Thursday night, February, 1843.

In vain have I tried to find in your last letter some excuse to be angry with you, for even anger would be a relief. I have burned your letter, but I remember it only too distinctly. It was very sensible, too sensible, perhaps, but very kind also. For a week I have had such a strong desire to see you, that I have even brought myself to the point of regretting our quarrels. I am writing to you now, and do you know why? Because you will not reply, and that will make me furious, and anything is preferable to the despondency in which you have left me. Nothing is more absurd; we were perfectly right to say farewell.

You and I understand so thoroughly the meaning of reason, that we should act in the most reasonable way possible. But after all, happiness is found only in folly and in dreams. It is strange, but I never believed, until this last time, that our quarrels could be serious. But it is now ten days since we parted in such a solemn manner that I am terrified. Were we more angry than usual, more clear-sighted? and did we love each other less? There was between us that day something, certainly, which I do not remember distinctly, but which had never existed before.

It never rains but it pours. At the same time that we parted, my cousin changed his day at the Opera, so I shall not meet you there in future on Thursdays. I recall, also, that you predicted, prophetically, that I should forget you for the Academy, and it was before the Academy that we said good-bye. All this is very silly, but it haunts me, and I am dying to see you, were it only that we might quarrel.

Shall I send you this letter? I have not quite decided. I went yesterday, on the strength of a Greek verse, to Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. Do you remember when we used to understand each other?

Good-bye. Write to me. I feel a little comforted from having written to you.