I love you.
J.
Paris,
8 a.m., Monday, February 26th, 1872.
This is your birthday, beloved—the anniversary of anniversaries, acclaimed in Heaven by the great men of genius who preceded you upon earth, and blessed by me ever since the day I first gave myself to you. We used to celebrate it with all the sweetest instruments of love; kisses, words of endearment, letters, all were pressed into service to make this date, February 26th, a perfume, an ecstasy, a ray of sunshine. To-day these winged caresses have flown to other realms, but there remains to us the solemn devotion that better becomes the sacred marriage of two souls for all eternity. In the name of that devotion I send you my tenderest greetings and beg you to let me know how you spent the night. I hope your little breach of regulations yesterday did not prevent you from sleeping. As for me, I slept little, but I am quite well this morning, thanks to the influence of this radiant date. I ask little Georges and little Jeanne to kiss you for me as many times as you have lived minutes in this world. My dearly beloved, I bless you.
J.
Paris,
Saturday, 2 p.m., April 13th, 1872.
This is a day of sunshine: God, in His Heaven above, and little Jeanne under my roof. I hardly know—or rather, perhaps I do know which is the brighter of the two, but I am not going to tell you, for fear of making you too proud. What a beautiful day, and what an adorable little girl! But what a pity we cannot all enjoy these spring-time delights together, walking and driving, in town and country-meadows. I am really afraid the good God will weary of us and pronounce the fatal dictum: “IT IS TOO LATE” when at last we make up our minds to take our share of life, sunshine, and happiness. The terrible part is that whether innocent or guilty we shall all suffer alike for your transgression, for divine justice is very like that of man. As for me, I enter my protest from my little retreat, but it serves no purpose except that of an idle pastime; it does not even keep me from adoring you.
J.
Paris,
Tuesday, 12 noon, November 18th, 1873.
My beloved, I do not desire to turn your successes into a scourge for your back, but I cannot help feeling that my old-fashioned devotion cuts a sorry figure amongst the overdressed cocottes who assail you incessantly with their blandishments and invitations. This fantastic chase has gone on for a long time without extorting from you any sign of weariness or satiety. As for me, I long only for repose—if not in this life (which seems difficult in my case to obtain), then in the immobility of death, which cannot long be delayed at the pace I am going. I ask your permission to begin preparing for it by giving up my daily letters. That will be something gained; the rest will come gradually, little by little, till one fine day we shall find ourselves quite naturally on the platform of indifference, or of reason, as you will prefer to call it. From to-day on, therefore, I place the key of my heart on your doorstep, and will wander away alone in the direction of God.