March 17, 1844.

I thank you for your congratulations, but I want something more. I want to see you, and take a long walk. I think you have taken the matter too tragically. Why do you weep? The forty seats were not worth one little tear. I am exhausted, used up, demoralised, and completely out of my wits. Besides this, ArsÈne Guillot made a notorious fiasco, and raised against me a storm of indignation of all the so-called virtuous people, especially of the fashionable women who dance the polka and go to hear the sermons of P. Ravignan. At all events, it was reported that I behave like the monkeys, who climb to the top of the trees, and then, from the uppermost branch, make grimaces at the world beneath them. I am sure that this scandalous story has cost me many votes; but I have won them from another side. There are certain members who black-balled me seven times and who now assure me that they were my warmest partisans. Do you not think that all this is well worth the trouble of lying, especially for the goodwill I bear these people? This world in which I have lived almost exclusively for the last two weeks makes me wish all the more ardently to see you. We, at least, are sure of each other, and when you tell me fibs I can scold you for them, and you know how to win my forgiveness. Love me, venerable as I have become during the last three days.