I had hoped that nothing would happen to disturb the sanctity of this sad anniversary,[116] and had counted on the assistance of the angels of death to defend me from the aggressions of the devils of life. Alas, I was sadly at fault, for never was a more audacious or more cynical attempt made against my peace of mind. One might think that the mangled remains of my poor heart were a target for the arrows of those emissaries of vice! I declare myself vanquished without a fight, and ere my reason finally succumbs, I mean to place my bruised heart in shelter, far from the flattering intrigues of which you are the fortunate hero.
3 p.m.
You wish me not to be anxious, not to relinquish a tussle in which I am unarmed? It is more generous than wise on your part, for what happened to-day, happened yesterday, and will again to-morrow, and I have no strength left, either physical or moral. This martyrdom of Sisyphus, who daily raises his love heavenward only to see it fall back with all its weight upon his heart, inspires me with horror, and I prefer death a thousand times over, to such torture. Have mercy upon me! Let me go! It shall be wherever you will. Do not run the risk for yourself and me of my committing some frightful act of folly. I ask you this in the name of your daughter and mine—in the name of little Georges and your dear little Jeanne. Give me a chance to recover from these reiterated attacks. I assure you it is the only remedy possible, or capable of effecting my cure. You will hardly notice my absence; the children of your blood, and those of your genius, and the rest, will easily fill the void of my absence, and meanwhile I shall regain calmness. I shall become resigned and perhaps be cured, and in any case it will be a respite for you as well as for me. I assure you my treasure, that it will be a good thing for you. I beg you to let me try it. The abuse of love, like the abuse of health, brings suffering and death in its train. The soul may have a plethora, as well as the body. Mine suffocates under its own weight. Let me try to lighten it in solitude and the contemplation of our past happiness. I beg and implore it of you—I ask it in the name of those you mourn and love.
J.
Paris,
Monday, 6 p.m., February 16th, 1875.
My dearest, your letter burns and dazzles me, and I feel humbled by it, because physically I know myself to be so far beneath your ideal; but morally, when I look inward and see my soul as your love has transformed it, I am arrogant enough to think myself above it, and to have no fear of the moment when I may reveal to you its resplendent purity in the eyes of God. Pending this, sublime and divine treasure of mine, you must shut your eyes to the sad reality of my old, sickly body, and await with patience the rejuvenation promised in Heaven. I pray God to allow me to live as long as you, because I do not know how I could exist a single minute without you, even in Paradise with our holy angels. I hope He will grant my ardent prayer, and that we shall die and rise again together on the same day and at the same hour. To ensure this, I must put my health on a level with yours, which will be difficult, for I am very feeble. I try to, every day, without much success so far, but I am counting on the spring to give me a push up the hill, so that I may continue to pace the road at your side. This evening, if nobody comes, and if Madame Charles leaves us early, I shall beg you to let me do Le Passus with you. I should like to celebrate the day by something brave and wholesome. I hope I shall manage it. I love you, bless you, and adore you.
J.
Guernsey,
Tuesday, 7.45 a.m., April 21st, 1875.
Good morning my great, good, ineffable, adorable beloved. I pray Heaven to bless you in Heaven as I bless you here below. I hope you slept as well as I did, that you bear me no grudge for the irritability born of excessive fatigue, and that you do not love me less on account of it. My confidence in your inexhaustible indulgence lends me courage to proceed with the sad business that brought me here.[117] The thought that we shall never return to these houses of ours, where we loved and suffered and were happy together, makes my heart as heavy as if we were already attending our funerals. This fresh break between the sweet past of our love and the short future that remains to us in this life, makes the present very painful. But I am not unthankful for the compensations that await us in Paris in the society of your dear grandchildren—far from it! I shall smile upon them and bless them with my last breath, as the tangible angels of your happiness and mine. I am doing my best to be ready to start on Tuesday morning. I regret not being able to carry away every relic of our love, from the soil of the garden, to the air you breathe. By the way I have a petition to make to you, but am ready to submit to a refusal if you do not approve of granting it. I want you to allow me to give Louis the two splendid drawings of St. Paul and the Cock, which are really mine to dispose of, since you gave them to me long ago. Some mementoes are more prized by an heir than mere money, and I should like to leave these from you to my kind and worthy nephew, if you consent. Meanwhile, as I said before, I will bow to a refusal, even if you give me no reason, for I adore you.
J.