My adored Victor, it is more than five o’clock, and you have not yet come. What shall I do! What can I think, or rather what am I to fear? We are in a terrible cycle of misfortune, and God only knows when it will end. My Victor, before giving way to despair, think of mine, remember that I love you more than life.
Juliette.
Sunday, 5.45 p.m., October 8th, 1843.
I have been working all the morning my beloved, or rather scribbling on paper—only to please you, for I doubt whether my labour will be of any use to you; still, I am trying hard, and if I cannot do better, I am doing my best. I cannot do more. I am trying more especially to forget no detail, which makes me occasionally note down trivialities, little futile, insignificant things. My search among our memories is like the botanising of a child who is as apt to collect couch grass as the more useful and rarer plants. However, I am doing my best, and better still, I am obeying you. Would you believe that, although I have been writing the whole day, I have not yet reached Auch.[90] My mind and pen rather resemble the fantastic equipage we drove thither, but there is less risk in the present venture. The worst that can happen is that we should tumble promiscuously into a muck heap of absurdities and nonsense which leave no bruises, whereas we risked our necks several times in the course of the thirty-three miles between Tarbes and Auch.
I should love to see you, my Toto. The day, though filled with joyous recollections of our journey, has seemed long and sad to me. Nothing can take the place of one of your embraces. The remembrance of the greatest happiness cannot weigh against one glance from you. I realise it more to-day than ever before; therefore, do try and come, my beloved Toto. It will give me courage and patience to get through the evening. I love you too much, you see, but I cannot help it; it is no fault of mine.
Juliette.
Sunday, 7.15 p.m., November, 1843.
I think of you my beloved, I desire you, I love you. Ah yes, I love you my adored Toto, you may be sure of it, for it is God’s truth. My little Claire and I talk of you and nothing but you. We love you and bless you. The poor little child will not be with me much longer, and I can already see her poor little face wrinkling up with sorrow; but I try to be cheerful and to remind her of the fortnight’s holiday which will soon come. We love the pictures of your dear little Toto, and his pretty home. We gaze at them with eagerness and affection, we are all eyes and heart. At this moment Claire is reading Ulric’s poems,[91] while I am writing to my beloved Toto with a heart full of gratitude and devotion. May the happiness you bestow upon me, be yours also, my love! May a just pride sustain you, for you have saved two souls, the mother’s and the daughter’s! I feel ineffable things I dare not express, for fear of vulgarising them by the mere fact of putting them into words. Do not delay long ere you come, my darling Toto. If you knew the joy and radiance you diffuse in this house, you would indeed hasten your steps. Alas, I am foolish, for have you not children of your own whom you must also make glad! I am envious of them, but not cruel enough to deprive them of their bliss—only I beg of them to hurry with their enjoyment, so that my turn may come.
Did you give Dédé the sachet? Did Toto take back his quince jelly? Meanwhile, I am giving Suzanne a whole evening to herself, and making my little rogue read Le Musée des Familles. I should love to give you a good kiss, but I know you will not come for it. You have not the sense to do so.
Juliette.