Paris, Sunday evening, December.

Your letter did not surprise me in the least. I was expecting it. I know you well enough now to be sure that when you have had a kind thought you are sure to repent of it, and try to have it forgotten as promptly as possible. You understand very well, too, how to sugar-coat the most bitter pills. I owe you this in justice. As I am not as strong as you, I can say nothing to overcome your heroic resolution not to return to the Museum. I am confident that you will do exactly as you please; only, I hope that in a month from now you will be more charitably inclined towards me. Perhaps, after all, you are right. There is a Spanish proverb which says: Entre santa y santo, pared de cal y canto.

You compare me to the devil. I observed Tuesday evening that I did not pay attention enough to my dull old books, and too much to your gloves and boots. But, notwithstanding all you tell me with your diabolical spirit of coquetry, I do not believe that you fear any repetition at the Museum of our past folly. Frankly, this is what I think of you, and how I explain your refusal: you like to have some indistinct target for your coquetry, and that target is I. You do not wish to come too close to it, because, in the first place, if you should fail to strike it your vanity would suffer too much; and again, if you should see it too distinctly, you would discover that it was not worth aiming at. Have I guessed it correctly? I wished, the other day, to ask when I might see you again, and perhaps if I had insisted you would have named a day. Then I thought that after you had said Yes you would write me No, and that this would have distressed and angered me.

I continue to speak to you with the most absurd frankness, but my example makes no impression at all upon you.