Paris, March 12, 1844.

That is all right. As if I had not vexations enough of every kind! A hundred calls to make! A library which orders me to write and discuss forty pages of prose matter! Proofs to correct! It seems to me that, knowing all this, you might at least send me a few lines of encouragement. I have almost reached the end of my courage, and of my patience. Fortunately, it will all end next Thursday.[9] Thursday, at one o’clock, I shall become once more an ordinary biped. In the meantime, is it too much to ask you to send me a few words of affection, such as you found to say the last time I saw you? It is three o’clock, and I must leave you for my proofs of Mademoiselle ArsÈne Guillot. Monday, or, rather, Tuesday.