Paris, Tuesday night, November 22, 1843.

I have learned on good authority of your exhaustion. It is the reaction from a moral to a physical attitude of obstinacy. It is difficult for me to believe that your wilfulness is altogether involuntary. Even if it were so, you would be in the wrong. What is the result? By giving ungraciously, the sacrifice that you are making is deprived of all its merit. You suffer from the pain of this sacrifice all the more keenly because you have not the consolation of knowing that it is appreciated. In your own words, you are suffering a double remorse. I have told you this more than once. You accuse me of injustice, but I think the reproach undeserved. You do not judge me fairly.

It is true that we have such different temperaments, especially such different points of view, that we can never be able to agree in judgment. I have tried not to give way to anger, with but poor success, I fear, and I ask your forgiveness. At the same time, I have made some improvement, you will admit. Why do you wish to dispute the subject: “Which one loves the better?” The first thing to do would be to agree on the meaning of the verb, and that we shall never do. We are both too ignorant ever to be of accord, especially too ignorant one of the other. I have thought several times that I understood you, but you have always eluded me. I was right when I said you were like Cerberus: three gentlemen at once.

I am never sure whether your head or your heart is in the ascendant; you yourself do not know, but you decide always in favour of the head. It is better to quarrel than not to see each other. This seems to be the only thing entirely demonstrated. When shall we quarrel again? Do not forget that Friday is my reception day. During the last four days I have embraced about thirty of my fellow-members, principally those who, having promised me their support, have broken their word.[8]