This is the hour I begin to expect you, my Victor; each second that lags past with the slowness of eternity crushes my hopes as quickly as I conceive them. What is to become of me all this wretched day if I may not see you? Oh, I thought myself stronger, braver, more resigned; but now I see I have used up all my strength in the horrible struggle I have been going through this last month. What will happen to me, shut up here, all alone with that terrible anniversary, the 28th June, 1851? How can I evade its ghastly grip, how keep myself from suicide, from the desperate hankering after death? Oh, God, how I suffer! I implore you, do not leave me alone here to-d....[102]
Midnight.
This letter, which was begun in delirium and mad jealousy has ended, thanks to you my ineffable beloved, in the happy calm of confidence and the sacred joy of love shared. May you be blest, my Victor, as much as you are respected, venerated, adored, and admired by me—then you will have nothing further to desire in this world or the next.
Juliette.
Saturday, 8 a.m., August 2nd, 1851.
Good morning, man that I love; good morning, with all my joy and smiles and soul and happiness and love, if you had a good night and are well. I felt sure your dear Charles’ depression could not stand against an hour of your gentle and persuasive philosophy. You have the marvellous art of extracting good from evil, and consolation from despair, and there is irresistible magic in your eyes and smile; your every word is full of seduction. I, who only linger in this life in the hope of seeing you every day, should know something of that. What the joys of eternity in Paradise may be I cannot tell, but I would sacrifice them all for one minute of your true love. My Victor, my Victor, I love you. You will see how sensible I am going to be, and how I shall give way to all the exigencies of your work, and the consideration required by your position as a political personage. I am ready, my Victor; dispose of me how you will; whether happy or unhappy, I shall bless you. I trust the bad atmosphere you were compelled to breathe for several hours yesterday did not injure your throat. I am eagerly awaiting this afternoon to learn this, and to see you. Until then, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Juliette.
Friday morning, September 12th, 1851.
Good morning, and forgive me my poor sweet beloved, for nothing was further from my thoughts than to torment you as I involuntarily did yesterday. My foolishness does not include malice, and I respect you even in my most violent bouts of despair. Besides, you had just been telling me something that ought to increase my clinging to life, namely, my responsibility for your tranquillity, your fortune, your genius and existence. Without accepting in its entirety this exaggerated view of my own importance in the grave situation you find yourself in, my persecuted love, I have grasped that I should be unworthy of the position, were I to allow my troubles to weigh in the balance, against your safety. Therefore, my Victor, you have nothing to fear from me, so long as my poor brain retains a glimmer of reason, and my wretched heart a scrap of confidence in your loyalty.
I spent part of the night reading over your old letters, especially those of May 1844,[103] and I shed more tears over your desecrated tenderness and sullied affection, than you can have squandered kisses upon that woman, during the seven years of your treachery to me. If life could escape through the eyes, my sufferings would long ere this be terminated; but like sorrow, the soul is not so quickly exhausted, though God only knows where it finds sustenance. As for me, my adored one, I love you without being able either to live or to be healed. I am ashamed of my incurability, and I gratefully compassionate the superhuman efforts you make to restore me to courage.