VÉzelay, August 8, 1843, at night.

I thank you for having written a word to me before my departure. It is the kind intention that has pleased me, not what your letter tells me. You say such extraordinary things. If you mean half of what you say it would be the wisest course for us not to meet again. The affection which you have for me is only a sort of mental pastime. You are all intellect. You are one of those chilly women of the North who are governed only by the mind. There are things I could say to you, but you would not understand. I prefer to assure you again of my sincere regret for having caused you pain. It was entirely unintentional, and I hope you will forgive me. Our temperaments are as unlike as our stamina. How can it be helped? You may divine my thoughts sometimes, but you will never be able to understand them.

Here I am in this horrible little town, perched on the top of a mountain, bored to death by the townspeople, and hard at work on a speech that I am to make to-morrow. I am in politics, and you know me well enough to realise how odious I find the business of a political campaign.

For consolation, I have a most congenial travelling companion, and an admirable church to look upon. The first time I saw this church was soon after having seen you at.... I asked myself to-day whether we were more foolish then than we are now.

What is certain is that we had formed, probably, a very different impression of each other from the one we have to-day. If we had known then how often we should quarrel, do you suppose we would have cared to meet again? It is frightfully cold, with rain and lightning at intervals. I have a ream of official prose to spin off, and will leave you all the more cheerfully because the things I should write to you are not particularly affectionate. It is, however, the force of circumstances that irritates me most.

I go to Dijon in a few days. It would please me if you would write to me there, especially if your pen could find something less cruel to write than it did last time. You can not form an idea of one of our evenings at the inn. One of the most charming plans of which I have thought is to go somewhere in Italy to spend the time that must intervene between my political tour and the trip to Algiers. You, I fancy, are thinking of some way to be in the country when I return to Paris. What will be the result of all these plans?

As I was leaving Paris I met M. de Saulcy, who had just received a letter from Metz. Your brother was spoken of in the highest terms, which is very gratifying to those who recommended him. I should have written this earlier but for the thousand and one annoyances incident to my departure.

Good-bye. I believe this little talk with you has made me feel better. If I had more paper, and not so many reports to prepare, I think I might be capable now of saying something affectionate. As you are aware, my attacks of temper usually end in that way.

At Dijon, General Delivery, and do not forget my titles and degrees!