Paris,
Thursday, 7 a.m., April 11th, 1874.
Permit me, my great beloved, to offer you my three-score years and ten, freshly completed this morning. Give the poor old things a friendly reception, for they are as blazing with love for you now, as if they had only been born yesterday. I commission little Jeanne to give you seventy million kisses for me to-day, not one less, but a few more if she likes. I hope little Georges’ nose has not bled since yesterday, and that he slept well like the rest of you. I slept like a top, and am splendid this morning. I feel a degree of youthfulness that must proceed from the seventy springs I have absorbed so freely. The sky itself contributes its birthday greeting by pouring its measure of sunshine upon us. Therefore, long live love, for us in the first place, (for a little selfishness will not harm happiness,) and in the second, long live love for all whom we love. May you be blest, my beloved, in all those you care for. I adore you.
J.
Paris,
Thursday, 10.45 p.m., May 7th, 1874.
Dear, dear one, the separation I dreaded as a veritable calamity is now an accomplished fact. God grant it may not be the beginning of the end of my happiness. My heart is full of sad presentiment. The distance that separates us is like a broken bridge between our hearts, over which neither joy nor hope may pass henceforth. I cherish no illusion; from this evening forward, all intimacy between us is over, and my sweet horizon of love is for ever clouded. I try to give myself courage by reflecting that the happiness I lose is gained by you in the affection of your two dear grandchildren. I tell myself that this compensation should be sufficient for me; still I am in despair, and I can hardly help shedding floods of tears, as if some irreparable misfortune had befallen me when you walked away just now. I accustomed myself far too speedily to a happiness that was only lent to me for a little while. But however short-lived it proved, I bless you, and pray God to turn my regrets and sorrow into a future of joy and kisses and ecstasy for you and your two little angels.
J.
Paris,
9.30 a.m., Sunday, June 21st, 1874.