Paris, Friday morning, November 3, 1843.

Is it possible that you mean all you write me? What, then, is this strange diffidence which prevents you from being frank, and which makes you try to invent the most extraordinary lies, rather than let escape from you one word of truth, which would please me so much to hear? Among the good sentiments of which you speak there is one, you say, that I do not understand; and, since you do not try to make me understand it, I am unable even to guess it. I confess I am no more clever with the two others.

Do you believe in the devil? To my mind the whole thing hinges on that. If you are afraid of him, take care that he does not carry you off. If, as I imagine, the devil is out of the question in this case, it remains only to inquire whether one harms or wrongs some one else. I am telling you my catechism. I think it is better than yours, but I will not vouch for it. I have never made an effort to convert any one, but neither has any one, to the present time, been able to convert me. You reproach yourself, moreover, much more severely than I have ever reproached you. Sometimes, ‘tis true, I yield to sadness and impatience; but I accuse you with nothing, except occasionally that lack of frankness which keeps me in an attitude of almost continual suspicion, forced as I am to seek for your meaning under a disguise. If I were convinced of the truth of what you said the other day I should be very unhappy, for I could not bear to make you suffer. You see, however, that from saying sometimes one thing, sometimes another, you make me doubt everything. I no longer know what you think, what you feel. For once, at least, write to me openly.