We will talk of that, for I am going to see you; I can promise you that; I shall be, beyond a doubt, out of all condition to write for several months, in consequence of fatigue. I am now preparing the drama of "Vautrin" in five acts, at the Porte-Saint-Martin. I am finishing "Le Curé de Village;" idem "Sœur Marie des Anges;" idem "Les Paysans;" idem "Les Petites Misères de la Vie conjugale;" idem "Pierrette," dedicated to your dear Anna; idem "La Frélore."
When all that is done, if I do not have a brain-fever, I shall be on the Berlin road, to divert my mind, and I shall go as far as Dresden. And one does not go to see the Dresden Madonna without keeping on to see the Saint of Wierzchownia.
November 2.
I have had frightful troubles about which I cannot write you a word; it would be suffering them twice over. I was on the point of wanting food and lights and paper. I have been hunted like a hare, worse than a hare, by sheriffs. I am here, alone, at Les Jardies. My mother is much distressed. I alone am in the secret of the future. I see, within two months, events which will carry me onward in the difficult path of liberation.
I work so fast that I cannot tell you of what I am doing. You will read later a little pearl, the "Princesse Parisienne," who is the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse at thirty-seven years of age. You have not yet received, I think, "Un Grand homme de Province à Paris," which is not only a book but a great action, and, above all, courageous. The howls of the press continue.
But now, exhausted by so many struggles, I am going to give myself up to that delightful composition, "Sœur Marie des Anges,"—human love leading up to divine love.
"Pierrette" is one of those tender flowers of melancholy which are certain in advance of success. As the book is for Anna I will not tell you anything about it, but leave you the pleasure of surprise.
December, 1839.
You see me stupefied. I find a letter which I join to this one. I thought it posted, but, in the midst of my turmoil, it was slipped under the papers of "Pierrette." In finishing "Pierrette" and clearing up my desk, I found it, when I thought it was in your hands! I now understand why you have not written to me. You think me dead and buried, or something.