To Madame Massart.
“Paris, 15th September 1865.—Good afternoon, madame. How are you, and how is Massart?
“I am quite at sea, not finding you here.
“I have come back from Geneva just as ill as I went.
“At first I was better, but after a little the pain came again worse than ever.
“How lucky you are to be free from such trouble! Having a moment’s respite, I use it in writing to you.”
“You will either laugh, saying—or say, laughing, ‘Why write to me?’
“Probably you would rather that this preposterous idea had not entered my head, but there it is, and, if you find it mistimed, you have the remedy in your own hands—not to answer.
“All the same, the inner meaning of my letter is—to extract one from you. If only you could conceive the frightful impetuosity with which one bores oneself in Paris!
“I am alone, more than alone. I hear never a note of music—nothing but gibberish to right of me, gibberish to left of me. When will you be back? When shall I hear you play a sonata again? I often talked of you in Geneva, where I was petted, spoilt—and scolded a little, too.