye, for ever! I have been copying your little book, hoping you would be generous enough to leave it with me. Good-bye! good-bye! Do not suffer, do not weep, do not think, do not accuse yourself! I love and forgive you. Juliette. Metz, You were in a great hurry to leave me to-night, my best-beloved. If consideration for me was your motive, it was high-handed and blundering of you, for I therefore returned home sadly and thoughtfully. I have begun my letter to-night with diminished joy and confidence in the future, for your hurry to leave me weighs upon me, and I cannot explain it satisfactorily to myself. I came in at a quarter past six, suffering greatly from indigestion. The maid told me some one had called for the dog—two gentlemen, who seemed much attached to it. Poor brute, it was a wrong instinct that led it to follow us. I have no doubt it is expiating its offence in hunger and cold at this very moment. I am somehow unduly interested in the fate of the poor thing. I feel something beyond ordinary pity for it; it makes me think of the fate and future in store for a poor girl we both know. She also follows step by step a master who will have no scruple in casting her adrift when his duty to society proves as pressing and sacred as that which called him away to-night. I am depressed, my dear friend, and unwell. The oppression on my chest is increasing. I hope your sore throat will diminish in proportion to what I am enduring. Providence is too just to allow such cumulation of suffering. Good-night—sleep well and think of me if you can. As for loving me, that is another question; one’s emotions cannot grow to order. I love you. J. Sunday, 8 p.m., 1835. My dear darling, I cannot describe to you the rapture with which I listened to the two sublime poems you recited to me, one on the first Revolution and the other on the two Napoleons. But where can your equal be found on earth!... My dear little Toto, do not laugh at me. I feel so many things I cannot express, much less write. I love and revere you, and when I reflect upon what you are, I marvel! Since you left me, I have read again Napoleon the Second. I shall never tire of it. It is going to bed with me now. You told me to wait for you till 9.30; after that hour I shall go to bed. If you should happen to come later, I will open the door to you myself, as you have forgotten the key. I want to do so, that I may not lose one second of the happiness of having you with me. Sleep well—good-night—do not suffer—do not work—sleep! Juliette. Wednesday, 8.30 p.m., 1835. I am half afraid of taking too literally your request for a daily letter. Tell me seriously how I am to interpret it, so that I may not make myself ridiculous, by overwhelming you with letters you do not want. Tell me the truth once for all, so that I may know where I am, and may give myself up without restraint to the pleasure of telling you, and writing to you, that I love you with all my heart, and that you alone constitute my sole joy, my sole happiness, and my sole future. If you can experience only one quarter of the bliss in reading, that I shall feel in inditing my And, in order to demonstrate my powers of self-restraint, I will limit myself to six trillions of kisses for your beautiful mouth. Besides, here you come! I love you. Juliette. Wednesday, 8 p.m., December 2nd, 1835. My Beloved, When one is ill and feverish, everything tastes bitter to the lips and palate. I am in that position. I am abominably miserable, and all the sweet words you lavish upon me seem tainted. But I have enough sense left to realise that it is my condition that prevents me from relishing the full meed of happiness you are able to give me in one moment. Forgive me for suffering, and for not having the strength or generosity to conceal it from you; it is only because I suffer too much, and love you too much, which is the same thing. I promise to be very cheerful to-night, and to disguise my feelings. I have read everything concerning you in the papers, and I cannot help suspecting that a passage about you and your work has been purposely cut out. If this is so, you had much better tell me, for I am quite equal to bearing the truth, and even to hearing lies; so I beg you to tell me what was in that newspaper, and thus spare me the trouble of procuring another copy. You must indeed be happy and proud on behalf of the person to whom you are supposed to have dedicated your sublime poem.
The article by Monsieur F. DuguÉ seems singularly well-informed about your restoration to the domestic hearth. I am apparently not the only one who notices that for the last year you have been changing your habits and feelings, though I am probably the only one who will die of grief in consequence—but what matter, so long as the domestic hearth remains cheerful and the family, happy. I hope you will do your best to come and see me to-morrow, during the intervals of the performance unless the salutations you have to make, and the compliments and admiration you must acknowledge should detain you against your will; in which case I hope I may be brave enough not to worry about such a trifle, and reasonable enough not to let the magnitude of my love depend upon so slight a pleasure. You see, my dear angel, I bow to the arguments you impress on me. I am no longer sad, neither do I suffer. I love you; that is the truest word of all. Juliette. Tuesday, 8.45 p.m., December 15th, 1835. Of course, my darling, you did right to come back, whatever your reason might be; but the pleasure of your visit was quite spoilt by your inquiry as to how I spend my time, when it is self-evident that my conduct is irreproachable. It may surprise you that I should have borne the inquisition you habitually subject me to, with less equanimity to-day than usual. I own, my poor angel, that I do not know why it should be so. Perhaps I am like the cripple, who feels pain in the leg which There, my poor angel, is the attitude of mind and heart in which you found me this evening; it will explain why I received your question so badly, although I was grateful for your presence. You see, my head and heart are weary. If you are not careful, some calamity, resulting from this condition, will overtake and crush you, at a moment when neither you nor I will be able to prevent it. I give you this warning in all sincerity, but with the intimate conviction that it will not affect you. As long as you feel I belong to you wholly and entirely, you are as indifferent to my sufferings as to my happiness. J. Wednesday, 8.30, February 3rd, 1836. If I have grieved you, my beloved, I beg you to forgive me, for I know your position is awkward and demands much consideration, especially from me. Besides, why should I complain of my mode of life more to-day, than yesterday? I accept my position without regret; therefore there is no reason for questioning an arrangement which only you can alter. I cannot help noticing that your love is not what it was. I may say I am sure of it, if I may judge by the impatient words you occasionally utter, half against your will, and by other signs it would take too long to commit to paper. I certainly possess a devoted Victor, but no longer the lover Victor of former days. If it is as I fear, it becomes your duty to leave me at once; for I have never wished to live with you otherwise than as an adored mistress—certainly not as a woman dependent upon a man whose passion is spent. I want no pension. I demand my place in your heart, apart from any feeling of duty or gratitude. That is what I desire, as earnestly as I long to be a faithful woman, submissive to your every whim, whether just or unjust. If I have hurt your feelings, my dearly beloved, I plead for pardon from the bottom of my heart. If you have to acknowledge a decrease in your love, be brave enough to do so frankly, and do not leave to me the frightful task of guessing it; but if you care for me as much as ever, say it again and again, for I doubt it, alas, and, in love, doubt is more painful a thousand times than the most heartbreaking certainty. Farewell, I worship you. J. Wednesday, 8.15 p.m., February 17th, 1836. You must think me either very cruel or very blind, my beloved. I think, perhaps, it would be best for you to accept the latter hypothesis. I love you, which means that I am jealous; but, as my jealousy is in proportion to my love, my doubts and frenzy are more vivid, more bitter, than those of ordinary women, who are only capable of an ordinary affection. Very well—I am cruel! So be it! I detest every woman upon whom your glances rest. I feel capable of hating all women, young or old, plain or handsome, if I suspect that they have dared raise their eyes to your splendid and noble features. I am jealous of the very pavement upon which you tread, and the air you breathe. The stars and sun alone are beyond my jealousy, because their radiance can be eclipsed by one single flash from your eyes. I love you as the lioness loves her mate. I love you as a passionate woman, ready to yield up her life at your slightest gesture. I love you with the soul and intelligence God has lent His creatures to enable them to appreciate exceptional men like yourself. That is why, my glorious Victor, at one and the same moment, I can rage, weep, crawl, or stand erect; I bow my head and venerate you! There are days when one can fix one’s gaze upon the sun itself without being blinded: thus it is with me now. I see you, I am dazzled, entranced, and I grasp your beauty in all its splendour. Juliette. Thursday, 8 p.m., August 15th, 1836. Since you leave me here all by myself, my beloved, I shall think only of you, and in proof of this, I will I am in love with you, but you do not care a bit. I am very sad not to have you with me, doubly so, when I think that it is on account of a play in which I am to have no part, after all the time I have waited and endured. When I reflect seriously upon this, my despair makes me long to fly to the uttermost ends of the world. It is so necessary that I should think of my future. I have wasted so much time waiting, that it almost spells ruin to me that you should produce a piece in which I may not play. You see, my dearest, I am not as generous as you thought. I am afraid I can no longer disguise from you the injury it does me to be three years out of the theatrical world, while you are bringing out plays. Forgive me, but I have a horror of poverty, and would do anything in reason to evade it. I love you. Juliette. Friday, 8.30 p.m., March 11th, 1836. Dear little Soul, You are quite happy, I hope, now that you possess the keys of Paradise. I had a few more difficulties to encounter after you went away, but they were of no consequence. Now that our little palace is nearly finished, my soul, I hope we shall celebrate the event in the usual way; but I must first rest a little, and nurse myself up, for I am really quite worn out with the dirt and litter. I am afraid to look at you or touch you in your beauty and purity J. Wednesday, 7.45 p.m., March 23rd, 1836. No doubt, dear angel, I ought to disguise in your presence the sadness that overwhelms me when I have to wait too long for you; but the late hour at which you generally come, makes it difficult for me to forget the weary suspense I have already been through, and am to endure again shortly. I love you, my dear—indeed, I love you too much. We often say this lightly, but I assure you that this time I state it in full gravity and knowledge, for I feel it to the very marrow of my bones. I love you. I am jealous. I hate being poor and devoid of talent, for I fear that these deficiencies will cost me your love. Still, I am conscious of something within me, greater than either wealth or intellect; but is it powerful enough to rivet you to me for ever? I ask myself this question night and day, and you are not at hand to soothe my unrest; hence the sadness that wounds you, the jealousy that But I love you all the same, and am happy in the midst of my pain. I smile through my tears, for I love you. Juliette. Saturday, 8 a.m., March 26th, 1836. Good-morning, my little darling Toto. I am up at cock-crow, though very tired; but I want to be ready to witness your new triumph—for, beloved Toto of mine, you are the great Toto, the greatest man on earth. How I love you, my Victor! I am jealous. Even your success makes me uneasy with the dread that, amongst so much adulation, you may overlook the humble homage of your poor Juju. I fear that these universal acclamations may drown my lowly cry of—I love you! This apprehension becomes an obsession on such a day as this, when everything is at your feet, caresses, adoration, frenzy. Ah, why are you not insignificant and unknown like myself! I should then have no need to fear that the torch of my love will be eclipsed by that immense illumination. Try, beloved, to keep a little place in your heart for the love and admiration of your poor mistress, who has loved you from the day she first set eyes upon you, and who will worship you as long as the breath remains in her body. Juliette. Saturday, 6.15 p.m., March 26th, 1836. Let me tell you once again that I love you, my Victor. Presently, thousands of voices will be raised Farewell, dear soul; it is impossible to wish an increase of beauty to the man, or more glory to the genius; so, if you are happy, so am I. Farewell, then, dearest; I cannot refrain from sending a word of love to the lover, before going to applaud the poet. The heart must have its due share. Good-bye till later. For ever, for life and until death, love, nothing but love! J. Sunday, 7.45 p.m., March 27th, 1836. I hardly dare speak to you to-night of love. I feel humiliated by my devotion, for all those women seem to be rivals, preferred before me. I suffer, but I do not hold you responsible. I feel worse even than usual this evening. I did not venture to ask what you had written to Madame Dorval, for I was afraid to discover some fresh reason for bitterness and jealousy; so I remained silent. My dear treasure, you are very lucky not to be jealous: you have no competition to fear with any other celebrity, for there is none besides yourself, and you know that I love you with my whole heart, whereas all I can be sure of is, that I love you far Forgive me, I am sad. I am worse than sad—I am ashamed, because I am jealous. I am an idiot, and consequently, I am in love! Juliette. Thursday, 8.30 p.m., April 14th, 1836. I love you, my dear Victor, and you make me very unhappy when you seem to doubt it. It is still harder for me when you put your want of confidence into words, for I can only attribute it to the sacrifices you constantly make for me, and which probably cause you to think that an ignoble motive constrains me to remain under your protection. In addition to thus wounding me in the most sensitive part of my love, you exasperate me to a point I cannot describe, because it is true that I have not the wherewithal to live independently of you and your influence. Therefore, my poor angel, when you show your suspicions of my sincerity, I read into them more than jealousy and ill-will: I imagine a reproach against my dependent position. I feel an overwhelming need to prove to you, by any means, that you are mistaken in the woman and her love. Remember your burnt letters! You know what a doubt on your part led me to do on one occasion. Well, angel, I tell you honestly that when you question, not only my fidelity, but also my love, I long to fly to the other side of the world, there to exist as best I can, and never pronounce your name again for the rest of my life. This will be the last proof of love I can give you, and at least you Yet I love you. J. Tuesday, 8 p.m., April 19th, 1836. Beloved, I am perfectly certain you will not come to fetch me to see LucrÈce, and I am already resigned. There is only one thing I shall never submit to, and that is, the loss of your love. I know you are devoted, that you lavish friendship upon me; but I feel that you have no more love to give me, and I cannot bear it. During the four months I have been alone, ill for the most part, I never knew whether the time would come when you would be impelled to say to me: Take courage, for I love you. I would have given life to find those words in your handwriting at my bedside in the morning, or on my pillow at night. I waited in vain, they never came; my sorrow grew, and now I am certain that you have ceased to care for me. I know what you will say, Victor—you will tell me that you are hard at work, that you do everything for me, and do not let me want for anything. To that I reply that I have been just as busy or busier than you, yet have always found time to show you the outward signs of my inward love. I may also tell you that, without your love, I do want for everything, and that my life is utterly wretched without it. Lastly, I declare to you that if you continue to be so reasonably kind and attentive, I will release you from your self-imposed burden, at some moment when you least Juliette. Monday, 7.45 p.m., May 2nd, 1836. My dear little Beloved, I am sorry to find that you are not as convinced as I am, of the propriety of giving me your portrait. I confess I feel the greatest disappointment when I realise, from your daily evasion of my request, that I shall probably never become the possessor of the picture which is so like you, nor even, perhaps, of a copy of the original. I am sad and dejected. I think you do not care enough for me, a poor disinherited creature, to do me the favour you have already bestowed upon another, who already has her full meed of the gifts of life. I am therefore greatly disappointed. I had counted upon having the portrait, and had anticipated much happiness from its possession. The contemplation of it would have so greatly contributed to my courage and resignation, that it is very grievous to have to renounce it thus suddenly, without any compensation. If I wanted to speak of other things now, I could not; my heart is heavy, my eyes overflow with tears. I can only find bitter words for the expression of my wounded love. I love you more to-day than I have ever done before, yet I am not happy. Juliette. Friday, 7.45 a.m., May 20th, 1836. Good morning, my dear little Toto. You failed me again last night, so I shall never count upon you again. I loved you with all my strength, and thought of you even in my sleep. This morning I love you with my whole soul, and heartily long for you, but I know you will not come, so I am cross and sad. How fine the weather is, my Toto, and how happy we could be in the fresh air, on the high road, in a nice little carriage, with a month of happiness in prospect: it would be Paradise, but ... but ... I dare not set my heart upon it, for I should go crazy with grief if the treat were withheld. At all events, I am ready to start; my foot is well again, and we can set off to-night, or to-morrow morning, at whatever time suits you. I am quite ready, let us, therefore, seize our chance of the fine weather. My adored one, I am dying to make this expedition.... Do try to get free at the earliest moment possible. I shall be so happy. I still love you, ever so much. I need you terribly. My heart is more than ready for the happiness you will give me during the whole time we shall be together. Juliette. Thursday, 12.45 p.m., July 21st, 1836. Once more I am reduced to writing all that is in my heart, my adored one. It is but a slender satisfaction after the bliss we have been enjoying. Nevertheless, we must take life as we find it, and it would be ungracious of me to complain. A month like the one we have just spent would compensate for a whole Juliette. Friday, 2.15 p.m., September 2nd, 1836. My poor, beloved angel. The nearer the moment approaches, the more I dread the inevitable parting which must follow the few days of happiness you have just given me. I long for delay, but I know very well that, however Providence may interpose in my favour, the day must come when you will have to go to St. Prix. Lucky for me if it is not to-day. But, putting aside all considerations of love and Juju, it would really not be prudent for you to go to the country in this cold, foggy weather; even this morning, in the warmth and repose of home, you felt a warning twinge of rheumatism, which prescribes prudence on your part. I fear your natural desire to kiss Toto on his donkey, and watch the other little rogues Juliette. Saturday, 6 p.m., 29th, 1836. You torment me unjustly, as usual, my darling beloved. Yet you ought to begin to know me, and not suspect my every action, down to the drinking of a cup of coffee. The awkwardness of my position, the absolute solitude in which I am compelled to live, and the many insults I have to tolerate daily from you, exasperate me so, that I feel I would rather go out of your life, than continue to exist like a woman condemned and accursed. It is your fault that I am so unhappy. Nobody else will ever love you so well, or be so entirely devoted to you. But one is not bound to put up with impossibilities, and I cannot live longer under a yoke which you make more crushing every day. What am I to do, beloved? Run away from you? I have scarcely enough money for my quiet Paris routine. Remain here? If you have not the courage to abstain from visiting me, I certainly shall never have enough to prevent you from coming. The wound in my heart is raw and bleeding, thanks to the care you take to keep it in that condition. The slightest additional twinge becomes unbearable torture. I do not know what moral operation I would not consent to, to be cured of it. For the last three years you have really given me Juliette. Sunday, 2 p.m., January 1st, 1837. Your darling, adorable letter has reached me. I have devoured it with caresses. Oh, how I love you! I have just sent my child out of the room, so that I might read it on my knees in front of your picture. These little pranks may seem foolish, but they contain a deeper, more sacred significance, like the devotion that inspires them. When you come, you will find me joyous and radiant, as I was on that glorious day when you first revealed your love. My beloved, my heart, I am very happy. I am in heaven, for you love me, my Toto ... your dear letter has said it. Your eyes, your mouth, your soul, will tell me so still better, presently. Yes, indeed I am happy, I am surfeited. There is nothing left for me to desire or require—I have your love, a love which God Himself might envy were He a woman. Thank you, adored one, thank you from my heart and soul. I am as good as gold, believe me. Juju. Tuesday, 7.30 p.m., February 21st, 1837. Do not grieve, my precious, do not lament. I will not attempt consolation, for you have better and more efficacious resources within your own self; but I share your affliction. Whatever saddens you saddens I love you, my adored Victor. In moments such as these, when sorrow brings you nearer to my level, I feel that my affection for you is absolutely true and purified from all dross. Try to come early this evening. I will lavish caresses upon you silently, with my eyes and my innermost self, without worrying you. You shall rest by my fireside, and lean your dear head upon my shoulder, and read, and I shall be glad. I am jealous of that woman who has dared to steal your verses; such things are not lost. It was a two-fold wickedness on her part, for she caused you the trouble of rewriting them, and me the torment of jealousy. I will not have you see her again, ever! Do you hear? Oh, I love you, I love you far too much. Juliette. Monday, 7.15 p.m., April 2nd, 1837. CARICATURE OF MLLE. GEORGE, BY VICTOR HUGO. Victor Hugo Museum. PORTRAIT OF VICTOR HUGO BY HIMSELF.
I have decided to get up, after all, thanks to the laundry-man; but for him, I should have remained in bed, nursing my depression. I am sad beyond everything, yet I cannot tell why—you are kind and affectionate, and I love you with my whole soul; Juliette. Tuesday, 10.15 a.m., May 2nd, 1837. Good morning, my well-beloved. Did you have a good night? You looked overstrained and tired yesterday, and indeed there was enough to make you so, you poor dear. I do not know how you can put up with it all. Forgive me for adding to your burthen the exactions of a woman who loves, and fears to recognise in lassitude an evidence of coldness. Forgive me; if I did not occasionally doubt your love I should torment you less, and would show more consideration for your occupations and repose. You hurt me very much last night by speaking as you did, yet I wanted to know your true opinion of me. I have long been tormented by a mournful curiosity on that point. Last night you satisfied it in full. I Juliette. Tuesday, 10.45 a.m., May 2nd, 1837. I am following up my letter immediately with another, because I am alone, and the moment is propitious for me to open my heart to you from the very bottom. Racket and pleasure are a hindrance to meditation, and at this moment I am rapt in contemplation of you and your beloved image. I see you as you are, that is to say, a God-made man to redeem and rescue me from the infamous life to which Do not turn away in disgust from the scratches I have sustained in falling from my pedestal, as you might from hideous and incurable wounds. I repeat again, my beloved, because it is the truth: misfortune there has been in my life, but neither debauchery nor moral turpitude. Henceforth there can be nothing but a sacred, pure love for you. I am worthy of pardon and affection. Love me; I crave it of you. Juliette. Thursday, 11.15 a.m., May 11th, 1837. Good morning, my dear little man; I have bad weather to announce: rain, snow, hail, wind, and, in How I love you, my adored Victor, how I love you! In that short and much-misused word is contained all my soul, all the bloom of a devotion that has opened out under the sun of your gaze. Good-bye, my own. Juliette. Friday, 8.30 p.m., June 2nd, 1837. My little Man, You must make up your mind to take my love or leave it. Compare my life with yours, and see whether I do not deserve that you should pity and love me with all your might. I am all alone, I have neither family nor fame, nor the thousand and one distractions that surround you. As I say, I am alone, always alone; it even seems probable that I shall not see you to-night, while you will be spending your evening in feasting, talking, and visiting your uncle, whom may the devil fly away with. Everybody can Good-night, Toto; I am going to bed. Good-night, be happy and gay and content; your poor Juju will be unhappy enough for both. I love you, Toto. Juliette. Wednesday, 1.30 p.m., June 10th. I love you before all things, and after all things. I love you, love you, love you! I have just written to Mother Pierceau that I shall send Suzanne to her to-morrow. I forgot to ask you exactly how much money you brought me yesterday, and also for cash, for yesterday’s expenses. I will do so to-night. I try hard to keep my accounts accurately, yet I am always in a muddle at the end of the month, and always either above or below what I ought to have. I do my best, but nothing seems to bring my sums out right. I think there is going to be a big storm. The sky is lowering like yesterday, and the weather still more oppressive. Try not to get wet, and come and fetch your umbrella before it begins to pour. What a delightful afternoon we spent yesterday! I wish we could have it over again, even if we had to be soaked to the skin. I shall never forget the Bassin du Titan. Heavens! what precious pearls you squandered yesterday in that magnificent garden, at the feet of those peerless goddesses, which seem to come to life when your glance rests upon them—what flowers upon those lawns, peopled with joyous children! How all those gods and goddesses, heroes, kings, queens, women, nymphs, and children, must have quarrelled over the treasure you lavished upon them! I was sorry to go away. I should have liked to go back in the moonlight and gather up all those jewels upon which you set so little store. Oh, I must return there very soon, and we will at the same time revisit our Metz, where we have enjoyed so much bliss. That journey will bring us happiness, and I long to make it. I love you, my great Toto. Forgive this scribble; it looks absurd now, and indeed it must needs be so, for I was inebriated with love when I wrote it. My thoughts stagger and fall upon the paper, because they have drunk too deeply of my soul, and know not where they are. Juliette. Thursday, 3.45 p.m., July 27th, 1837. I must contribute my scribble in acknowledgment for the delightful lines you have just written in my little book. Juliette. Thursday, 9 a.m., September 21st, 1837. Good morning, my Beloved. The anniversary of our return to Paris has been sadder still than the day itself, since you have I love you, dearest Toto; I love you too much, for I am miserable when you are away. I wish I could care comfortably, like you, for instance, who feel neither better nor worse, whether I am near or far. You are always the same; love never makes you miss the point of a joke, or a hearty laugh, nor fail to notice a grey cloud, the Great Bear, a frog, a sunset, the earth, water, gale, or zephyr. You see everything, enjoy everything, without a thought for poor old Juju, who is being bored to desperation in her solitary corner. Which of us two is the best lover, eh? Answer that it is I, Juju, and you will be speaking the truth. Yes, I love you. Try not to stay away from me all day. Love me for being sad in your absence. Juliette. Saturday, 6.30 p.m., September 23rd, 1837. You are making yourself more and more of a rarity, my beautiful star, so that I become chilled, and gloomy as an antique, moss-grown statue, abandoned in the wilds of some deserted garden. I am not angry with you, but I do wish you were less busy and more lover-like. You have quickly resumed your fine Paris If you come early this evening I shall be so happy, so cheery, so content and good, that you will never wish to leave me again; but, if you delay, I shall be exactly the reverse, and you will have to coax and love me with all your might to comfort me. You are letting your letter-box get over-full again. Toto, Toto, I shall make a bonfire of its contents if you do not come quick and secure them. Mind what you are about! Juliette. Wednesday, 12.45 p.m., November 22nd, 1837. I really believe you do it on purpose; but you may be certain that I shall pay you back in the same kind: indifference for indifference; donnant donnant is my motto. Now let us talk of other things. What do you think of the taking of Constantine? I cannot believe the present Ministry will survive long as at present constituted; Thiers and Barot may be called upon at any moment to form a new cabinet. What is your . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Do you not agree with me that all this points to a revolution in the near future, which will entail sinister results for Wailly’s Government? For my part, I view with consternation the removal of the Carlists from St. Jean Pied de Port to Paimboeuf, after a sojourn at St. MÉnÉhould. I am already sick of the recital of the horrors which disturb the digestion and the tranquillity of the citizens, of whom you are the chief ornament. Pray accept the expression of my distinguished consideration. Juliette. December 5th, 5 p.m., 1837. How kind you are, my Toto, to have come and relieved the suspense I was in as to what had happened in Court. While I was waiting for you just now I copied a few passages from the letters of Mdlle. de Lespinasse about the C. D. Juliette.
To Toto: 9 luncheons. Dinners to 10 persons. In all, about 19. Sunday, 1.45 p.m., January 21st, 1838. Good-morning, my dear one, good-morning, my big Toto. How did you manage to fit into your bed? You must have curled yourself up into five or six hundred curves. One grows at such a pace in the space of an evening like last night How did you spend the night, adored one? I hope you did not work, tired out as you were, and in that I adore you, my beloved Toto. I would die for you if you would promise always to think lovingly of me; even without that condition I adore you, my Victor. Juliette. Sunday, 5.45 p.m., January 21st, 1838. Must it always be my lot to wait, dearly beloved? I thought I had given proofs sufficient of courage and resignation all this time, to have earned my reward now. Of course I know you must have had the whole of Paris in your house to-day, but if you cared for me as I do for you, you would leave all Paris, and the world itself, for me. What good is the back door, if not to enable you to evade importunate people, and fly to the poor love who awaits you with so much longing and affection? Why carry four keys in your pocket, like the gaoler in a comic opera, if you do not make use of them on the proper occasion? I am very sad, my Toto. I do not think you care for me any more. You are as splendidly kind and generous as ever, but you are no longer the ardent lover of old days. It is quite true although you will not admit it out of compassion for me. I am very unhappy. Some day I shall do something desperate to rid you of me, for I cannot bear to realise the coldness of your heart, and at the same time to accept your generous self-sacrifice. You know I have always told you that I will accept nothing from you if you do not love me! I love you so much that if I could inspire you with my feelings, there would be nothing left for me to desire in this world. Juliette. Monday, Noon, February 12th, 1838. Good-morning, my dear little man. How are you this morning? I am very well, but I should be still better if I had seen you and breakfasted with you.... I am arranging to go to Hernani to-night. I hope there will be no hitch, and that the promise of the bills will at last be fulfilled. I am longing for the moment. It is such ages since I have seen my Hernani, and it is such a beautiful creation! I wish it were already night, and I were in my little box, with dear little Toto sitting at the back, where I might reward him with eyes and lips for every beautiful line. You are not jealous? Yes, I want you to be jealous! I want you to be jealous, even of yourself, or else I shall not believe that you love me. Good-morning, Toto. All this nonsense simply means that I dote on you and think you beautiful and great and adorable. You did not come last night—probably because there was to be a rehearsal this morning. Try and behave properly at it, for I have Argus eyes and shall come down upon you myself, like a thunderbolt, in the midst of your antics. Meanwhile, take care of yourself; do not get cold feet or a headache like mine; it would be a great nuisance. Dear soul, if you had the least regard for your Juliette. Wednesday, 12.15 p.m., March 7th, 1838. Good-morning, my dear little beloved. How are your eyes, my Toto? It torments me to know that you are suffering so much, for however brave and uncomplaining you may be, I can see quite well that you are in pain. If you knew how I love you, my dear one, you would understand my trouble and grief when you suffer. I suppose you are going to the rehearsal this morning. I wish the first performance
I express myself awkwardly, but I feel all this acutely. Juliette. Wednesday, 7.30 p.m., March 7th, 1838. My Darling, I see you very seldom, but it is not your fault, I know. I look constantly into my heart, whence you are never absent, and there I see you growing daily nobler, greater, and dearer. So to-morrow is the great day! Ardently as I have desired its advent, I now dread it more than I can say. However, up till now I have always been very frightened, and nothing has happened, so I hope it may be the same this time. Besides, how could the disapproval of a few miserable wretches and idiots affect the magnificent verses of Marion? It will only prompt the sincere and intelligent portion of the audience to do you instant and brilliant justice. I am no longer afraid. I am as brave and strong as love itself. Put me where you like—I do not care—all places are equally good to applaud from, just as all moments are suitable for adoring you. Good-bye, my love. Juliette. Thursday, 12.45 p.m., March 8th, 1838. Good-morning, blessed one. I am quite upset. If your success to-night is in proportion to my fright, My little darling man, are you not soon coming to me? I do so long for you. I feel as if you had been very cold to me lately. In the old days, a first performance did not prevent your coming to make love to me. Heavens, what torture it is to have to doubt you at a moment when I am so desperately in need of you! I love you! Juliette. Friday, 1.45 p.m., March 9th, 1838. You are adorable, my great Victor. I wish I could express myself as earnestly as I feel, but that is impossible; I am tongue-tied. So the great performance is over! What a fool I was to be frightened, and how rightly I placed my confidence in that great noodle the public, which is so slow and so hard to work up, but when once started, boils over so satisfactorily. What a magnificent success, and how I love you, my Toto, I adore you with all the strength of my soul. I wish I could go out—it is such a fine day. I kiss your beloved hands. Juliette. Sunday, 12.15 a.m., March 11th, 1838. Good-morning, my beloved one, good-morning, handsomest and greatest of men. I cannot speak as well as some of the people who pay you such beautiful and sincere homage, but I feel from the bottom of my soul that I admire and love you more than any one in the world. All the same, I am sad and discouraged. I can see that you place no reliance on my intelligence, that my last years are flying by without earning what they easily might: a position, and a provision for the future. I am not angry with you. It is not your fault if you are prejudiced against me to the point of allowing me, without regret, to waste the last few years of my youth. Possibly my desire to create for myself an independent position, and to remain ever at your side, has given birth to the delusion that I possess a great talent which only requires scope. However that may be, I am in despair, and I love you more than ever. You are good to look at, my adored one, you are great in intellect, my Victor, and yet I dare proffer my Juliette. Tuesday, 11.30 a.m., April 10th, 1838. Good-morning, my soul, my joy, my life. How are your adored eyes, my Toto? I cannot refrain from asking, because it interests me to hear, more than anything in the world. I am always thinking about them. I long for the 15th of this month, for then I shall have the right to insist upon your resting, and I shall certainly exercise it. My dear love, what joy it will be for me to feel your dear head leaning against mine, to kiss your beautiful eyes, and to make certain that you do not work. The weather is lovely this morning. It carries my thoughts back to our dear little annual trip, when we were so happy and so cosy together. We are not to have that felicity this year, and really I do not know how I shall endure it when the time comes at which we used to start. It will be very hard and difficult, and I doubt whether my courage and reason will suffice to enable me to bear the greatest sacrifice I have ever made in my life. My dear one, it will be sad indeed; I wonder whether I shall be equal to it. I love you, adore you, admire you, and again I love and adore you. Juliette. Tuesday, 7.45 p.m., April 10th, 1838. My love, I am writing to you with joy and worship in my heart. You were so kind and tender and fascinating to me to-day that I seemed to feel again the savour and rapture of the days of old. My Toto, I who am not a sensitive plant of the sun like you, have yet come better through the trial, and if I bear no blossom, I have at least the advantage of preserving my leaves ever green and alive; that is to say, I have never ceased to love and adore you. Indeed that is true, my own, I love you as much as the first day. Juliette. Sunday, 11 a.m., April 22nd, 1838. You see, darling, by the dimensions of my paper, that I am preparing to go and applaud my Marion this evening. I will not reproach you for not having come this morning. In fact, in future I shall not allude to it again, for nothing is more unsuitable or ridiculous than the solicitations of a woman who vainly appeals for the favours of her lover. Therefore, beloved, as I am to live with you as a sister with a brother, you will approve of my refraining from reminding you in any way of the time when we were husband and wife. It is still very cold, my maid says; although the sun is shining in at my windows, it has left its warmth You will probably see Granier this morning. And you, my Toto, so great and so wonderful, I adore you! Juliette. Thursday, 10.15 a.m., August 2nd, 1838. Good-morning, my little beloved. Do you still need a secretary? I am quite ready. Come; it is I am longing for you with all my might. Juliette. Wednesday, 9.45 p.m., August 15th, 1838. My dear little man, I love you. You are the treasure of my heart. I wish we were already in our carriage galloping, galloping far, and farther still, so that it might take us ever so long to get back. Since you have hinted at the possibility of my playing in your beautiful piece, I love you, my Toto, I adore you, my little man, you are my sun and my life, my love and my soul. All that, and more. Juliette. Monday, 8 p.m., September. Are you proposing to cut out all the dandies and bloods of the capital? My congratulations to you. I was only waiting for some such sign to give myself up to an orgy of wild and eccentric toilette. Heaven only knows the extravagances I mean to commit in the way of shoes, silk stockings, gowns, hats, light gloves, and bows for my hair! You will, I suppose, retaliate with an assortment of skin-tight trousers, strings of orders, and more or less absurd hair arrangements. Delightful indeed! There only remains for one of us to live at the BarriÈre de l’Étoile and the other at the BarriÈre du TrÔne, to dazzle the dwellers of the town and suburbs, as well as strangers from abroad. Capital!!! My sore throat has come on again and you are not here to cure it. If you think this pleasant you are quite wrong, and if I followed my own bent I should deprive you of your functions as doctor-in-chief of the great Juju. I am determined to forgive you only if you come to supper with me presently. Seriously, Juliette. Tuesday, 12 noon, October 30th, 1838. My beloved little man, you are so good and sweet when you see me that it is a pity you should see me so seldom, and that you should forget me as soon as your back is turned. To punish you, I am not going to write you two letters to-day; partly in consideration for your dear little eyes, and partly because it would be unfair to reward indifference and coldness in the same degree as affection and assiduity. Pray do not take the above expression, “dear little eyes,” in an ironical sense—I mean it on the contrary as an endearing diminutive; your “dear little eyes” signify to me my adored, beautiful eyes, the mirrors of my soul, the stars of my heaven, everything that is most beautiful and fascinating, gentlest, noblest, and highest. I love you, my Toto. I kiss your ripe red lips, Juliette. Thursday, 8.30 p.m., November 22nd, 1838. My little treasure of a man, you were sweet to select my hovel for a resting-place from which to write your laudatory remarks upon Mlle. Atala BeauchÊne, As you promised to come back presently, the chances are that you will not return. I have half a mind to undress, light my fire, and set to work to bruise poppy-heads; for my provision is almost at an end, and later on I may be busy at the theatre, if Joly I love you, Victor, I love you, my darling Toto. Juliette. Monday, 6 p.m., April 15th, 1839. Why is it, my little beloved, that you always seem so jealous? You take the bloom off all those scraps of happiness your dear presence would otherwise give me, for nothing chills one’s embraces so much as the vexed, uneasy mien you usually wear. It would not even be so bad if you did not accuse me of that same constrained, annoyed look; but the more suspicious you are, the more you think it is I who am cross, although this is simply the effect of the glasses through which your jealousy views me. Never mind, I love you and forgive you, and if only you will come and take me out a little this evening and show me part of LucrÈce I shall be happy and content. What a beautiful day! I would have given days and even months for the chance of strolling by your side wherever your rÊverie led you. Alas, it is I who am sad, and with excellent reason! As for you, you old lunatic, what have you to complain of? You are adored, and you are free to accept and make use of that sentiment as much and as often as you desire; perhaps that is why you desire it so seldom.... But let us talk of other things. Please love me a little, while I give you my whole soul. Juliette. Sunday, 6.30 p.m., October 27th, 1839. Here I am at my scribbling again, my Toto. It is a sad pleasure, if any, after the two months of love and intimacy which have just elapsed. Here I sit again with my ink and paper, my faults of spelling, my stupidity and my love. When we were travelling I did not need all this paraphernalia to be happy. Juliette. Friday, 10 a.m., November 1st, 1839. Good-morning, my dear little beloved, my darling little man. You told me so definitely yesterday that my handwriting was hideous, and my scrawl nothing but a horrible maze in which you lose both patience and love, that I hardly dare write to you to-day, and it would take very little to make me cease our correspondence altogether. We must have an explanation on this subject, for it is cruel of you to force me to make myself ridiculous night and morning, simply J. Friday, 6.30 p.m., November 1st, 1839. You are good, my adored one, and I am a wretch; but I love you while you only permit yourself to be loved; that is what makes you so tranquil and me so bitter. My heart is weighed down by jealousy this evening and nothing less than your adored presence will suffice to calm me, for I carry hell and all the furies within my soul. I wish I could be sewn to the lining of your coat to-night, for I feel I am about to encounter some great danger that I can only defeat by not leaving your side. If my fears are well-grounded, I shall probably fail in averting the doom that threatens me, for you will not be able to stay with me all the evening. The compliments and flattery you will receive will take you from me. I cannot deny that I am unhappy and jealous, and would much rather be with you at Fontainebleau, at the HÔtel de France, than in Box C. of the ThÉÂtre FranÇais, even when Marion de Lorme is being played. Kiss me, my little man; you are very sweet in your new greatcoat, but you had not told me you had been to your tailor. I shall keep up with you by sending for my dressmaker. I do not mean to surrender to you the palm for smartness and dandyism. Ha! who is caught? Toto! Toto! RÉsilieux is beaming, Claire is happy, Suzanne is an idiot; such is the condition of the household. I am all three at the same time, plus the adoration I profess energetically for your imperial and sacred person. Kiss me and be careful of yourself this evening. Juliette. Monday, 12 noon, November 4th, 1839. Good-morning, treasure. It is twelve by my clock, which is several hours fast, but I have been up some little time. I have dressed my child, and she is now practising on the piano. I spent the night thinking over what you said, my adored one. One luminous phrase especially stands out and scorches my soul. Perhaps you only said it idly as one of the compliments one is constrained to make to the woman who loves one? I know not, but I do know, that I have taken the assurance you gave me that you have never really loved any woman but me, as a sacred thing, unalterably true. I adore you and had never felt even the semblance of love until I met you. I love and adore you, and shall love and adore you for ever, for love is the essence of my body, my heart, my life, and my soul. Believe this, my treasure, for it is God’s own truth. Your dread of seeing me re-enter theatrical life will quickly be dissipated by the probity and steadiness of my conduct. I hope, and am certain of this. You have nothing to fear from me wherever I may be. I adore you, I venerate you. If I could do as you wish and renounce the theatre, that is to say my sole chance of securing my future, I would do so without hesitation and without your having to urge it, simply to please you. But, my beloved, I feel that it were easier to relinquish life itself than the hope of paying my creditors and making myself independent by earning my own living. If I were to make this sacrifice I am sure my despair would bring about some irreparable catastrophe that would weigh upon you all your days. My adored one, do not try to turn me from the only thing that can bring me peace and make me believe Kiss me, my little man. I love you. Juliette. Friday, 4.45 p.m., November 15th, 1839. I wrote the date and hour on this half-sheet of paper, thinking it was blank. I explain this, in order that your suspicious mind may not again draw a flood of insulting deductions from a thing that has happened so simply and naturally. You upset me just now when you said good-bye, because you said cruel things. It was a bad moment to choose. Your manner to me is enough to discourage an angel, and I have begun to ask myself whether it is possible to love a woman one does not esteem. If you esteemed me you would not for ever suspect my words, my silence, my actions, my conduct; if you loved me you would know how to appreciate my honesty and fidelity, whereas even in the tenderest moments of our most intimate communion, you never fail to say something cruel and disheartening. I often say one might almost imagine you were under a promise to someone to tire out my love by inflicting pain upon me on every occasion; but I hope you will never succeed in doing this. I suffer, I despair at heart, but I love you so far, and I hope for both our sakes that I always shall. I cling to my love even more than to your esteem, for the latter is a poor blind thing that cannot distinguish
My love is more clear-sighted. It was attracted at once by your physical and spiritual perfection, and has never confused you with any other of the human species. I love you, Toto. Torment me, drive me to desperation if you will, but you shall never succeed in diminishing my affection. My head aches, little man, and the thoughts that fill it at this moment are not calculated to cure its pain. I press my hand upon my brow to crush thought, and I open my heart to all that is good and tender in my love for you. Good-bye, Toto. I adore you. Good-bye. We were very happy this morning; let us try to be so again very soon. In the meantime I adore you. Juliette. Wednesday, 8.45, November 20th, 1839. I am in despair. I wish I were dead and everything at an end! The more precautions I take, the more I purge my life, the less happiness I achieve. It is as if I were accursed, and I often feel a wild desire to behave as if I were, and crush my love underfoot. I am so unhappy that I lose all courage and hope for the future. You were very good to me when you were going away, but that does not prove that when you come back presently you may not be the most offensive and unjust of men. I sacrifice to you one by one all my actions, even the most insignificant; I am careful inwardly and outwardly to cause you no sort of offence, and yet I am unsuccessful! My struggles only fatigue and dishearten me. On the eve of taking Juliette. Monday, 5.30 p.m., December 16th, 1839. You did well, my adored one, to come back after the painful incident we had just gone through. If you had not, I should have been wretched all the evening. Thank you, my beloved Toto, thank you, my love. You looked very preoccupied, my treasure, when you came up the first time. I gathered that Guirault’s letter had something to do with this, and that you were meditating your answer. Beyond that, I did not take much notice, for I was too furious with you to be able to think of anything. If you knew how much I love you, and how faithful I am to you, my adored one, you would be less suspicious. Suspicion is an insult that makes me frantic, You will not be an Academician, but you will always be my dear little lover. Juliette. Thursday, 5 p.m., January 16th, 1840. I love you, my Toto, and am sad at seeing you so seldom. But I know how much you have to do, my little man, so am not angry with you—still that does not prevent me from being horribly sad. Money melts in my pocket. I was reading yesterday a description of Monsieur de SÉvignÉ, the son, which applies wonderfully to me. “He had no hobbies, did not entertain, gave no presents, wore plain attire, gambled not at all, had only one servant and not a single horse on which to ride out with the King or the Dauphin; yet his hand was like a crucible wherein gold is melted.” I am rather like that. I do not give many presents, I wear the same dress for a year Juliette. Sunday, 1.15 p.m., March 22nd, 1840. Good-morning, my beloved Toto. I read the manuscript of “Didine” over again last night, and I shed all the tears I had restrained in your presence. I am more convinced than ever that you committed an act of unfaithfulness against our love when you composed those lines. I do not see how you can hope to persuade me to the contrary, or wonder that I am wounded to the quick by such a mental and spiritual lapse. Jealousy is not excited only by infidelities of the senses, but primarily by such an infidelity as that which you have committed in writing these verses and concentrating your gaze and your thoughts upon that young girl, while my whole heart and soul were raised in prayer for you in that church at Strasbourg. I will never go back there, either to Juliette. Monday, 6.45 p.m., June 1st, 1840. I am writing to you in the company of RÉsilieux, my love, but that does not restore to me the gaiety I have lost since this morning. That woman and her persistence annoy me more than I can say. When I think of the close confinement in which I live and realise the depth and devotion of the love I bear you, I am indignant to the bottom of my heart that a wretched woman of the street should dare to cast the eye of envy upon a passion which constitutes the religion and adoration of my whole life. If I listened to my own inclination, I should make a terrible example of the hussy and her low caprice, and no other would venture an attempt to capture your affections for many a long day. I am wretched since this morning. I think myself plain, old, stupid, badly dressed—and all because I tremble for the safety of my love, because I am afraid for my poor little slice Juliette. January 7th, 9.30 a.m., 1841. Good-morning, my darling Toto, to whom I dare not yet give his prospective title, for I am very doubtful of the integrity of old Dupaty. I hope you will not keep me waiting too long for the result of the rabid voting of the opposing parties. The weather is not very propitious for that moribund scoundrel. It would be difficult to let him down through the window, and still more so to transport him to the place where we do not wish him to be. If the computation is correct, the mortal illness of the old wretch should give you the place by a majority of one vote at the first scrutiny; but what about a black-ball? Perhaps this time it will come from the ignoble creature who walks under the filthy, greasy, hideous hat of that beast Dupaty. I wish we were already at this afternoon, that I might know what the foul old man has dared to do. Until then I shall look at my clock many and many a time. Try, my love, to come at once and tell me the result whatever it may be. I shall at least have the pleasure of seeing you, which will add to the joy of your nomination or console you for your defeat. By the way, you were so shabby last night that one might suppose you were preparing to contest the palm of bad dressing with that old pickpocket Dupaty. I shall forgive you your untidiness if you are successful. I love you. Juliette. Thursday, 6 p.m., January 7th, 1841. I am enchanted for everybody’s sake, my dear Academician, that at last you are elected. There you are at last, thanks to the seventeen votes of your friends, and in spite of your fifteen adversaries. You are an Academician. Hurrah! I wish I could have witnessed with my own eyes I love you. Juliette. Sunday, 10.45 a.m., April 11th, 1841. Good morning, my beloved Toto, my adored little man. How are you, my darling? I am afraid you may have tired yourself last night reading your splendid speech to me. Poor beloved, it would be a calamity that my pleasure should cost you so dear; it would be unjust and cruel. I hope it is not so, my adored one, and that you have not been punished for your kindness. What a magnificent address! and how stupid it is of me only to appreciate it inwardly, and to be incapable of expressing my feelings better than by inarticulate grunts. It is not my fault, yet since I have learned to love you I have not been able to resign myself to my limitations. Every time the opportunity presents itself to admire you I am furious Juliette. Thursday, 4.30 a.m., June 3rd, 1841. Good morning, my adored little man, my beloved Monsieur l’AcadÉmicien! How are you, my Toto? I am very much afraid you will be horribly tired before this afternoon, poor treasure! I really do not know how you will manage to deliver your address after these several days of grinding fatigue, and a night spent in correcting the proofs at the printing-works. Nobody but you can accomplish these feats of endurance. Still, my beloved, it is time you changed a mode of living which must kill you in the long run. I hope you are going to spend the remaining few hours in your bed. I already feel as agitated as if I were going to make the speech myself. I shall be in a desperate state of mind until you have finished and Salvandy begins to speak. I shall have this fearful lump on my chest until then. Whatever happens I adore you. Juliette. June 3rd, 5.30 p.m., 1841. Where shall I begin, my love? At your divine feet or your celestial brow? What shall I express first? My admiration? Or the adoration that overflows my heart like your sublime genius surpasses the mediocre creatures who listened to you without understanding, and gazed at you without falling upon their knees! Ah, let me mingle those two sentiments that dazzle my brain and burn up my heart. I love you! I admire you! I adore you! You are truly splendid, noble, and sublime, my poet, my beloved, light of my eyes, flame of my heart, life of my life! Poor adored beloved; when I saw you enter, so pale and shaken, I felt myself swooning, and but for the support of Madame DÉmousseaux and Madame Pierceau, I should have fallen to the floor. Happily nobody noticed my emotion, and when I came to myself and saw your sweet smile answering mine and encouraging me, I felt as if I were awaking from a long, painful dream, though only a second of time had elapsed. Thank you, my adored one, for sparing a thought to the poor woman who loves you, at that solemn moment—I should have said, that supreme moment, if the assemblage had not consisted for the greater part of tiresome blockheads and vile scoundrels. Thank you, my good angel, my sublime Victor, my illustrious child. I saw all your dear little family; I love you. Juliette. Thursday, 2.30 p.m., July 8th, 1841. While you are lording it at the AcadÉmie We are not living in the East, and you have not bought me, thank Heaven! I am free to cast off the yoke of proceedings which are neither just, nor kind, nor affectionate. I swear by all I hold most sacred in this world, namely my love, that I will not submit a third time to be thus flouted. If you knew how furious and miserable I am feeling at this moment of writing, you would not venture to inflict a third trial of the kind upon me. In any case pray keep my letter as a definite announcement of what I am capable of doing if you are so cruel as to persist in your present line of conduct. Meanwhile I am doing my best to avoid taking any definitely fatal step, but I warn Juliette. 1 a.m. Hell in my heart at noon, Paradise at midnight, my Toto. I love you and have full confidence in you. Friday, 7.45 p.m., November 19th, 1841. I have it! hurrah!! Fancy, it has been here all the morning, yet nothing warned me! My heart did not beat faster than usual, the earth did not tremble, the skies did not fall, in fact everything remained in its humdrum, normal condition, as if nothing unusual had happened—and it was here all the time! I possessed it in my room, under my eyes! Verily it can hardly be credited, and if anybody but myself said so I should not believe it. But what you must believe, my love, for indeed it is true, is that I love you and that you are the kindest, most charming, best, handsomest, most generous, most noble, and most adored of men. That is what you have got to believe, because it is God’s own truth. The cabinet is fascinating, but what is still nicer is the way you gave it to me. “The manner of the gift is better than the gift itself,” was once said by some one whose name I have forgotten. When you are the donor, the proverb is still more applicable. If you had all the treasures of the universe to bestow, you would do it with a grace that would enhance the value of the I have it! what happiness! I should like to put it in the middle of the room on a golden table, or in my bed, or carry it in my arms, on my heart, anywhere in fact where it could be seen and touched. Meanwhile I will give it a good cleaning to-morrow. It is rather too late to-night. I must do some copying, and dine, and send you back the scribble you entrusted to me yesterday, so I will put off till to-morrow—principally because I shall have a better light then. I will clean it in bed, drawer by drawer. It will be a delightful occupation. I love you, I love you, Toto, I kiss you and adore you, Toto. Juliette. Wednesday evening, 6.30, February 9th, 1842. Do you really want me to write Toto, even when my heart is breaking, and my soul brimful of discouragement? I obey, but if you would only listen to me, you would allow me to discontinue these daily scrawls, which have never served any purpose but that of betraying the measure of my stupidity and making you tire of a love become absurd by dint of reiteration. I feel you only insist out of kindness, but it seems futile to continue this childish babble, which deceives neither you nor me, and gives me no indication of what is passing in your mind. It would be better, my beloved, to inure me gradually to a catastrophe which may be nearer than I guess, than to make efforts to leave me an illusion which neither of us really shares nowadays. A sad ending to all our past happiness! God grant it may not be altogether buried. This does not prevent me from doing you full justice, my friend. You are kind with a kindness full of pity and divine indulgence, but you no longer cherish for me the love of a man for a woman. Do not pretend otherwise, for you cannot delude me. I bear you no grudge my Victor, neither should you bear me any, for it is no more your fault than mine, that you do not love me while I still love you—not our fault, but God’s, Who distributes unequally the amount of love we may each expend during our lives. Happy he or she to whom the smaller sum is apportioned—so much the worse for him or her whose heart is inexhaustible. Now, my beloved Toto, I will torment you no longer. I will even try to make myself agreeable, though, alas, what woman can be agreeable when she is no longer loved! But I shall do my best, and that, coupled You see, my Victor, that you have nothing to be afraid of, but I beseech you to let me off these daily scribbles about things that have neither point nor reason. I demand this of your goodness. Juliette. Thursday, 2.30 p.m., February 10th, 1842. My beloved, my adored Victor, thank you! You remove hell from my heart, and replace it with paradise. Thank you! My life, my spirit, my soul, bless and adore you. What a letter, my God! I wanted to read it kneeling; happy tears poured down my cheeks. You love me, my dear one! It must be true, for you declare it in the loveliest, sweetest language of the whole world. You love me although I am ill-tempered, violent, stupid; you love me my good angel, because you know that your love is the breath of life to me, and that without it I could no longer exist. I also love you, but only God and myself know how deeply. Yesterday when you left me, I was on my knees praying and kissing with tears the footsteps I could hear fading away in the street. I could have flung myself out of the window and died at your feet. My despair, then, was as poignant as the bliss I felt just now when I read your adored letter. Juliette. Thursday, 9.30, April 30th, 1842. Good morning, my adored Toto. How did the little invalid sleep last night? As for you, I do not even ask, my poor dear, for I know you spend all your nights working. I love you, my poor angel. I do not know what else to say, because that is the only thought in my heart and soul; to love you always and for ever. Here comes the bright sunshine that is going to cure our poor little man at once. Juliette.
Saturday, 6.30 p.m., August 20th, 1842. I am a strange creature—at least you think so, do you not, beloved? But what you take for eccentricity, caprice, bad-temper, is really love, but an unhappy love, mistrustful and anxious. Everything is to me a subject of dread almost amounting to despair. Thus this visit to the Duchesse d’OrlÉans, whither I quite admit you were kind enough to take me, was simply a torment on account of the hour and the circumstances: I, badly dressed, barely clean, and that woman under the prestige of a great sorrow Juliette. February 14th, 11.15 a.m., 1843. Good morning beloved Toto, good morning adored one. I love you. When I heard you describing last night the impression produced upon you by the rehearsal of LucrÈce and more especially by the singing of the guests, I seemed to feel it all myself. The fact that my love has not grown a day older, that my admiration is still on the increase, that I think you as handsome and as young as ever, makes it easier for me to go back to the feelings of those days. Looking into my heart, I seem to feel that all this adulation and joy and feast of glory and love began yesterday. Alas, those ten years have left traces only upon my poor countenance, and have been as harsh to it as they have been indulgent to your charming features. I express this somewhat crudely, as I always manage to do, but it is not my fault, my love, nor any one else’s. I love you. Therein consist my intelligence, my wit, my superiority; beyond that I am as stupid as any other animal. You must be very busy to-day with the two rehearsals, I love you, Toto, as much as life. Juliette. Wednesday, 4.30 p.m., September 13th, 1843. Where are you? What are you about, my adored one? My adored Victor, it is more than five o’clock, and you have not yet come. What shall I do! What can I think, or rather what am I to fear? We are in a terrible cycle of misfortune, and God only knows Juliette. Sunday, 5.45 p.m., October 8th, 1843. I have been working all the morning my beloved, or rather scribbling on paper—only to please you, for I doubt whether my labour will be of any use to you; still, I am trying hard, and if I cannot do better, I am doing my best. I cannot do more. I am trying more especially to forget no detail, which makes me occasionally note down trivialities, little futile, insignificant things. My search among our memories is like the botanising of a child who is as apt to collect couch grass as the more useful and rarer plants. However, I am doing my best, and better still, I am obeying you. Would you believe that, although I have been writing the whole day, I have not yet reached Auch. I should love to see you, my Toto. The day, though filled with joyous recollections of our journey, has seemed long and sad to me. Nothing can take the place of one of your embraces. The remembrance of the greatest happiness cannot weigh against one Juliette. Sunday, 7.15 p.m., November, 1843. I think of you my beloved, I desire you, I love you. Ah yes, I love you my adored Toto, you may be sure of it, for it is God’s truth. My little Claire and I talk of you and nothing but you. We love you and bless you. The poor little child will not be with me much longer, and I can already see her poor little face wrinkling up with sorrow; but I try to be cheerful and to remind her of the fortnight’s holiday which will soon come. We love the pictures of your dear little Toto, and his pretty home. We gaze at them with eagerness and affection, we are all eyes and heart. At this moment Claire is reading Ulric’s poems, Did you give DÉdÉ the sachet? Did Toto take back his quince jelly? Meanwhile, I am giving Suzanne a whole evening to herself, and making my little rogue read Le MusÉe des Familles. I should love to give you a good kiss, but I know you will not come for it. You have not the sense to do so. Juliette. Monday, 11.15 a.m., July 22nd, 1844. Good morning my beloved, my sweet, my darling little Toto. How are you? Are you less sad and painfully pre-occupied than yesterday, my adored one? Alas, it is unlikely ... your grief and sorrow are not of those that time can soften. You have the painful faculty of feeling things far more acutely than do other men. Genius does not only pertain to the brain, it belongs above all to the heart. My poor dear one, I love you; I suffer when you suffer; be merciful to us both, I implore you. My little Claire went away this morning. She was more resigned than usual, for she has a holiday of three days in prospect, beginning next Saturday. The poor little thing is very devoted to us; her sole happiness is to be with us. She complains of not seeing you often enough, and I back her up in that. You must try to give us at least one evening out of the three she will spend at home. Verily I am not very cheerful company for the poor child when I am alone with her. I am so absorbed in my love that sometimes I have copied MÉry’s verses, because I do not wish to deprive Mademoiselle DÉdÉ of his autograph. I can understand her setting store by it, poor darling, so I shall make a point of returning it to her. Only (and it is you I am addressing now) you must give me just as many as you give her. You must not lose your good habits, my darling, for I am sure it would bring us bad luck. Therefore you must bring me all your letters as you used to do. I promise to divide them conscientiously with dear little DÉdÉ, and you know quite well that I am a woman of my word. I adore you. Juliette. Thursday, 4.45 p.m., October 20th, 1844. I have sent to Barbedienne, my adored one, but Suzanne has not yet returned. I am writing to you meanwhile to make the time hang less heavy. I hope to goodness I may be able to procure that lovely medal!
Here she is! Ah! Victor, do not be angry! Victor, I am at your feet—Victor, I will be reasonable for the whole of the rest of my life if only you will let me add 15 fr. to the sum you promised me. Oh, Victor, I have not time to wait for your answer and yet I fear to annoy you. Ah, no, you are too kind to be angry with your poor Juju who loves you with such absolute admiring, devoted love! You will look at her with your gentle, ineffable smile, and say I was right—surely, yes, you will. Three cheers for Toto! Juju is a clever woman ... at heart. Yes, it is quite true and I am the happiest of women. Juliette. Tuesday, 9.30 a.m., September, 1845. I have just been gardening, beloved. I am soaked with dew and all muddy, but I have spent three hours thinking of you without any bitterness. My eyes were as moist as my flowers, but I was not weeping. While I busied myself with the garden, I reviewed in thought the lovely flowers of my past happiness. I saw them again fresh and blooming as the first day, and I felt close to you, separated only by a breath. As long as the illusion lasted I was almost happy. I should have liked to pluck my soul and send it to you as a nosegay. Perhaps what I am saying is silly, yet it is the sort of nonsense that can only issue direct from the tenderest, most passionate heart that ever lived. For nearly thirteen years past, I have never once written to you without feeling my hand tremble and my eyes fill. When I speak of you, no matter to whom, my heart swells as if it would burst through my lips. When I am dead, I am certain that the imprint of my love will be found on my heart. It is My beloved Victor, let your thoughts dwell with me, so that my days may seem shorter and less dreary; and do try to surprise me by coming to-night. Oh, how happy I shall be if you do that! Meanwhile, I love you more than I can say. Juliette. Saturday, 8 a.m., September 27th, 1845. Good morning my beloved, my soul, my life, my adored Victor. How are you? I hope yesterday did not tire you too much. I forgot until you reminded me that you have been forbidden to walk much, but I do trust it did you no harm; did it, Victor darling? As for me I felt no fatigue, I seemed to have wings. I should have liked to place my feet on all the paths we traversed together eleven years ago, to kiss the very stones of the roads and the leaves on the trees, and to pick all the flowers in the woods, so keenly did I fancy they were the very same that watched us pass together all those years ago. I gazed at you my adored Victor, and in my eyes you were as young and handsome, nay handsomer even, than eleven years ago. I looked into my heart and found it full of the same ecstasy and adoration that animated it the first day I loved you. Nothing was changed in us or about us. The same ardent, devoted, sad and sweet affection in our hearts, the same autumn sun and sky above our heads, the same picture in the same frame; nothing had changed in eleven years. I would have given a decade of my life to stand alone for ten minutes in that house that has sheltered our memories for so long. I should like to have carried Beloved, did you work late last night? It was very imprudent of you if you did, after the fatigue you underwent during the day. To-day, you must be very careful and not walk much. I shall be extremely stern with you. My antiquarian propensities shall not make me forget, like yesterday, that you are still convalescent and must hardly walk at all. And you will obey me, because little Totos must always obey little Jujus, as you know. Kiss me, my adored Victor, and may God bless you for all the happiness you give me. Juliette. Saturday, 9 p.m., May 2nd, 1846. I cannot nerve myself to the realisation that I shall not see you this evening my sweet adored beloved; yet it is all too true. This is the first time in fourteen years that I have not slept in a room belonging to you. When I got back, I found my child in a raging fever. I gave her fresh compresses, and now she is sleeping. God grant she may do so all night, and that the change of ideas and surroundings and air may have a good effect upon her health. I shall in that case have less cause to grudge the sacrifices I am voluntarily making to that end. Meanwhile, I am a prey to fearful anxiety, and am suffering the uttermost from the absence of what I love best in this world, above life, above duty, above everything. Good-night, beloved. Think of me. Sleep well, and love me. Juliette. Tuesday, 3.45 p.m., 1846. I love you, my Victor. Between every letter of those five sweet words there lurk depths of maternal anguish and sorrow. Gloomy reflections mingle with my tenderest thoughts. My life at this moment Claire’s condition is the same as yesterday; only the weakness, which, but for the doctor’s plain warning I might have attributed to the heat, has increased. The night was not very bad; the poor little thing suffers hardly at all. She seems to have no firmer hold on life than life has upon her. Apathy and profound indifference characterise her illness. Only her father has the power to rouse her for the few moments he is with her. He came this morning and happened to meet the doctor, I have not been able to get her up at all to-day. She lay in bed in a state of profuse and constant perspiration. The various tonics she takes fail to produce any effect whatever. The exhaustion increases hour by hour, which means that death is coming nearer. I pray, but I obtain neither solace nor confidence. The good God disdains my prayers and rejects them, I know—yet I love and admire Him in His beneficent, lofty, noble, generous and beautiful works. I love Him as His saints and angels in Heaven love Juliette. April 29th, 9 a.m., 1847. Good morning, my adored Victor. My thoughts and soul and heart go out to you in this greeting. I hope I shall see you before you go to the rehearsal, for if I do not, I shall have to wait till this evening, which would increase my depression. From now until the anniversary of the terrible day on which I lost my poor child, every hour and minute is punctuated by the recollection of the sufferings of that poor little thing, and of the anguish I went through. They are painful memories, impossible to exclude from my thoughts. Last night while I lay sleepless I seemed to hear her, and in my dreams I saw her again as she looked at the close of her illness. I am worn out this morning. All the pangs and fatigues of the last moments of her life weigh down my heart and limbs. It may be that I shall find comfort in prayer, and I shall pray better by her side, buoyed up by the hope that she will hear me and obtain for me resignation enough to bear her absence without murmur or bitterness. It was you who gave me the courage to live. All that a heart can gain from consolation, I Juliette. Thursday, 8 a.m., May 6th, 1847. Good morning, my all, my greatly loved Toto. How are you this morning? Did you gather in a good harvest of glances, smiles and flattery yesterday from the women you met? Were you the cause of many incipient passions, or were you yourself ensnared by those females, like any beardless student or bald-headed peer of the realm? Tell me, how are you after your evening at Court? For my part, I have a very sore throat and am feeling fearfully cross. I have a longing to scratch which I should love to vent upon the face of some woman or even upon yours—or better still, upon both. I am sick of playing the gentle, sheep-like woman. I intend to become as fierce as a hyena, and to make your life and everything depending upon it a burthen to you. I mean to make a terrible example of you, so that people shall say as you pass by, that it is a woman who has been outraged, but a Juju who has avenged herself! Meanwhile, to begin with, I am going to wrest from you somehow, two silk dresses, a lovely hat, two pairs of smart shoes; and if you do not confess your crime, I will punish you to the tune of torrents of tea-gowns, pocket-handkerchiefs, and silk stockings. I am capable of anything if you drive me too far. Juliette. Tuesday, 12.45 p.m., June 6th, 1848. The more I think of all that is going on in Paris at this moment, my beloved, the less do I desire the success of your election. Juliette.
Monday, 9 a.m., July 9th, 1849. I am hurrying, my love, for I wish to be at the door of the AssemblÉe at noon precisely, in order to secure I do not ask you to think of me before your speech, adored one, but afterwards I entreat you to spare me one glance to complete my happiness. Juliette. Wednesday, 12.30, February 6th, 1850. Think of me, my adored one, and do not permit yourself to be ensnared by the mercenary blandishments of that woman. I should be so grateful to you, my adored little man, for you would thus abridge the moments of my torment. Meanwhile I am very unhappy and anxious and worried. I try to hearten myself up by remembering the last promises you made me. When do you intend to keep them, I wonder? God knows! Juliette. Saturday, 8 a.m., April 6th, 1850. Good morning, my adored one, my sublime beloved. How are you? Did you have a better night, or did fatigue and excitement prevent you from sleeping? When I think of the admirable speech, so religious in Juliette. Saturday, 3 p.m., June 29th, 1850. I have just watched you go with inexpressible sadness, my sweet and beautiful beloved. With you Juliette. Monday, 10 p.m., July 7th, 1851. What I had foreseen has happened, my beloved, even sooner and more painfully than I had feared. Does this fresh crisis foreshadow my speedy recovery? I dare not hope it, for I feel that my disease is incurable. I tell you so in the frankness of my despair. I neither can nor will deceive you, beloved, and my anxiety, far from diminishing, augments with every minute. I am suffering the torment of the Midnight. Beloved, thanks to you and thanks to your tender perseverance and inexhaustible kindness, I am once more, and this time for ever I hope, the sensible, sanguine, happy Juju of the good old days. But if I am to be quite as I was then, you must suffer no longer, my little man—you must be as strong as three Turks, and love me as much as a hundred Swiss-guards. On those conditions I shall be happy! happy!! happy!!!, but pending that great day, try to sleep soundly to-night, not to be unwell to-morrow, and to forgive me for loving you too much. Juliette. Saturday, 8 p.m., July 26th, 1851. I trust you, my beloved, and believe everything you say. I yield my soul to the hopes of happiness Juliette. Monday, 12.45 p.m., July 28th, 1851. This is the hour I begin to expect you, my Victor; each second that lags past with the slowness of eternity crushes my hopes as quickly as I conceive them. What is to become of me all this wretched day if I may not see you? Oh, I thought myself stronger, braver, more resigned; but now I see I have used up all my strength in the horrible struggle Midnight. This letter, which was begun in delirium and mad jealousy has ended, thanks to you my ineffable beloved, in the happy calm of confidence and the sacred joy of love shared. May you be blest, my Victor, as much as you are respected, venerated, adored, and admired by me—then you will have nothing further to desire in this world or the next. Juliette. Saturday, 8 a.m., August 2nd, 1851. Good morning, man that I love; good morning, with all my joy and smiles and soul and happiness and love, if you had a good night and are well. I felt sure your dear Charles’ depression could not stand against an hour of your gentle and persuasive philosophy. You have the marvellous art of extracting good from evil, and consolation from despair, and there is irresistible magic in your eyes and smile; your every word is full of seduction. I, who only linger in this life in the hope of seeing you every day, should know something of that. What the joys of eternity in Paradise may be I cannot tell, but I would sacrifice Juliette. Friday morning, September 12th, 1851. Good morning, and forgive me my poor sweet beloved, for nothing was further from my thoughts than to torment you as I involuntarily did yesterday. My foolishness does not include malice, and I respect you even in my most violent bouts of despair. Besides, you had just been telling me something that ought to increase my clinging to life, namely, my responsibility for your tranquillity, your fortune, your genius and existence. Without accepting in its entirety this exaggerated view of my own importance in the grave situation you find yourself in, my persecuted love, I have grasped that I should be unworthy of the position, were I to allow my troubles to weigh in the balance, against your safety. Therefore, my Victor, you have nothing to fear from me, so long as my poor brain retains a glimmer of reason, and my wretched heart a scrap of confidence in your loyalty. I spent part of the night reading over your old Juliette. Thursday, 10.45 p.m., October 23rd, 1851. You know my dear little man, that I need no encouragement to give way to epistolary intemperance. When time permits, I am always ready to fling myself unrestrainedly into a sea of lucubrations without sense or end. But this time I have more than a mere pretext for giving rein to my harmless mania; I have two days full of the most radiant joy and happiness that could befall a woman who lives only by and for her love. Whole volumes would not suffice to enumerate and describe them, and even your sublime genius would not be too great to express the splendid poetry of them. I felt as if a little winged soul sprang from each one of our embraces and flew heavenward with cries of jubilation and joy. Your love penetrated my soul and warmed it, as the rays of the sun pierce through the fogs and melan My adored Victor, my soul overflows with the accumulated joys of those two days of life by your side under the eye of God. I relieve myself as best I can by pouring out the surplus of my enchantment upon this paper. Sleep well, my adored one, I love you and bless you. Juliette. Thursday, 8 a.m., November 6th, 1851. Good morning, my sweetheart, my adored one. I wish my kisses had wings, that you might find them on your pillow at your awakening. If you only knew how much I love you, you would understand that for me there is life, heart, and soul, only in you, by you, and for you. Yesterday when I passed your old house in the Place Royale, all the memories of our love and happiness awoke again within me. I stood awhile before it, caressing its threshold with my eyes, fingering the knocker, pushing the door ajar to peer in, as I should look at the inside of a reliquary, or touch some sacred object. Then I went into the garden to gaze up at the windows whence you sometimes looked down upon me. I wandered all about the district in the same sweet, sad tremor I experience when I read over your old love-letters. I traced our Juliette. Brussels, Beloved one, I wish the first sheet of paper I use, the first word I write, in this hospitable country, to be a message of love from me to you. It is surely the least I can do, since my every thought, my life and heart and soul, pass through you before reaching the common objects of this world and returning to me. Is it indeed possible that you are safe, my poor treasure, and that I have nothing further to fear for your life or liberty? Is it true that you love me, and that you deign to rely upon me in the difficult passages of life? Is it conceivable that I am henceforth happy and blest among women, and that I have the right to raise my head and bask openly in the sunlight of love and self-sacrifice! Ah, God, I thank Thee for all the gifts and joys and blessings Thou dost bestow upon me to-day, in the revered and adored person of my sublime beloved! All my efforts shall be directed towards deserving them more and more. All my gratitude is for Thee, my God! Juliette. Brussels, Do not worry about me, my beloved, for I never love you better or more tranquilly than when I know you are attending to your family duties and busying yourself with securing the peace and comfort of your wife and children. Pray devote yourself entirely to the service of your noble wife for the time of her sojourn here. Do not deny her any of the little pleasures that may divert her mind from the heavy trials she has just undergone. Let my resignation and courage, my consideration and devotion, help to smooth the rough places of life for her as long as she remains with you. Give her all the consolation and joy in your power. Lavish upon her the respect and affection she deserves, and do not fear ever to wear out my patience and trust in you. I see you coming my adored one. Bless you. Juliette. Brussels, I had set myself a task, beloved, before writing to you, in order to earn that sweet reward. I have just completed it, and without further delay I proceed with my insignificant vapourings, in the intervals of copying two most interesting stories. I am not writing for your benefit, but for the pleasure it gives me to babble a few tender words to you in default of the kisses and caresses I cannot give you at this distance. My Victor, as you do not wish me to be sad, and hate to feel that I am unhappy, and dread the sight Juliette. Brussels, You may give me something to copy for you now if you like. I have nearly finished that foolish scrawl, so if you want to utilise my time, you can send me anything you like. I am quite at your disposal. Meanwhile, I am mending your underlinen and my own, and watching the clouds sail above my narrow horizon. I envy them without having the courage to follow their example and allow myself to be driven by chance winds or caprice. I am too lazy, bodily and mentally, to move. I recline in my chimney corner, cosily humped up, and my soul lies torpid within me. I am not exactly unhappy, neither am I sad in the true meaning of the word—but I am uneasy and depressed. I feel a threatening influence in the atmosphere about me. What it is, I cannot precisely say, but I am under some evil thrall. I am sure there is a mystery between us that you are trying to conceal, and that fate will force me to discover sooner or later. Perhaps it would be safer not to try to hide things from me—it would certainly be more loyal and generous; but as neither prayers nor tears can induce you to give me your full confidence, I will await my fate with resignation. After all, as long as you arrange your life to suit your own feelings and tastes, I have no right to complain. I have never meant to force myself upon you in any case; therefore, my Victor, whatever happens, you may be sure I shall place no obstacle in the way of your happiness and glory. I love you with all the pride of my inferiority. Juliette. Brussels, Good-morning, my Victor. I will do exactly as you like. So long as my love is not called into question, what does it matter how, and when, my body changes its habitat and moves from Brussels to Jersey? Therefore, my Victor, I make no objection to starting at the same time as you. Between the pain of a twenty-four hours’ separation, and the mortification of travelling with you as a total stranger, my poor heart would find it hard to choose. It is quite natural that I should sacrifice myself to appearances, and respect the presence of your sons by this painful incognito, but it seems cruelly unjust and ironical that it should be required of my devotion and fidelity and love, when it was never thought of in the case of that other woman, whose sole virtue consisted in possessing none. For her, the family doors were always open, the deference and courteous protection of your sons exacted; your wife extended to her the cloak of her consideration, and accepted her as a friend, a sister, and more. For her, indulgence, sympathy, affection—for me, the rigorous application of all the penalties contained in the code of prejudice, hypocrisy, and immorality. Honours for the shameless vices of the society lady—only indignities for the poor creature who sins through honest devotion and love. It is quite simple. Society must be considered. I will leave for Jersey when and how you will. I am quite ready to copy for Charles. I fear he may find my bad writing more tiresome than useful, but I shall do my best, and I will get some better Juliette. Jersey, Good morning, my divine, adored love. When one considers what the infamous trap laid for you on December 2nd has inspired you to write, one is tempted to give thanks to Providence. It almost seems as if that dastardly crime had been committed for the aggrandisement of your renown, and the better instruction of the nations. I do not think any scoundrel will ever be found bold enough to repeat the offence, after reading your fulminating poems. Just a year ago, on this day and at this hour, I learnt the news of the Coup d’État through poor Dillon. Knowing how closely it concerned me, the worthy creature rushed to my house from the Faubourg St. Germain to warn me, and place her services at my disposal, which meant at yours, for she is a brave, noble woman. From that moment until the day I received your dear letter from Brussels announcing your safety, I lived in a state of nightmare. I only woke again to life and happiness when I found myself in your arms on the morning of December 14th in the Customs shed at Brussels. Since then, my beloved Victor, my sublime Victor, I have never let a day pass without thanking God for rescuing you so miraculously, nor have I ceased for one minute to admire and adore you. Juliette. DRAWING BY VICTOR HUGO, SIGNED “TOTO.” Unpublished, belonging to the Author. THE FLOWER AND THE BUTTERFLY. Drawing by Victor Hugo for Juliette (Victor Hugo Museum).
Jersey, Good morning, my life, my soul, my joy, my happiness. Dear adored one, from yesterday until the 14th of this month, there is not a moment that does not recall to me the dangers you were exposed to a year ago, Juliette. Jersey, Good morning, my poor flayed, mutilated darling. How I pitied you yesterday during the long-drawn-out Juliette. Jersey, Good morning, my too-dearly loved little man. I am cleverer than you, for I do not need lenses, paper, chemicals, and sunshine, to reproduce you in every form within my heart. Love is a splendid stereoscope; it throws all the photographs and daguerreotypes in the world, into the shade. It can even, if the need exist, convert black jealousy into white confidence, Juliette. Jersey, If the soul could take visible shape, you would perceive mine at this moment, my sweet adored one, bending over you and smiling. If kisses had wings, you would feel them swooping about your dear little person in clouds, like joyous birds upon a beautiful flowering bush. Unfortunately, my soul and kisses have to pass and repass before you invisible, and perhaps even unsuspected by you. But that does not deter me, and I am drawn irresistibly to you by the need of living in your atmosphere. My thoughts sit boldly at your side wherever you are. However my chastened personality may bend under the con Juliette. Jersey, I really mean what I said just now, my dear little boy. Instead of posing interminably in front of the daguerreotype, Juliette. Jersey, I come to you, my beloved, as you are unable to return to me this evening. I come to tell you I love you without regret for the past or fear for the future. I come to you with a smile on my lips and a blessing in my bosom, with my hand upon my mutilated heart and my eyes full of pardon, with my purity restored and my soul redeemed by twenty years of fidelity and love, with my delusions swept away and my faith shining. I come to you without rancour, Juliette. Jersey, Whatever you may say, my sweet one, to retard the gradual cessation of my daily yarns, you cannot stay the progress of the natural law, even when assisted by my passive submission to your will. Why continue this custom of writing to you twice a day, when the pretext for doing so has faded from our joint lives? If I were a woman of parts, I could substitute imagination and shrewd observation for love-making; but as these are entirely lacking in me, I have nothing to record in those bulletins where kisses and caresses once occupied the chief place. Now, when I have said good morning and alluded to the state of the weather, I have nothing more to say, because I am stupid. Your influence alone can extract what is in my heart. Juliette. Jersey, How one’s brain scintillates from living for ever within four walls! What sparkling and varied incidents one experiences in this existence of a squirrel in a cage! For my part I am so inspired by it that I hardly know where to commence. Let us, therefore, proceed in due sequence; my cat, which has been slumbering for the last two hours on its right ear, has just turned over on to its left. PÈre Nicotte, abandoning the ploughshare, announces for Thursday, September 29th, the sale by auction of three fat hogs, a sow with her eight sucking pigs, three yearling bulls, another rising two, and other items too numerous and too peculiar to enumerate. Births: August 5th. Blanche Laura, daughter of Mr. Harper Richard Hugo. The annual dinner of the Society will take place on the above-mentioned day. Those intending to be present, and those proposing to furnish fruit for What more do you want? Eleven pigs, not including the sow, three yearling bulls, not including the one rising two, a daughter of your own, and permission to invite yourself to a dinner of the Society, and even to furnish the fruit for it. If all this does not attract you and stir the very marrow of your bones, and tempt your appetite, you must be dead to the promptings of sensibility, paternity, and sensuality. In that case, go to bed and to sleep, and leave me to myself—the more so, as I do not happen to possess an accommodating table, Juliette. Jersey, I love you so much, my darling, that I cannot find anything else to say to you. My poor spirit is ready to give way under the weight of too much love, like a bough bending under an abnormal show of fruit; but my heart has strength enough to bear without flinching the infinite tenderness, admiration, and adoration I feel for you. What a letter, my adored one! I read it with my Juliette. Guernsey, It shall not be said that your adored name ever appeared before me in its dazzling nimbus without being saluted by my heart with a triple salvo of love, oh, my dearly beloved, and without the outpouring of all the perfume of my soul at your divine feet. Although I am very tired, almost ill, I cannot let this day pass without giving you my tenderest, sweetest, Juliette. Guernsey, Adored one, I am sending Suzanne to get news of your dear little sick child. How good, how ineffably good you are, dear kind father, to have come yourself to reassure me about the little feverish symptoms that are beginning to show themselves to-night in your little girl’s condition. Let us hope they will yield to remedies this time, and that the night may prove more calm and satisfactory than the day just passed. Meanwhile thank you with all my heart, thank you with all my soul, for allowing me to share your family hopes and fears and joys and troubles. Thank you. If God hears and grants my prayers, as I trust with sacred confidence He will, your adored child will soon be restored to health and happiness. Juliette. Guernsey, If you say another word I shall seize them all, Juliette. Jersey, Darling beloved, I begin my letter in the hope of its being interrupted shortly, and completed this evening with a lighter heart; but I so need to love you that I must take the initiative, my adored one. I have just read the sad, tender poems you gave me to copy. I see you coming.... 8.45 p.m. I have just finished copying those adorable verses, so poignant through their very restraint, Juliette. Jersey, Yes, since you wish to hear it, I love you, my little Juliette. Guernsey, Although unwell and fatigued, my beloved Victor, I cannot leave this little home where we have loved each other, without penning a grateful farewell for all the felicity it has sheltered during the year I have lived in it. I trust I may be as happy in my beautiful new house as I have been here in my hovel. The sadness I feel to-day is nearer akin to nerves than to real sorrow. Please forgive it, my adored Victor, if you have misunderstood and thought for a single instant that you were to blame for it. Far from reproaching you for the difficulties of my situation, I Juliette. Guernsey, My beloved, my beloved, my beloved, what sin have we committed that God should strike us so cruelly in your health and my love! Unless it be a crime to love you too much, I do not feel guilty of aught. What shall I do, my God, what will become of me! Victor ill and away from me! I dread lest, as I write, you should almost hear my sobs and guess at my despair, from these reckless words. I had anticipated this trouble and thought myself able to face it. I know it is imperatively necessary that you should remain at home, yet my whole being rebels at this separation as at a cruel injustice, and the greatest misfortune of my life. Why, why, why am I like this, oh, my God? Yet I possess courage, Thou knowest! Thou knowest also that I desire his speedy recovery and love him with a devoted, illimitable love. My adored Victor! Why then, is the reason of this gloomy and profound despair which robs me of strength and reason? Oh, God, dost Thou hate me? Have my offences been Juliette. Guernsey, Another short spell of courage and patience, my poor gentle martyr, and your deliverance will be complete. The doctor has just assured me so. I shall soon be able to rejoice at your convalescence without the poignant dread of a frightful disaster mingling itself with my joy. In the delirious delight this good news gave me, I kissed the doctor’s kindly hands, which have become sacred to me since they have ministered to you. The poor man was surprised and moved by my emotion, and looked quite embarrassed—almost shy of my gratitude—but I was proud of it. Why should not a woman kiss the hands that have saved the life of the man she adores, when so many men kiss the idle fingers of the women who betray them. Rosalie arrived a few minutes after the doctor, to fetch your egg, and found me weeping and smiling. I explained the reason to her. The girl has surprised me in tears so often that I fear she will take me for a cry-baby by temperament, though God knows, I do not lay claim to hyper-sensitiveness. But how could I have remained calm during your long, painful illness. For, my beloved, one can afford to admit now, that you have been in grave danger the last twelve days. Happily all is over, you are saved and I thank God on my knees and adore you. Juliette. Guernsey, At last, at last, at last, beloved, I have reached the blessed moment when I shall see you again! I am so happy that words and breath fail me. Oh, my adored one, how have I managed to live so far away and separated from you for so long! Three weeks ago I should have thought such a sacrifice beyond my strength, yet to-day I am almost afraid I am seeing you too soon; for my solicitude takes fright at the idea of any imprudence that might augment or prolong the sufferings you have only just overcome. The worthy doctor assures me there is no risk for you in the short walk from your house to mine, but I have been so wretched during your illness, and I love you so much, that my heart knows not to whom to hearken. My beloved, my joy, my life, my happiness, be prudent! I adore you, I await you, my love. Juliette. Guernsey,
Good morning, my adored one. I say it with all the tenderness which had to be disguised owing to the presence of your kind and charming son, during the lovely fortnight we have spent at Sark. Everything there was a feast for mind and heart. One thing only was lacking for my complete happiness; freedom to love you aloud and in all frankness. Now there need be no obstacle to the passionate expansion of my soul, but it is in the silence and solitude of my house, without the joys, smiles, sparkling wit, and poetical atmosphere you and your son spread before I hope you spent a good night, my sweet love. I am waiting for you to give you as many kisses as you are able to carry. Until then I adore you with all my soul. Tuesday, June 14th. May God preserve you from all evil, my beloved, and permit my love and blessing to constitute the whole happiness of your life. Juliette. Guernsey, You sat at this very spot just now, my sweet love, writing in my little red book, (record of our love), the very things my own heart feels and would have dictated to you, could it have spoken aloud—so certain is it that my life belongs absolutely to you, and that my thoughts take birth from your glances. Thursday evening, 7.30. I resume my scribble where I left it when you came back this afternoon, my darling beloved—not to add anything of value, but to continue for my own pleasure the sweet dialogue between my heart and my love. I thank you for our dear twenty-seventh anniversary, which you made memorable by words so luminous and a tenderness so penetrating and sacred. I thank you for myself, whose pride and joy and veneration you are; I thank you on behalf of my nephew and his family, for the immense honour you have conferred upon them by writing to their son. Lastly, my beloved, I kiss your feet, your hands, your lips, your eyes, your brow, and I only cease through fear of wearying you by this over-flow of caresses. I love you. Juliette. Mont St. Jean, Dearly beloved. Whilst you are expanding among the tender delights of family life, I am invoking all I am well fitted to make the comparison seeing that my arm is already healed, while my heart suffers Juliette. Guernsey, Good morning, my beloved. In full daylight and glorious sunshine, in love and happiness, good morning. Again I greet you, like that first day thirty years ago, when my eyes followed you along the Boulevard after you left me. My soul winged flights of kisses to you when you looked round for one more glance at my window before turning into the Rue du Temple. That picture remains for ever graven upon my mind; I can assert with truth that everything remains the same in my heart as the night I first became yours. These thirty years of love have passed like one day of uninterrupted adoration, and I feel now younger, more virile, and more capable of loving you, than ever before—heart, body, soul, all are yours, and live only by you and through you. I smile upon you, bless you, adore you. Juliette. Guernsey, Good morning, unutterably dear one. May all the blessings of heaven and earth rest upon you and those you love. I slept very well and hope you did the same. My headache has gone and I feel as sturdy as an oak-tree. I do not in the least desire a great house whence I shall not be able to see you Guernsey, Good morning, good morning, and again, good morning, my dear, wide-awake person. You must be very well to-day, judging by the energy with which you are shaking your rugs to the four winds. I hope that signifies a good night, good health, lively love, and all the rest of it. As for myself, I slept little, but soundly. I got up before gun-fire this morning, and had already finished my dressing when I saw you on your balcony. What a privation it will be for me, my adored man, when I can no longer watch you in the mornings, moving about your house. I do not feel as if I should ever get accustomed to it, and I think of it with apprehension, for there is a proverb that says, “Out of sight, out of mind.” If At this moment, I am trying to numb these reflections by the contemplation of the marvels you are creating in that future house of mine; but at the bottom of my heart, I know I shall always mourn this poor little lodging, where my eyes could watch over you, caress you, guard you, preserve you, and adore you. The more I think of it, the more oppressed I feel, and the more I blame myself for having exchanged the happiness of every moment, for a comfort I shall hardly have leisure to appreciate, and for health which did not require amelioration. My poor beloved, forgive these regrets which are only dictated by love, and this anxiety which also means love. Try not to let the separation of our houses entail that of our hearts; try to love me as heartily there as here, and do not let yourself be enticed away from me by anybody. On those conditions I promise to live happily in the splendid rooms you have prepared for me. J. Guernsey, Dearly beloved, I cannot forsake this little home where we have loved each other for eight years, without imprinting a kiss of gratitude upon its threshold. I have just gazed my supreme farewell at your beautiful house, which has so long been to me the polar star of my heart’s wanderings. Alas, I am lengthening out the moments as much as I adore you. J. Guernsey, Where are you, my beloved? My eyes seek you vainly, you are no longer there to smile upon me; it is all over—I shall never again see the little roost whence you used to blow kisses and wave your hand so tenderly. I am alone now in my fine house, alone for ever; for there is no further chance in this life of having you near me. I shall never again live in your immediate intimacy, as I have done for the past eight years. Loyally as you may endeavour to bridge over J. Guernsey, It would take very little to make me stay in bed till noon. I am ashamed of myself and well punished, for I have not seen you this morning, and have not yet heard whether you had a good or a bad night. I hope you were clever enough to sleep uninterruptedly from the moment you laid your head on the pillow, till that of your uprising. I shall be very glad if I have guessed right. Meanwhile, my J. Guernsey, Good-morning, my adored one, bless you. I can afford to smile on this date, abhorred of all worthy folk: December 2nd.—because it is, for me alone, a joyful anniversary. If my gratitude is an offence towards humanity, I humbly ask pardon of God and man. I am tormented at the thought that you may have slept badly. If I could be reassured on that point, I should be quite happy this morning. Unfortunately, I can only find out much later when you come here to bathe your dear eyes. The mention of your eyes reminds me of your poor wife’s sight. Surely, if the doctors were not certain of curing her, they would not keep her so long in Paris, away from all her belongings, in winter weather? My desire for her complete recovery of a sense of which she has made such noble use in her beautiful book Victor Hugo, racontÉ, makes me look upon her delay J. Guernsey, I thank you, dearest, for letting me have a share in your prayers, when you plead to God not to separate us in life or in death. It is what I pray all day long; it is the aspiration of my heart and the faith of my soul. I am not a devout woman, my sublime beloved, I am only the woman who loves and admires and reverences you. To live near you is paradise; to die with you is the consecration of our love for all eternity. I want to live and die with you. I, like you, crave it of God. May He grant our joint prayers! I feel as you do, my beloved, that those two dear souls hover above us and watch over us and bless us. I associate them with all my thoughts and sorrows and joys, and I place my prayers under their protection, that they may convey them direct to the foot of the Great White Throne. I bless them as they bless me, with all that is loftiest and holiest and most sacred in my soul. I am stopping at almost every line of this letter to read your adorable one over again, although I already know it by heart. I kiss it, talk to it, listen to it, and then begin all over again. I love you. J. Guernsey, Dearly beloved, I am rather less worried since I have seen you and exchanged a kiss with you; yet I hope He will hear and grant my petitions on your behalf, and that you will be restored to some degree of calmness and consolation. When you write to your two dear sons, Charles and Victor, do not forget, I beg, to thank them from me for the little portrait. Tell them I love them and mingle my tears with theirs. I adore you, my great one, my venerated one, my sublime mourner. J. Brussels, Again I have slept better than ever, beloved. I trust it has been the same with you. I was very proud and pleased at my walk with you and your family last night, but I felt somewhat shy and ill at ease. Please permit me to decline any further invitations of the kind. Should the occasion arise again, which is improbable, I think good taste and discretion demand that I should hold myself aloof from your family affections, and only associate myself with them at a distance, or in my own home. As this feeling, or scruple, whichever you may like to call it, could not be expressed in the presence of your dear J. Brussels, My poor beloved, I pray God to spare you and your dear children the misfortune which threatens you at this moment in the loss of your angelic and adorable wife. I hope, I hope, I hope. I pray, I love you, I summon all our dear angels above to her assistance and yours. I pray God to make two equal shares of the days remaining to me, and add one to the life of your saintly and noble wife. My beloved, my heart is wrung, I suffer all you suffer twice over, through my love for you. I do not know what to do. I long to go to you, I should love to take my share of the nursing of your poor invalid, but human respect holds me back, and my heart is heavier than ever. Suzanne has only just come from your house, and I already want to send her back again, in the hope that she may bring me less disquieting news than that which I have just received. Oh, God have mercy upon us and change our anguish into joy! Brussels, My beloved, in the presence of that soul which now sees into my own, Brussels, I placed your sleep last night under the protection of your dear one, my beloved, and implored her to remove from your dreams all painful memories of the sad day just past. I hope she heard me and that you slept well. Henceforth, it is to this gentle and glorious witness of your life in this world, now your radiant protectress in Heaven, that I will appeal for the peace and happiness you require, to finish the great humanitarian task to which you have pledged yourself. May God bless her and you, as I bless her and you. The more I think over to-night’s mournful journey, the more convinced I feel that I ought not to take part in it. The pious homage of my heart to that great and generous woman must not be exposed to a wrong interpretation by indifferent or ill-natured critics. We must make this last sacrifice to human malignity, in order to have the right to love each other openly afterwards; do you not agree, my beloved? Afterwards, may nothing ever come between us here below, nor above—such is my ardent desire! J. Brussels, My heart and thoughts are with you and your be My heart is torn by your grief, my poor afflicted ones; my eyes rain all the tears you are shedding. Dear treasure, I beg your wife to obtain for you the courage you need. May her memory remain with you, sweet and gentle and benign as was her exquisite person in life. I entrust you to her as I confide myself to you, and I bless you both. J. Guernsey, Since I have seen you, my great beloved, I am feeling much better. Your smile has completed my cure. It may be an illusion of my eyes and heart, but at this moment I seem to feel the breath of spring. Perhaps it proceeds from the nearness of the anniversary of the first performance of LucrÈce Borgia, which is to be acclaimed and applauded by an enthusiastic public to-morrow night, just as it was thirty-seven long years ago. Bonaparte may do his best to-morrow against this magnificent play, he will get no good out of his police-engineered cabal. I think he will hardly dare risk such an infamous attempt, but I wish it was already Saturday, that we might be quite easy. Meanwhile, Juliette. Guernsey, Good morning, my dearest. Did you sleep better last night, my great, little man? Were you warmer? How are you this morning? It is indeed tedious to have to wait until this afternoon to hear all this. I am trying to moderate my impatience by doing things for you. I have already selected your two eggs, put fresh water into your finger-bowl, and a snow-white napkin on your plate. Suzanne is making your coffee, which perfumes the whole house, while I trace these gouty old “pattes-de-mouche,” which are to lay all the tender nonsense of my heart at your feet. I am beginning early, as you see, to be certain that they arrive in time. The thaw has begun. I was quite hot in the night, though I must admit I had taken measures to that end; so I slept excellently, as you can judge by the state of my spirits. But what I really want you to take note of is, that I adore you. J. Guernsey, My heart, my eyes, my soul, are bewildered, my beloved, so overwhelmed are they with tenderness, admiration, and happiness! What an adorable letter, and what a marvellous surprise! How good you are to me! How generous and charming! Words fail me, and the best I can say is: I love Mariette told me you had spent a very good night. Is it really true? I slept capitally, too, and am feeling more than well. I have been looking about for a place for my new treasure, but have not yet decided on one. I shall leave it to you to choose its proper place in my museum of souvenirs. Meanwhile, I have covered it away from the dust and put it in the shady drawing-room. As soon as I have read your adorable little letter again, I shall go back and have another look at it. J.
Guernsey, At all hazards I must send you my morning greeting, though I trust you are sleeping too soundly to hear it. You have slept so little and so badly for many nights, that it would be only fair that this J. Thursday morning, July 20th, 1871. This is your patron-saint’s day, my great beloved. Others will congratulate you with flowers and music and expressions of admiring gratitude and emotion, but nobody will love you more than I do, or bless and adore you as you deserve to be loved, blessed and adored! I hope this anniversary may be the beginning of a new year less sinister and sad than the last, and that your dear grandchildren will give you as much joy and happiness as you have had sadness and misfortune in the past. I say this hastily, as best I can, with emotion in my old heart and thrills of joy in my soul. As I sit scribbling, I hear your voice calling me and I rush towards you just as in the early days of our love. I kiss your hair, your eyes, your lips, your hands, your feet. I adore you. Juliette. Paris, Good morning, my great and venerated one. I kiss one by one the wounds of your heart, praying God to heal those that ache worst. I beg Him to give me strength to help you carry your heavy cross to the end. I ask Him, above all, to give me that which, alas, is lacking in my nature, namely, that infinite gentleness without which the most perfect devotion is unavailing. Since the day before yesterday, my poor, sublime martyr, my heart has been wrung by the new blow that has fallen upon you, I love you. J. Paris, This is your birthday, beloved—the anniversary of anniversaries, acclaimed in Heaven by the great men of genius who preceded you upon earth, and blessed by me ever since the day I first gave myself to you. We used to celebrate it with all the sweetest instruments of love; kisses, words of endearment, letters, all were pressed into service to make this date, February 26th, a perfume, an ecstasy, a ray of sunshine. To-day these winged caresses have flown to other realms, but there remains to us the solemn devotion that better becomes the sacred marriage of two souls for all eternity. In the name of that devotion I send you my tenderest greetings and beg you to let me know how you spent the night. I hope your little breach of regulations yesterday did not prevent you from sleeping. As for me, I slept little, but I am quite well this morning, thanks to the influence of this radiant date. I ask little Georges and little Jeanne to kiss you for me as many times as you have lived minutes in this world. My dearly beloved, I bless you. J. Paris, This is a day of sunshine: God, in His Heaven above, and little Jeanne under my roof. I hardly J. Paris, My beloved, I do not desire to turn your successes into a scourge for your back, but I cannot help feeling that my old-fashioned devotion cuts a sorry figure amongst the overdressed cocottes who assail you incessantly with their blandishments and invitations. This fantastic chase has gone on for a long time without extorting from you any sign of weariness or satiety. As for me, I long only for repose—if not in this life (which seems difficult in my case to obtain), then in the immobility of death, which cannot long be delayed at the pace I am going. I ask your permission to begin preparing for it by giving up my daily letters. That will be something gained; the rest will come gradually, little by little, till one fine J. Paris, Dear adored one. All your desires in life, as well as mine, are granted to-day if your dear Victor has spent a good night, as I hope. I am anxiously waiting for Mariette’s return to know how the dear invalid is.... My poor beloved, I am in despair—I have just seen Mariette, who tells me that your poor son is in high fever at this moment. J. Paris, Go, dearest, try to find in a solitary walk, which may prove fruitful to the world, some solace for the painful agitation of your heart. My thoughts follow you lovingly and bless every one of your steps. Do not worry about me in the new arrangements of your life. Whatever you settle shall be accepted by me. For forty-one years I have followed that programme, and I will do so now, more than ever. Provided you love me as I love you, I desire nothing more from God or you. The advice I give you, apart from my own personal concerns, is always practical and in your own interest and that of your dear grandchildren. I should feel I had failed in my duty if I kept the least of my ideas from you, whether good or bad, insignificant or stupid. I love you and adore you, body, heart and soul. J. Paris, Dear one, there is rather more bustle about us than usual on this our sweet and sacred anniversary. We have the little excitement of your two adorable grandchildren, which we had not expected, but which is all the more delightful for that. The perfection of happiness would have been to take them ourselves to that famous circus which little Georges already As for ourselves, dearest, I trust that our two souls, communing together, will not miss those fascinating little witnesses of our love over much. J. Paris, He whose heart is younger than his years suffers all the sorrows of his age. This aphorism contains in a few words the secret of the turmoil I involuntarily bring into your life, while I myself suffer like a soul in damnation. Still, I must not allow this ridiculous folly to be an annoyance to you; I must and will get the better of it, and leave you your liberty, every liberty, especially that of being happy whenever and however you like. Otherwise, my poor beloved, you will very shortly come to hate the sight of me. I know it, and it terrifies me in anticipation. So I am determined to crush my heart at all costs, that I may restore peace and happiness to yours. J. Paris, I thank you dear one, for having been loyal enough to tell me this morning that you had written another poem to Madame M. I thank you also for having offered to read it to me, and not to send it to her till afterwards. I accepted this respite in the first instance, but I realised later that what is delayed is not lost, and that I should gain nothing by struggling against being bracketed with this statue inhabited by a star, and that I was simply putting myself in the absurd position of the ostrich that tries to avert danger by hiding his head in the sand. Therefore beloved, I beg you to act quite freely, and to send the verses dedicated to your beautiful muse whenever you like. Once the poetry has been written, it is quite natural that you should intoxicate each other without consideration for me. Besides, in my opinion, infidelity does not consist in action only; I consider it already accomplished by the sole fact of desire. That being settled, my dear friend, I beg you to behave exactly as you like, and as if I were no longer in the way. I shall then have leisure to rest from the fatigues of life before taking my departure for eternity. Try and be happy if you can. J.
Paris, Permit me, my great beloved, to offer you my three-score years and ten, freshly completed this morning. Give the poor old things a friendly reception, for they are as blazing with love for you now, as if they had only been born yesterday. I commission little Jeanne J. Paris, Dear, dear one, the separation I dreaded as a veritable calamity is now an accomplished fact. God grant it may not be the beginning of the end of my happiness. My heart is full of sad presentiment. The distance that separates us is like a broken bridge between our hearts, over which neither joy nor hope may pass henceforth. I cherish no illusion; from this evening forward, all intimacy between us is over, and my sweet horizon of love is for ever clouded. I try to give myself courage by reflecting that the happiness I lose is gained by you in the affection of your two dear grandchildren. I tell myself that this compensation should be sufficient for me; still I am in despair, and I can hardly help shedding floods of tears, as if some irreparable misfortune had befallen me when you walked away just now. I accustomed myself far too speedily to a happiness J. Paris, I had hoped that nothing would happen to disturb the sanctity of this sad anniversary, 3 p.m. You wish me not to be anxious, not to relinquish a tussle in which I am unarmed? It is more generous than wise on your part, for what happened to-day, happened yesterday, and will again to-morrow, and I have no strength left, either physical or moral. This martyrdom of Sisyphus, who daily raises his love heavenward only to see it fall back with all its weight upon his heart, inspires me with horror, and I prefer death a thousand times over, to such torture. Have J. Paris, My dearest, your letter burns and dazzles me, and I feel humbled by it, because physically I know myself to be so far beneath your ideal; but morally, when I look inward and see my soul as your love has transformed it, I am arrogant enough to think myself above it, and to have no fear of the moment when I may reveal to you its resplendent purity in the eyes of God. Pending this, sublime and J. Guernsey, Good morning my great, good, ineffable, adorable beloved. I pray Heaven to bless you in Heaven as I bless you here below. I hope you slept as well as I did, that you bear me no grudge for the irritability born of excessive fatigue, and that you do not love me less on account of it. My confidence in your inexhaustible indulgence lends me courage to proceed with the sad business that brought me here. J. Paris, Good news from your dear little travellers. The top of the morning to you, and long live love! The telegram, which came after I was in bed, that is to say after eleven o’clock, is dated from Genoa, and says they arrive the day after to-morrow at Madame MÉnard’s, and will write at once from there. Mean J. Paris, Dear beloved, your promise to take me every day to Versailles, if you are obliged to return to the AssemblÉe, fills my heart with such joy that I have been humming all the merry songs I used to sing. It is long since I have done such a thing. What would it be if some lucky event sent us all back to Guernsey, never to leave it again ... or at least, not for a very long time! What enchantment, what a starlit dream, if God were to give us that bliss a second time! I think I should promptly return to the age I was when I received your first kiss. Fortunately for France, God will not grant this selfish wish, but He will forgive me for entertaining it I hope, for I cannot help loving you beyond everything in this world, and it does not hinder me from being satisfied with whatever happiness He is pleased J. Paris, My treasure, I pray God not to separate us in this life or the next. That is why I am anxious to be with you in the crowd that will rush to see and hear you at the cemetery to-day. J. Paris, I thank you with sacred emotion, my dear one, for your inclusion of me in the sublime and magnificent exordium you pronounced yesterday on the noble wife of Louis Blanc. I accept it without false modesty, J. Monday, 10 a.m., November 11th, 1878. No, my beloved, you have no right to endanger your precious health and risk your glorious life for nothing. “Art for art’s sake” is not permissible in your case, and we shall oppose it strenuously, even at the risk of curtailing your liberty. I am sorry, but there it is—you must make up your mind to it. There are plenty of useless men in this world who may waste their lives as they like, but you must guard and preserve yours for as long as it pleases God to grant it to you for the honour and happiness of humanity. So, my dear little man, I implore you not to repeat yesterday’s imprudence, or any other, for all our sakes, including your adorable grandchildren’s and mine whose health and life and soul you are. When I see you so careless of yourself I cannot help feeling you no longer love me, and that my continued presence is so wearisome to you that you want to be J. THE DEATHBED OF VICTOR HUGO. Victor Hugo Museum. A DEDICATION BY VICTOR HUGO TO JULIETTE DROUET. The writing reads thus: “A la Juliette de Victor Hugo, plus charmante et plus aimÉe que la Juliette de Shakespeare.” The original belongs to M. Louis Barthou.
Villequier, A double letter, my beloved; to-day’s and yesterday’s, which, for want of paper, pens and ink, I was not able to send you at the proper time, in spite of the inexhaustible fount of my love. This morning being better provided, I can let myself go in the happiness of being with you in the house of your respected friends, J. Paris, How beautiful, how grand, how divine!!! I have just finished that glorious reading, and am electrified by the elixir of your ardent poetry; my fainting soul clings to your mighty wings, to arrest its fall from the starry heights in which you plane, to the profound J. Paris, Beloved, Heaven decrees that in the absence of your dear departed souls, your sweet angels here below should be restored to you to-day. Let us bless Him with all reverence, and be solemnly happy with the memory of those who once made our felicity, and the kisses of your adorable grand-children, who constitute your present and future content. What joy it is to see them once more, lovelier than ever if possible, and in still better health. All night I listened to every sound, that I might be the first to welcome them on the threshold. I succeeded, and was repaid by their hugs. The sun shot forth its brightest beams in their honour. As for you, divine grandpapa, I trust your horrid cold will yield to the J. Paris, I come to fetch my heart where I left it, that is to say in yours. I return it to you, praying you not to bruise it over much by unjust and wounding tyrannies. My independent, proud nature has always borne them ill, and is now in revolt. I beg you beloved, not to constitute yourself the critic of my little personal needs. Whatever I may ask, I assure you I shall never exceed the bounds of necessity, and never will I take unfair advantage of your trust and generosity. The position you have given me in your household precludes me from placing myself at a disadvantage in the eyes of your guests by an appearance not in consonance with your means. Therefore, please, dear great man, leave it to my discretion to do honour to you as well as to myself. Besides, the little time I have to spend on earth is not worth haggling about. So, my great little man, let us be good to each other for the rest of the time God grants us to live side by side, and heart to heart. J. Paris, My dear beloved, I must first of all confess the fault (if it be one) I committed yesterday under J. Wednesday, 8 a.m., June 21st, 1882. Beloved, thank you for taking me to-day to the mournful and sweet rendez-vous of St. MandÉ. I feel as if my sorrow would be less bitter, kneeling at my child’s grave than when I am at a distance ... as if my soul could get closer to that of my little beloved, through the earth of her tomb, than J. Monday, January 1st, 1883. Dear adored one, I do not know where I may be this time next year, but I am proud and happy to sign my life-certificate for 1883 with this one word: I love you. Juliette.
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| A. LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE | |
| XIV. | Oh! n’insultez jamais (September 6th, 1835). |
| XXI. | Hier la nuit d’ÉtÉ (May 21st, 1835). |
| XXII. | Nouvelle chanson sur un vieil air (February 28th, 1834). |
| XXIII. | Autre chanson. |
| XXIV. | Oh! pour remplir de moi (September 19th, 1834). |
| XXV. | Puisque j’ai mis ma lÈvre (January 1st, 1835). |
| XXVI. | Or Mademoiselle J. (March 1st, 1835). |
| XXVII. | La pauvre fleur (December 7th, 1834). |
| XXVIII. | Au bord de la mer (October 7th, 1834). |
| XXIX. | Puisque nos heures sont remplies (February 19th, 1835). |
| XXXIII. | Dans l’Église de.... (October 25th, 1834). |
| XXXVI. | Puisque Mai tout en fleurs (May 21st, 1835). |
| B. LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES | |
| VI. | Oh! vivons disent-ils (March 4th, 1837). |
| VIII. | Venez que je vous parle (April 21st, 1837). |
| IX. | Pendant que la fenÊtre Était ouverte (February 26th, 1837). |
| XI. | Puisqu’ici-bas toute Âme (May 19th, 1836). |
| XVI. | PassÉ (April 1st, 1835). |
| XVII. | SoirÉe en mer (November 9th, 1836). |
| XII. | Or Ol ... (May 26th, 1837). |
| XXX. | Or Olympio (October 15th, 1835). |
| XXXI. | La tombe dit À la rose (June 3rd, 1837). |
| C. LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES | |
| XXII. | Guitare (March 14th, 1837). |
| XXIII. | Autre guitare (July 18th, 1838). |
| XXIV. | Quand tu me parles de gloire (October 12th, 1837). |
| XXVII. | Oh! quand je dors, viens auprÈs de ma couche (June 19th, 1839). |
| XXVIII. | A une jeune femme (May 16th, 1837). |
| XXV. | Or cette terre oÙ l’on ploie (May 20th, 1838). |
| XXXIII. | L’Ombre (March 1839). |
| XXXIV. | Tristesse d’Olympio (October 21st, 1837). |
| XLI. | Dieu qui sourit et qui donne (January 1st, 1840). |
BOOK-PLATE DESIGNED FOR JULIETTE DROUET BY VICTOR HUGO. The original belongs to M. Louis Barthou. BOOK-PLATE DESIGNED FOR JULIETTE DROUET BY VICTOR HUGO. The original belongs to M. Louis Barthou. | |
| D. LES CONTEMPLATIONS | |
| Book II | |
| II. | Mes vers faisaient doux et frÊles.... |
| V. | Hier au soir |
| XIII. | Viens, une flute invisible |
| XV. | Parole dans l’ombre |
| XVII. | Sous les arbres |
| XX. | Il fait froid |
| XXI. | Il lui disait: Vois-tu, si tous deux nous pouvions |
| XXIII. | AprÈs l’hiver |
| XXIV. | Que le sort quel qu’il soit vous trouve toujours grande |
| XXV. | Je respire oÙ tu palpites |
| XXVII. | Oui, va prier À l’Église |
| XXVIII. | Un soir que je regardais le ciel |
| Book V | |
| XIV. | Claire P.... |
| XXIV. | J’ai cueilli cette fleur pour toi sur la colline |
| Book VI | |
| VIII. | Claire |
| E. TOUTE LA LYRE | |
| Book VI. L’amour | |
| I. | Lorsque ma main frÉmit |
| II. | Oh, si vous existez, mon ange, mon gÉnie (March 10th, 1833). |
| III. | Vois-tu, mon ange, il faut accepter nos douleurs (January 1st, 1835). |
| IV. | Vous m’avez ÉprouvÉ (June 23rd, 1843). |
| XV. | Étapes du coeur. |
| VII. | A J—— et |
| IX. | Qu’est-ce que cette annÉe emporte |
| XVII. | N’est-ce pas mon amour |
| XXXI. | Oh dis, te souviens-tu de cet heureux dimanche |
| XXXIV. | Garde À jamais dans ta mÉmoire |
| XXXVI. | A une immortelle |
| XLVII. | Quand deux coeurs en s’aimant |
Les Belles femmes de Paris, par une sociÉtÉ de gens de lettres et de gens du monde, Paris, 1839.
Edmond BirÉ: Victor Hugo aprÈs 1830. Paris, 1879.
Alfred Asseline: Victor Hugo intime. Paris, 1885.
Richard Levelide: Propos de table de Victor Hugo. Paris, 1885.
Gustave Rivet: Victor Hugo chez lui. Paris, 1885.
Tristan Legay: Les amours de Victor Hugo. Paris, 1901.
Louis Guimbaud: Victor Hugo et Juliette Drouet in La Contemporaine of February 25th and March 10th, 1902.
LÉon SÉchÉ: Juliette Drouet in the Revue de Paris of February 1st, 1903.
Wellington Wack: The Story of Juliette and Victor Hugo. London and Paris (no date, about 1906).
Juana Richard Levelide: Victor Hugo intime. Paris, 1907.
Hector Fleischmann: Une MaÎtresse de Victor Hugo. Paris, 1912.
Jean Pierre Barbier: Juliette Drouet, Sa Vie, son Oeuvre. Paris, 1913.
“Juliette Drouet in 1827.” Statuette by ChaponniÈre. Only one proof is known to us; it belongs to M. Daniel Baux Bovy, ex-curator of the MusÉe de GenÈve.
“Juliette Drouet in 1830.” Portrait in oils by Champmartin (MusÉe Victor Hugo).
“Juliette Drouet as Princesse NÉgronie.” Coloured engraving in the Martini series.
“Juliette Drouet.” Engraving by LÉon MaËl, in L’Artiste, 1832.
“Juliette Drouet in 1846.” Plaster bust by Victor Vilain (MusÉe Victor Hugo).
“Juliette Drouet at Jersey and Guernsey.” Numerous photographs belonging to Messrs. Blaizot and PlanÈs.
“Juliette Drouet in 1882.” Drawing by Vuillaume in Le Monde IllustrÉ of December 15th, 1882.
“Juliette Drouet in 1883.” Portrait in oils by Bastien Lepage; exhibited in the Salon, 1883; now included in the Pereira Collection.
A, B, C, D, F, G, H, J, K, L, M, O, P, Q, R, T, V, W.
Alix, Mademoiselle, 267
Anges, Mother des, 5
Bernardines, BÉnÉdictines of Perpetual Adoration, 3
Bertin, Monsieur, 33
Biard, Madame, 245
Blanc, Madame Louis, 303
Constance, Mademoiselle, 253
DÉmousseaux, Madame, 218
Dorval, Madame, 12, 49, 142
Drouet, Juliette:
Her birthplace, 1
Childhood, 3
Becomes Pradier’s mistress, 8
Gives birth to a daughter, 8
Enters theatrical world, 9
Meets Victor Hugo, 13
Plays Princesse Negroni, 17
Falls in love with Victor Hugo, 23
Denial of imaginary offences, 119
After her first visit to 6, Place Royale, 121
Works on Les Feuilles d’Automne, 123
Suggests leaving Victor Hugo, 125
Her fears for the future, 127
Her landlord threatens to evict her, 131
Farewell for ever, 132
Leaves Victor Hugo, 30
Asks for forgiveness, 135
Four hours before the production of AngÉlo, 143
An hour after the triumph of AngÉlo, 144
The house at Metz, 36
Letters from Metz, 155
Her request for a portrait, 171
Lawsuit of Victor Hugo against the ComÉdie FranÇaise, 186
Cash accounts, 188
Removes to Rue St. Anastase, 46
Alluding to the revival of Hernani, 189
Revival of Marion de Lorme, 192
Cast for the Queen in Ruy Blas, 199
Comments on Didine, 212
Letter written after the catastrophe in which Victor Hugo’s eldest daughter and his son-in-law perished, 227
Comments on a speech on deportation, 243
Letters from Brussels, 251-283
Residence in Jersey and Guernsey, 84
Letters from Jersey, 256
Letters from Guernsey, 265-286
Letters from Paris, 290
Death 114
Her last letter, 310
Drouet, RenÉ Henri, 2
FougÈres, 1
Gauvain, Julienne JosÉphine. See Drouet, Juliette
Georges, Mademoiselle, 11, 12, 143
Granier de Cassagnac, 198
GuÉrard, Madame, 184
Hilaire, Monsieur St., 228
Hugo, Charles, 92;
death, 105
Hugo, FranÇois, 92, 293
Hugo, Victor (see also Drouet, Juliette)
Meets Juliette, 13
Revival of Hernani, 57
Becomes an Academician, 62, 216
His opening speech, 65
Lives at Jersey and Guernsey, 94
Elected a member of the AssemblÉe Nationale, 105
Hugo, Madame Victor, 16
Juliette, Mademoiselle. See Drouet, Juliette
Kraftt, Madame, 133
Lespinasse, Mademoiselle de, 187
Lockroy, Madame, 309
Luthereau, Madame, 86
Luxembourg, 67
Maxime, Mademoiselle, 226
Mechtilde, Mother Ste., 5
MÉnard, Madame, 301
Meurice, Paul, 104
Pierceau, Madame, 144, 218
Pradier, Claire, 69;
death, 82
Pradier, James, 7;
makes Juliette his mistress, 8;
writes to Juliette, 73, 123
Tudor, Marie, 137
Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
THE PRINCESS MATHILDE BONAPARTE
By Philip W. Sergeant, Author of “The Last Empress of the French,” etc.
Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 16/-net.
Princess Mathilde Bonaparte, the niece of the great Emperor, died only ten years ago. She was the first serious passion of her cousin, the Emperor Napoleon III, and she might have been, if she had wished, Empress of the French. Instead, she preferred to rule for half a century over a salon in Paris, where, although not without fault, she was known as “the good princess.”
FROM JUNGLE TO ZOO
By Ellen Velvin, F.Z.S., Author of “Behind the Scenes with Wild Animals,” etc.
Large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, with many remarkable photographs, 6/-net.
A fascinating record of the many adventures to which wild animals and their keepers are subject from the time the animals are captured until their final lodgment in Zoo or menagerie. The author has studied wild animals for sixteen years, and writes from personal knowledge. The book is full of exciting stories and good descriptions of the methods of capture, transportation and caging of savage animals, together with accounts of their tricks, training, and escapes from captivity.
THE ADMIRABLE PAINTER: A study of Leonardo da Vinci
By A. J. Anderson, Author of “The Romance of Fra Filippo Lippi,” “His Magnificence,” etc.
Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 10/6 net.
In this book we find Leonardo da Vinci to have been no absorbed, religious painter, but a man closely allied to every movement of the brilliant age in which he lived. Leonardo jotted down his thoughts in his notebooks and elaborated them with his brush, in the modelling of clay, or in the planning of canals, earthworks and flying-machines. These notebooks form the groundwork of Mr. Anderson’s fascinating study, which gives us a better understanding of Leonardo, the man, as well as the painter, than was possible before.
WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTIONARY ERA
By Lieut.-Col. Andrew C. P. Haggard, D.S.O., Author of “Remarkable Women of France, 1431-1749,” etc.
Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 16/-net.
Lieut.-Col. Haggard has many times proved that history can be made as fascinating as fiction. Here he deals with the women whose more or less erratic careers influenced, by their love of display, the outbreak which culminated in the Reign of Terror. Most of them lived till after the beginning of the Revolution, and some, like Marie Antoinette, ThÉroigne de MÉricourt and Madame Roland, were sucked down in the maelstrom which their own actions had intensified.
THE MEMOIRS OF THE DUKE de ST. SIMON
Newly translated and edited by Francis Arkwright.
In six volumes, demy 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, with illustrations in photogravure, 10/6 net each volume. (Volumes I. and II. are now ready.)
No historian has ever succeeded in placing scenes and persons so vividly before the eyes of his readers as did the Duke de St. Simon. He was a born observer; his curiosity was insatiable; he had a keen insight into character; he knew everybody, and has a hundred anecdotes to relate of the men and women he describes. He had a singular knack of acquiring the confidential friendship of men in high office, from whom he learnt details of important state affairs. For a brief while he served as a soldier. Afterwards his life was passed at the Court of Louis XIV, where he won the affectionate intimacy of the Duke of Orleans and the Duke of Burgundy. St. Simon’s famous Memoirs have recently been much neglected in England, owing to the mass of unnecessary detail overshadowing the marvellously fascinating chronicle beneath. In this edition, however, they have been carefully edited and should have an extraordinarily wide reception.
BY THE WATERS OF GERMANY
By Norma Lorimer, Author of “A Wife out of Egypt,” etc. With a Preface by Douglas Sladen.
Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, with a coloured frontispiece and 16 other illustrations by Margaret Thomas and Erna Michel, 12/6 net.
This fascinating travel-book describes the land of the Rhine and the Black Forest, at the present time so much the centre of public interest. The natural and architectural beauties of Germany are too supreme for even the sternest German-hater to deny; and this book describes them and the land around them well. But apart from the love-story which Miss Lorimer has weaved into the book, a particularly great interest attaches to her description of the home life of the men who, since she saw them, have deserved and received the condemnation of the whole civilized world.
BY THE WATERS OF SICILY
By Norma Lorimer, Author of “By the Waters of Germany,” etc.
New and Cheaper Edition, reset from new type, Large Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, with a coloured frontispiece and 16 other illustrations, 6/-.
This book, the predecessor of “By the Waters of Germany,” was called at the time of its original publication “one of the most original books of travel ever published.” It had at once a big success, but for some time it has been quite out of print. Full of the vivid colour of Sicilian life, it is a delightfully picturesque volume, half travel-book, half story; and there is a sparkle in it, for the author writes as if glad to be alive in her gorgeously beautiful surroundings.
