Well, I love you. I love you my Victor. I forgive you, because I hope it is not your fault, and also, because I cannot prevent myself from loving you.
Juliette.
Tuesday, 8 p.m., 1835.
You hurt me a little bit just now, my Toto. While I was sacrificing the happiness of being with you one moment longer, to your need of repose, you were worrying about trifles, and not giving me a thought or a farewell. In moments like these I am forced to realise that you do not care for me as I care for you, and I feel wretched in consequence.
Another thing I have observed is that you never allude to my letters. You neither notice the complaints I make nor the love I shower upon you with every word. You have turned my happiness and content into sadness. My Toto, you do not love me as I love you. You have exhausted your faculty of loving. I tell myself that the enthusiastic and passionate devotion you once cherished for me has degenerated into mere partiality—then I mourn and mope, like a woman betrayed.
If you knew how I love you, my Toto, you would understand the anguish of my eagerness, you would pity me, and, instead of leaving my letters unanswered, you would fly to me the moment you have read them, to reassure and comfort me if my fears are unfounded.
Never mind, I give you a thousand kisses. How many will you waste?
Juliette.
Tuesday, 12.30 p.m. (1835).
My dear little Toto,