Juliette.
Brussels,
Wednesday, 3.30 p.m., December 17th, 1851.
Do not worry about me, my beloved, for I never love you better or more tranquilly than when I know you are attending to your family duties and busying yourself with securing the peace and comfort of your wife and children. Pray devote yourself entirely to the service of your noble wife for the time of her sojourn here. Do not deny her any of the little pleasures that may divert her mind from the heavy trials she has just undergone. Let my resignation and courage, my consideration and devotion, help to smooth the rough places of life for her as long as she remains with you. Give her all the consolation and joy in your power. Lavish upon her the respect and affection she deserves, and do not fear ever to wear out my patience and trust in you.
I see you coming my adored one. Bless you.
Juliette.
Brussels,
Monday, 3.30 p.m., January 19th, 1852.
I had set myself a task, beloved, before writing to you, in order to earn that sweet reward. I have just completed it, and without further delay I proceed with my insignificant vapourings, in the intervals of copying two most interesting stories. I am not writing for your benefit, but for the pleasure it gives me to babble a few tender words to you in default of the kisses and caresses I cannot give you at this distance.
My Victor, as you do not wish me to be sad, and hate to feel that I am unhappy, and dread the sight of my pain, you must adopt the habit of telling me everything frankly and under all circumstances. Your deceptions, however trivial and kindly meant, hurt me far more than the harshest of truths (if you were capable of harshness towards any creature). I declare this without bitterness and in the form of an appeal, my beloved. Do not hide anything from me. Try to manage that your answers to the admiring letters certain women address to you, should be written at my house rather than elsewhere. Do not delay telling me things until I have guessed them for myself, or circumstances have betrayed them. No hints can be unimportant where jealousy is concerned, and there is no happiness without complete confidence. Therefore, my beloved, I implore you with all the urgency my soul is capable of, to tell me everything—even the ownership of those opera glasses, and about the Hügelmann notes, of which I have several here, forwarded from Belle-Île, and certain names and addresses; and about those actresses you protect with so much solicitude, and the machinations of the bluestockings who apply to you for mysterious nocturnal interviews, under pretext of enlisting your pity or your literary sympathy—about Mdlle. Constance, too, in spite of her significant name and reassuring age. I want to know everything—I must know everything, if you are really concerned for my peace of mind, and health, and happiness. Then I shall become calm, patient, happy; my pulse will beat evenly, I shall grow fat and smiling. Does not all that make it worth while for you to be frank, loyal, and ever faithful towards me?
Juliette.