Toulouse, August 18, 1845.

I have just found your letter at this place, which is very fortunate, indeed, for I was furious not to have any news from you at Poitiers, as I had expected. You will say, in reply, that I had no business to expect you to think of me sooner than you have done. How could I help it? I can not become accustomed to your ways. You are never so near forgetting me as when you have tried to persuade me that you were thinking of me. Happily for me, between these periods of forgetfulness there are oases of recollections, and it is of these that I think without ceasing.

I see none of those beautiful grottoes of which you tell me, and have no need of them in order that my mind should be filled with thoughts both sad and gay. When it comes to scenery, I am not hard to please, as you know very well. When out walking with you I pay no attention to the scenery.

I should like to flatter you as you ask me to do, but I am in too bad a humour. For two weeks I have been in a continuous rage, first with the weather, then with the architects, and finally with you and myself. The weather, which has been abominable all this time, cleared unexpectedly yesterday, but the heat is now overpowering, accompanied by a sirocco, which is most exhausting to the vitality. I spent twenty-four hours at the home of a representative, and if I had ever had the ambition to be a politician, that visit would have caused me to change my mind. What an occupation! What kinds of people one must visit, and be on good terms with, and flatter! I will say with Hotspur: “I had rather be a kitten and cry mew.” If one must be a slave, I prefer the court of a despot: most despots, at least, wash their hands.

I regret to learn that you were starting so late for D., which means, I fear, that it will be an age before you return. What enables me to endure my present occupation with patience is the thought that upon my return I shall see you again standing beside the lions of the Institute, and that after you have plagued me to death for a quarter of an hour you will make me forget all my troubles. How long shall you remain at D.? This is what I am now anxious to know.

You will go, very likely, to England, and Lady M. will once more expound all her beautiful theories about the baseness of falling in love. I should like to be sure that yours would be the first friendly face to greet me on my return. Unfortunately, this can not be, and you will wait until every leaf has fallen before returning to Paris. God only knows if you will not come back three-quarters an Englishwoman. Give me your promise that this will not be, that you will try not to stay away too long, and that you will not be any worse on your return than you are now. You are well enough as you are.

Write to me at Montpellier, from which place I am going to bring you a hand-bag. Write again to Avignon. I am planning my time so that I shall return September 20. This will be difficult to accomplish, but I hope to succeed in it.

Good-bye. Your letter ends very nicely, but why do you never speak to me in the way you sometimes write?