I love you. Indeed I love you. Believe in me.
Juliette.
Wednesday, 8.15 p.m. (1833).
Here is a second letter. Forgive my epistolary extravagance. Honestly, I imagine you must soon tire, to put it as mildly as possible, of this superabundance of letters.
The reason of my writing again is no novel one: it is merely to repeat that I love you every day and every instant more and more; that I feel convinced you are only too eager to return my sentiments, but that between your desire and your capacity there stands a wall a hundred feet high, entitled “suspicion.” Suspicion leads to contempt, and when that exists, no real love is possible. There is no answer to what I have just stated. I feel it, and am crushed by my sorrow. I know not what to do, where to go, what plans to make. I can only suffer, just as I can only love you.
Juliette.
If ever this letter is found, it will be seen that my love was insufficient in your eyes to atone for my past.
2 a.m. (1833).
My Victor,
I love you truly, and neither know, nor can conceive, any personality more deserving of devotion than yourself.