Juliette.
Wednesday, 12.30, February 6th, 1850.
Think of me, my adored one, and do not permit yourself to be ensnared by the mercenary blandishments of that woman.[98] I am in the throes of a jealousy so terrible, that the hardest heart would be moved to pity, and the most intrepid would fear me; for I am suffering, and I am capable of anything to avenge a despicable treachery. Alas, my poor adored one, this is not what I should like to say, or what I ought to say. I realise that threats are powerless to hold you. I believe if the statistics of infidelity could be drawn up like those of crime, it would be shown that the severe penalties of the code of love are more apt to drive lovers into breaches of its laws than to bind them together. I am sure of it, and I wish I could convert my natural ferocity into bland indifference, in order to remove from you the stimulant of a forbidden Rachel; but it is no good—I shall never manage it. Therefore, I implore you for the sake of your personal safety and mine, to be honourable and prudent in your dramatic relations with that dangerous and perfidious Jewess. Try not to prolong your literary and theatrical consultation beyond the strictly necessary limits, and to come and fetch me before three o’clock.
I should be so grateful to you, my adored little man, for you would thus abridge the moments of my torment. Meanwhile I am very unhappy and anxious and worried. I try to hearten myself up by remembering the last promises you made me. When do you intend to keep them, I wonder? God knows!
Juliette.
Saturday, 8 a.m., April 6th, 1850.
Good morning, my adored one, my sublime beloved. How are you? Did you have a better night, or did fatigue and excitement prevent you from sleeping? When I think of the admirable speech, so religious in character, so noble, self-abnegating, and conciliating, that you delivered yesterday[99] at the risk of your health, and then reflect upon the senseless uproar, and idiotic and violent interruptions it provoked, I feel only hatred, contempt, and disgust, for political life. It is revolting that a man like you should be the butt of the irresponsibility of all the parties. It is hateful, abominable, infamous, that scoundrels without talent, wit, or feeling should dare argue with you and should be accorded an attentive hearing where you only meet with insults. Really, my treasure, the more I see of political life, the more I regret the time when you were simply the poet Victor Hugo, my sublime love, my radiant lover. I revere your courage and devotion, but I am hurt in my tenderest feelings when I see you delivered over to the beasts of an arena a thousand times less discriminating than that of ancient Rome. Therefore, my beloved Victor, I have conceived a loathing, not only for your antagonists, but also for the form of government which imposes this Sisyphus life upon you. If I had the power to change it, I can assure you I should not hesitate, even if I had to deprive you for ever of your rights of citizenship. Unfortunately, I can do nothing beyond cordially detesting those who obstruct your work. I pity you, bless you, admire you, and love you with all my soul.
Juliette.
Saturday, 3 p.m., June 29th, 1850.
I have just watched you go with inexpressible sadness, my sweet and beautiful beloved. With you have departed the sunshine, the flowers, the pleasant thoughts, the hopes that link past happiness with future bliss. Nought remains to me but my love, a poor hermit whose regrets have been her sole bedfellows this long time. When you turned the corner of the street, something luminous, soft, and sweet, seemed to die within me. From that moment I have been as depressed and desolate as if a great misfortune had befallen me. Alas, it is in fact the misfortune that weighs down my whole life, namely, your absence. Since politics have monopolised your time, happiness has eluded my grasp. Will it ever return? I doubt it, hence my despair. I am greatly to be commiserated, my beloved, in that I have constituted your eyes my illumination, your smile my joy, your words my bliss, your love my life—so that when you are away, all these are simultaneously snatched from me. I am not certain of seeing you to-night, still less to-morrow. What is to become of me? What am I to do with this poor body bereft of its soul when you are not by? Tell me if you can. Explain if you dare. Meanwhile, I adore you.