Juju.
Tuesday, 7.30 p.m., February 21st, 1837.
Do not grieve, my precious, do not lament. I will not attempt consolation, for you have better and more efficacious resources within your own self; but I share your affliction. Whatever saddens you saddens me: where you love, I love; when you mourn, I mourn. If I conjure you not to give way to your grief, it is not because I hesitate to bear my portion of it, but because I believe that your poor brother himself would not now desire a return to this life.[65] I look upon his death more as a blessing than a misfortune. Poor brother!
I love you, my adored Victor. In moments such as these, when sorrow brings you nearer to my level, I feel that my affection for you is absolutely true and purified from all dross. Try to come early this evening. I will lavish caresses upon you silently, with my eyes and my innermost self, without worrying you. You shall rest by my fireside, and lean your dear head upon my shoulder, and read, and I shall be glad.
I am jealous of that woman who has dared to steal your verses; such things are not lost. It was a two-fold wickedness on her part, for she caused you the trouble of rewriting them, and me the torment of jealousy. I will not have you see her again, ever! Do you hear?
Oh, I love you, I love you far too much.
Juliette.
Monday, 7.15 p.m., April 2nd, 1837.
