Try, beloved, to keep a little place in your heart for the love and admiration of your poor mistress, who has loved you from the day she first set eyes upon you, and who will worship you as long as the breath remains in her body.
Juliette.
Saturday, 6.15 p.m., March 26th, 1836.
Let me tell you once again that I love you, my Victor. Presently, thousands of voices will be raised in a chorus of praise. I alone say: I love you. You are my joy, the light of my eyes, the treasure of my life, you are YOU. This evening, my adored one, whatever you say or do, I must be jealous and wretched. Be merciful to me; do not let me suffer too cruelly. If you think of me when you are absent, I shall be conscious of it—if you love me, I shall feel it upon my heart like beneficent balm upon a raw wound.
Farewell, dear soul; it is impossible to wish an increase of beauty to the man, or more glory to the genius; so, if you are happy, so am I. Farewell, then, dearest; I cannot refrain from sending a word of love to the lover, before going to applaud the poet. The heart must have its due share.
Good-bye till later. For ever, for life and until death, love, nothing but love!
J.
Sunday, 7.45 p.m., March 27th, 1836.
I hardly dare speak to you to-night of love. I feel humiliated by my devotion, for all those women seem to be rivals, preferred before me. I suffer, but I do not hold you responsible. I feel worse even than usual this evening. I did not venture to ask what you had written to Madame Dorval, for I was afraid to discover some fresh reason for bitterness and jealousy; so I remained silent.
My dear treasure, you are very lucky not to be jealous: you have no competition to fear with any other celebrity, for there is none besides yourself, and you know that I love you with my whole heart, whereas all I can be sure of is, that I love you far too much to hope to be loved in proportion. In addition, I feel I shall never be capable of raising the heavy stone under which my intellect slumbers.