Wednesday night, January, 1843.

I have been waiting all day for a letter from you. I thought the pavements dry enough, and the sky bright. But it appears that now you must have sunshine like that of last Thursday. Besides, I am sure you needed a long time to compose the letter which I received a while ago. It is made up of blame and threats, all very gracefully expressed, as you understand how to do. In the first place, I must thank you for your frankness, to which I will reply with a frankness equal to your own.

To begin with the reproaches, I think you make a great deal out of nothing. You have brooded over the affair until it has assumed an importance that does not belong to it, so that you have succeeded in making what even you yourself call frivolities a star-chamber matter.

There is but one point which is worth the trouble of an explanation. You speak to me of precedents, as if you believe that I am scheming with all the patience and Machiavellianism of an old cabinet minister to establish them. Refer a little to your memory, and you will see that nothing is farther from the truth. If it were necessary to discuss the question of precedents, I might mention that of the salon in the rue Saint HonorÉ the first time I saw you again; then our first visit to the Louvre, which came near costing me an eye. It all seemed a simple enough matter at the time, but now it is another thing. You must have discovered that sometimes I act upon impulse, but that I give it up as soon as I realise that you are displeased; more frequently, however, my impulses are limited to thoughts rather than to acts. Enough said concerning reproaches and precedents.

As to your threats, be assured that I am keenly alive to them; and, although fearing them greatly, nevertheless I can not forbear telling you once more all that I think. Nothing would be easier than to make you promises, but I feel that it would be impossible for me to keep them. Be satisfied, then, to go on as we have in the past, or else let us stop seeing each other.

I must tell you that even the obstinacy with which you set yourself in opposition to these frivolities, as you call them, renders them all the dearer to me, and makes me attach to them a new importance. This seems to be the only proof that you are able to give me of your feelings towards me. If I must resist the most innocent temptations in order to see you, it is a saint’s labour which surpasses my strength. It would be, unquestionably, a great pleasure to see you, but the condition of transforming myself into a statue, like that king in the Thousand and One Nights, is insupportable to me.

We have now come to a clear understanding with each other. You shall decide, according to your wisdom, whether we are to postpone our next walk several thousand years, or to the first bright day. You see I do not accept your advice to practise hypocrisy. You knew beforehand that this would be impossible. The only hypocrisy of which I am capable is to conceal from the people I love all the pain they cause me. I can sustain this effort for some time, but not forever. When you receive this letter, it will have been a week since we met.

If you persist in your threats, write to me promptly. This will be on your part a favour which I shall appreciate.