Thursday night, March 1, 1843.

I was very much afraid I should not be able to see you Saturday, when I had been promising myself to give you a good scolding for your indifference the other day. But I have succeeded in overcoming all the obstacles. So, then, Saturday. It is a long time since we have had a falling out. Do you not think this very pleasant, and greatly preferable to the quarrels we used to have, the only benefit of which was our reconciliations? You still have one fault, however, that of making yourself so scarce. We see each other hardly once in a fortnight. Each time there seems to be a new crust of ice to be broken. Why do I not find you again just as you were when I left you? If we met oftener this would not happen. To you I am like an old opera which you must needs forget in order to hear it again with any pleasure. I, on the contrary, would love you better, I think, were I to see you every day. Prove to me that I am wrong, and appoint a day in the near future when I may see you.

My fate at the Academy will be decided March 14. Reason tells me to hope, but some vague feeling of presentiment tells me just the opposite. In the meanwhile, I am making calls most conscientiously. People are extremely polite, perfectly accustomed to the parts they are playing, and taking them seriously. I am doing my very best to take mine equally seriously, but that is difficult for me to accomplish. Do you not think it comical that some one should say to a man, “Monsieur, I consider myself one among the forty of the most intellectual men in France—I am quite your equal,” and other remarks equally as facetious? Of course, this must be said in a variety of ways, according to the person to whom I speak. This is my occupation at present, and if it lasts much longer I shall be perfectly exhausted. The 14th corresponds to the Ides of March, the day when my hero, the late Caesar, died. This is ominous, is it not?