Those who cannot understand this will still less understand my vague poetic longings at the scent of a lovely rose, the sight of a beautiful harp. Estelle was the rose that bloomed alone, Henriette the harp that shared my music, my joys, my sorrows and of which alas! I snapped so many, many strings!
To Louis Berlioz.
“October 1854.—I am sad this morning, dear Louis. I dreamt that we were walking—you and I—in the garden at La Côte, and not knowing exactly where you are, my dream troubles me.
“I have some news that will not, I think, surprise you. Two months ago I married again.
“I could not live alone, neither could I desert the woman who, for fourteen years, has been my companion.
“My uncle and all my friends agree with me.
“I need not tell you that your interests are safe. If I die first my wife will have but a quarter of my small fortune and even that I know she intends to leave to you.
“If you still have any painful thoughts of Mademoiselle Recio I know you will hide them for my sake.
“We were married very quietly without fuss or mystery. If you mention this in your letters, write nothing that I cannot show to my wife; I must have no cloud in my home. But your own heart will tell you what to do.
“Admiral Cécile tells me he has received your letter. You cannot enter the Marines until the end of your three years’ cruise.