Paris, February, 1843.

It has happened often during my life to do reluctantly things which I have been afterwards very glad to have done. I hope that you may have the same experience. Suppose the contrary had occurred, would you not have felt some impatience for having come alone? Would you not have suffered some distress (let me believe you would) for having caused me sorrow?

Do you now recall with pride that strange influence which you have twice exerted on my thoughts and on my resolutions? The only mistake made has been to feel a little uncertainty. Are you not astonished, as I am, with that strange coincidence (I shall not say sympathy, for fear of offending you) of our thoughts? Do you recollect that on a former occasion we had an experience almost as miraculous? and more recently still, beside a stove in the Spanish Museum, you read my thoughts as quickly as they came into my mind? For a long time I have suspected something of the diabolical in you, but I am reassured somewhat, remembering that I have seen both your feet, and neither one is a cloven foot. It may be, however, that you have concealed beneath those little boots a tiny hoof. I beg you to relieve my suspense.

Good-bye. Here is the book of which I spoke.