Plauchut is still at Nohant, I suppose. Tell him I love him after seeing him weep so bitterly.
And let your own tears flow freely, my dear friend! Do not try to console yourself—it would be almost impossible. Some day you will find within yourself a deep and sweet certainty that you were always a good son, and that she knew it well. She spoke of you as a blessing.
And after you shall have joined her once more, and after the great-grandchildren of the grandchildren of your two little daughters also shall have rejoined her, and when for a long time people have ceased to talk of the things and the persons that surround us at present—in some centuries to come—there will still be hearts that will palpitate at her words! People will read her books, will ponder over her thoughts, will love as she loved.
But all that does not give her back to you! With what shall we sustain ourselves, then, if pride fails us, and what man can feel more of that for his mother than yourself?
Now, my dear friend, adieu! When shall we meet again? For I feel an insatiable desire to talk of her!
Embrace Madame Maurice for me, as I embraced her on the stairs at Nohant, also your little ones.
Yours, from the depths of my heart.
TO GUY DE MAUPASSANT.
Night of August 28, 1876.
Your letter has rejoiced me, young man! But I advise you to moderate yourself, in the interest of literature.