You are quite happy, I hope, now that you possess the keys of Paradise. I had a few more difficulties to encounter after you went away, but they were of no consequence. Now that our little palace is nearly finished, my soul, I hope we shall celebrate the event in the usual way; but I must first rest a little, and nurse myself up, for I am really quite worn out with the dirt and litter. I am afraid to look at you or touch you in your beauty and purity and charm, while I am so ugly and untidy and exhausted that I hardly know myself as your Juju. But it will not last. My foulness will fall from me, and reveal me dressed, as in the fairy-tale, in garments of blue, bordered with golden stars, and a prince will marry me after tasting of my cooking. Splendid! But meanwhile you must graciously permit me to go on loving you, stains and all! Shut your eyes to the common lamp that guards the flame. If you will wait, you shall see that when we reach the heaven above us, I shall be as resplendent as yourself. Meanwhile, I drop a kiss upon your shoes, even if it entails your having them blacked again.
J.
Wednesday, 7.45 p.m., March 23rd, 1836.
No doubt, dear angel, I ought to disguise in your presence the sadness that overwhelms me when I have to wait too long for you; but the late hour at which you generally come, makes it difficult for me to forget the weary suspense I have already been through, and am to endure again shortly. I love you, my dear—indeed, I love you too much. We often say this lightly, but I assure you that this time I state it in full gravity and knowledge, for I feel it to the very marrow of my bones. I love you. I am jealous. I hate being poor and devoid of talent, for I fear that these deficiencies will cost me your love. Still, I am conscious of something within me, greater than either wealth or intellect; but is it powerful enough to rivet you to me for ever? I ask myself this question night and day, and you are not at hand to soothe my unrest; hence the sadness that wounds you, the jealousy that amazes you, the mental torment you are incapable of understanding.
But I love you all the same, and am happy in the midst of my pain. I smile through my tears, for I love you.
Juliette.
Saturday, 8 a.m., March 26th, 1836.
Good-morning, my little darling Toto.
I am up at cock-crow, though very tired; but I want to be ready to witness your new triumph—for, beloved Toto of mine, you are the great Toto, the greatest man on earth.
How I love you, my Victor! I am jealous. Even your success makes me uneasy with the dread that, amongst so much adulation, you may overlook the humble homage of your poor Juju. I fear that these universal acclamations may drown my lowly cry of—I love you! This apprehension becomes an obsession on such a day as this, when everything is at your feet, caresses, adoration, frenzy. Ah, why are you not insignificant and unknown like myself! I should then have no need to fear that the torch of my love will be eclipsed by that immense illumination.