Chapter XVI: Part II: Letters (6)

Good morning, my beloved. In full daylight and glorious sunshine, in love and happiness, good morning. Again I greet you, like that first day thirty years ago, when my eyes followed you along the Boulevard after you left me. My soul winged flights of kisses to you when you looked round for one more glance at my window before turning into the Rue du Temple. That picture remains for ever graven upon my mind; I can assert with truth that everything remains the same in my heart as the night I first became yours. These thirty years of love have passed like one day of uninterrupted adoration, and I feel now younger, more virile, and more capable of loving you, than ever before--heart, body, soul, all are yours, and live only by you and through you. I smile upon you, bless you, adore you.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY, _Sunday, 10.30 a.m., April 26th, 1863_.

Good morning, unutterably dear one. May all the blessings of heaven and earth rest upon you and those you love. I slept very well and hope you did the same. My headache has gone and I feel as sturdy as an oak-tree. I do not in the least desire a great house whence I shall not be able to see you in the mornings, and I should much prefer to keep my own little perch upon which my heart poises so happily while I watch you moving about your home. Having made my protest, beloved, you shall dictate to me the letter I must write to notify the landlord that he need not move out to-morrow. We can settle when you come, what time I must be ready, so as not to lose one second of our little walk up the hill. I am so happy at the thought of remaining near you, that I feel as if I had already substituted youthful wings for my old legs. Even my garden is gay, and cries out to me by the mouths of its lovely flowers: _don't go away_! Health is where happiness is, and happiness means loving each other, side by side, eyes upon eyes, soul with soul. Therefore, I shall stay here. That is quite settled.

GUERNSEY, _Friday, 7.30 a.m., October 30th, 1863_.

Good morning, good morning, and again, good morning, my dear, wide-awake person. You must be very well to-day, judging by the energy with which you are shaking your rugs to the four winds. I hope that signifies a good night, good health, lively love, and all the rest of it. As for myself, I slept little, but soundly. I got up before gun-fire this morning, and had already finished my dressing when I saw you on your balcony. What a privation it will be for me, my adored man, when I can no longer watch you in the mornings, moving about your house. I do not feel as if I should ever get accustomed to it, and I think of it with apprehension, for there is a proverb that says, "Out of sight, out of mind." If you gave up loving me, or worse, loved me less, what should I make of life in that great empty drawing-room?

At this moment, I am trying to numb these reflections by the contemplation of the marvels you are creating in that future house of mine; but at the bottom of my heart, I know I shall always mourn this poor little lodging, where my eyes could watch over you, caress you, guard you, preserve you, and adore you. The more I think of it, the more oppressed I feel, and the more I blame myself for having exchanged the happiness of every moment, for a comfort I shall hardly have leisure to appreciate, and for health which did not require amelioration. My poor beloved, forgive these regrets which are only dictated by love, and this anxiety which also means love. Try not to let the separation of our houses entail that of our hearts; try to love me as heartily there as here, and do not let yourself be enticed away from me by anybody. On those conditions I promise to live happily in the splendid rooms you have prepared for me.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Wednesday, 1.30 p.m., June 15th, 1864_.

Dearly beloved, I cannot forsake this little home where we have loved each other for eight years, without imprinting a kiss of gratitude upon its threshold. I have just gazed my supreme farewell at your beautiful house, which has so long been to me the polar star of my heart's wanderings. Alas, I am lengthening out the moments as much as possible; I cannot bring myself to leave this dear little house, which I had made the shrine of my cult for you. I should like to carry away the walls against which you have leaned, the floors you have trodden, and even the dust your feet have spurned. I fear lest my sadness be observed by those who cannot understand it, and the efforts I make to seem unconcerned increase the constriction of my heart, and drench my eyes with tears. Oh, my adored beloved, how you will have to love me and give me all the time at your disposal, to console me for the immense grief I am experiencing to-day in quitting your neighbourhood, that is to say, in losing sight of it! How you will have to double and treble and quadruple your love, to replace the dear memories I leave behind me! May God protect me and may the dear souls of our angels follow us to the new home, and bless us till our last hour!

I adore you.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Thursday, 5.30 a.m., June 16th, 1864_.

Where are you, my beloved? My eyes seek you vainly, you are no longer there to smile upon me; it is all over--I shall never again see the little roost whence you used to blow kisses and wave your hand so tenderly. I am alone now in my fine house, alone for ever; for there is no further chance in this life of having you near me. I shall never again live in your immediate intimacy, as I have done for the past eight years.

Loyally as you may endeavour to bridge over the distance between our abodes by coming to me oftener in the day-time, the separation of our two existences must ever endure. I know it by the blank depression I am feeling this morning. I would give a hundred thousand houses and palaces, and the universe itself, for that little slice of horizon where my heart projected itself night and day. I am ashamed of having been so mean-spirited as to barter my daily happiness against a chimerical amelioration of health. I am punished for my transgression, my dearest. I carry death in my heart. Forgive me! I would gladly smile at you, but at this moment I feel incapable of doing so. Forgive me for loving you too much. I hope you had a good night. I hope you gazed upon my dark, empty house and gave it one sigh of regret. I hope you love me and are conscious of my absence. May God preserve you from all evil, dearly beloved, and may your love remain whole and intact in severance as in propinquity. I bless you, and adore you. A kiss to all our dear memories.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Sunday, 8.30 a.m., June 11th, 1865_.

It would take very little to make me stay in bed till noon. I am ashamed of myself and well punished, for I have not seen you this morning, and have not yet heard whether you had a good or a bad night. I hope you were clever enough to sleep uninterruptedly from the moment you laid your head on the pillow, till that of your uprising. I shall be very glad if I have guessed right. Meanwhile, my sweet treasure, I send you a smile and a blessing. I am listening at this moment to the joyous cheeping of my tiny chicks over a saucer of milk that has just been put before them. I am also watching two white butterflies darting after each other among my roses, like twin souls in Eden. The flowers are blooming, love-making is going on all around, and my heart is overflowing with tenderness and adoration for you. The further I progress in life, the more I love you; you are the beginning and end of my being. I hope everything of you, and my soul trusts you, all in all. You are my radiant and divine beloved.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Sunday, 7.30 a.m., December 2nd, 1866_.

Good-morning, my adored one, bless you. I can afford to smile on this date, abhorred of all worthy folk: December 2nd.--because it is, for me alone, a joyful anniversary. If my gratitude is an offence towards humanity, I humbly ask pardon of God and man. I am tormented at the thought that you may have slept badly. If I could be reassured on that point, I should be quite happy this morning. Unfortunately, I can only find out much later when you come here to bathe your dear eyes. The mention of your eyes reminds me of your poor wife's sight. Surely, if the doctors were not certain of curing her, they would not keep her so long in Paris, away from all her belongings, in winter weather? My desire for her complete recovery of a sense of which she has made such noble use in her beautiful book _Victor Hugo, raconté_, makes me look upon her delay in returning, as a happy presage of future recovery. I ask it of Heaven, with love.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Wednesday, 8 a.m., January 1st, 1868_.

I thank you, dearest, for letting me have a share in your prayers, when you plead to God not to separate us in life or in death. It is what I pray all day long; it is the aspiration of my heart and the faith of my soul. I am not a devout woman, my sublime beloved, I am only the woman who loves and admires and reverences you. To live near you is paradise; to die with you is the consecration of our love for all eternity. I want to live and die with you. I, like you, crave it of God. May He grant our joint prayers!

I feel as you do, my beloved, that those two dear souls hover above us and watch over us and bless us. I associate them with all my thoughts and sorrows and joys, and I place my prayers under their protection, that they may convey them direct to the foot of the Great White Throne. I bless them as they bless me, with all that is loftiest and holiest and most sacred in my soul. I am stopping at almost every line of this letter to read your adorable one over again, although I already know it by heart. I kiss it, talk to it, listen to it, and then begin all over again. I love you.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Thursday, 7 a.m., May 7th, 1868_.

Dearly beloved, I am rather less worried since I have seen you and exchanged a kiss with you; yet I know you slept badly. I can feel that you are ailing and sad. I pray God to give you happiness again as soon as possible, in the form of a second little Georges all smiling and beautiful; meanwhile, I beg Him to let my love be the balm that will heal your wounds, until the day of resurrection of the sweet child for whom you weep.[112]

I hope He will hear and grant my petitions on your behalf, and that you will be restored to some degree of calmness and consolation. When you write to your two dear sons, Charles and Victor, do not forget, I beg, to thank them from me for the little portrait. Tell them I love them and mingle my tears with theirs.

I adore you, my great one, my venerated one, my sublime mourner.

J.

BRUSSELS, _Sunday, 7.30 a.m., August 2nd, 1868_.

Again I have slept better than ever, beloved. I trust it has been the same with you. I was very proud and pleased at my walk with you and your family last night, but I felt somewhat shy and ill at ease. Please permit me to decline any further invitations of the kind. Should the occasion arise again, which is improbable, I think good taste and discretion demand that I should hold myself aloof from your family affections, and only associate myself with them at a distance, or in my own home. As this feeling, or scruple, whichever you may like to call it, could not be expressed in the presence of your dear children yesterday, I consented to go with you, while intending to call your attention privately to the embarrassment such an incident would cause me, if it should happen again. I think you will probably agree with me, and approve of my sacrificing my pleasure to your tender family intercourse.

J.

BRUSSELS, _Wednesday, 8.30 a.m., August 26th, 1868_.

My poor beloved, I pray God to spare you and your dear children the misfortune which threatens you at this moment in the loss of your angelic and adorable wife. I hope, I hope, I hope. I pray, I love you, I summon all our dear angels above to her assistance and yours. I pray God to make two equal shares of the days remaining to me, and add one to the life of your saintly and noble wife. My beloved, my heart is wrung, I suffer all you suffer twice over, through my love for you. I do not know what to do. I long to go to you, I should love to take my share of the nursing of your poor invalid, but human respect holds me back, and my heart is heavier than ever. Suzanne has only just come from your house, and I already want to send her back again, in the hope that she may bring me less disquieting news than that which I have just received. Oh, God have mercy upon us and change our anguish into joy!

BRUSSELS, _Thursday, August 27th, 1868_.

My beloved, in the presence of that soul which now sees into my own,[113] I renew the sacred vow I made the first time I gave myself to you; to love you in this world and in the next, so long as my soul shall exist, in the certainty of being sanctioned and blessed in my devotion by the great heart and noble mind which has just preceded us, alas, into eternity.

BRUSSELS, _Friday, 8 a.m., August 28th, 1868_.

I placed your sleep last night under the protection of your dear one, my beloved, and implored her to remove from your dreams all painful memories of the sad day just past. I hope she heard me and that you slept well. Henceforth, it is to this gentle and glorious witness of your life in this world, now your radiant protectress in Heaven, that I will appeal for the peace and happiness you require, to finish the great humanitarian task to which you have pledged yourself. May God bless her and you, as I bless her and you.

The more I think over to-night's mournful journey, the more convinced I feel that I ought not to take part in it. The pious homage of my heart to that great and generous woman must not be exposed to a wrong interpretation by indifferent or ill-natured critics. We must make this last sacrifice to human malignity, in order to have the right to love each other openly afterwards; do you not agree, my beloved? Afterwards, may nothing ever come between us here below, nor above--such is my ardent desire!

J.

BRUSSELS, _Friday, 5.30 p.m., August 28th_.

My heart and thoughts are with you and your beloved dead. I am sad and heart-broken, not for the angelic and sublime woman who now shines out in the world of spirits while we here below regret her, but for you, my poor sad man, to whom she was a holy and meek companion; for your dear children whose joy and pride she was; for myself, to whom she was ever a discreet and considerate protectress.

My heart is torn by your grief, my poor afflicted ones; my eyes rain all the tears you are shedding. Dear treasure, I beg your wife to obtain for you the courage you need. May her memory remain with you, sweet and gentle and benign as was her exquisite person in life. I entrust you to her as I confide myself to you, and I bless you both.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Tuesday, 2 p.m., February 1st, 1870_.

Since I have seen you, my great beloved, I am feeling much better. Your smile has completed my cure. It may be an illusion of my eyes and heart, but at this moment I seem to feel the breath of spring. Perhaps it proceeds from the nearness of the anniversary of the first performance of _Lucrèce Borgia_, which is to be acclaimed and applauded by an enthusiastic public to-morrow night, just as it was thirty-seven long years ago. Bonaparte may do his best to-morrow against this magnificent play, he will get no good out of his police-engineered cabal. I think he will hardly dare risk such an infamous attempt, but I wish it was already Saturday, that we might be quite easy. Meanwhile, I love you after the fashion of Princesse Négroni.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY, _Monday, 8.30 a.m., February 14th, 1870_.

Good morning, my dearest. Did you sleep better last night, my great, little man? Were you warmer? How are you this morning? It is indeed tedious to have to wait until this afternoon to hear all this. I am trying to moderate my impatience by doing things for you. I have already selected your two eggs, put fresh water into your finger-bowl, and a snow-white napkin on your plate. Suzanne is making your coffee, which perfumes the whole house, while I trace these gouty old "pattes-de-mouche," which are to lay all the tender nonsense of my heart at your feet. I am beginning early, as you see, to be certain that they arrive in time. The thaw has begun. I was quite hot in the night, though I must admit I had taken measures to that end; so I slept excellently, as you can judge by the state of my spirits. But what I really want you to take note of is, that I adore you.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Saturday, 7.45 a.m., May 21st, 1870_.

My heart, my eyes, my soul, are bewildered, my beloved, so overwhelmed are they with tenderness, admiration, and happiness! What an adorable letter, and what a marvellous surprise! How good you are to me! How generous and charming! Words fail me, and the best I can say is: I love you! I love you! I threw my arms around old Mariette's neck, and almost embraced Marquand himself in the delirium of my delight. What a splendid frame for that lovely little mirror! It contains everything: flowers, birds, a shelf, little Georges' sweet face above, and your beautiful verses for wings. How can I thank you adequately, or describe my gratitude? Fortunate am I to have eternity before me in which to bless you. I kissed my dear little letter before everybody, but I would not read it until just now when I was able to bolt my door. I always read you thus, my adored one. My soul demands privacy for the better understanding of your sublime words, and I never finish the reading of them without feeling transported with love and almost prepared for the next world. I love you!!

Mariette told me you had spent a very good night. Is it really true? I slept capitally, too, and am feeling more than well. I have been looking about for a place for my new treasure, but have not yet decided on one. I shall leave it to you to choose its proper place in my museum of _souvenirs_. Meanwhile, I have covered it away from the dust and put it in the shady drawing-room. As soon as I have read your adorable little letter again, I shall go back and have another look at it.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Friday, 5 a.m., August 18th, 1870_.

At all hazards I must send you my morning greeting, though I trust you are sleeping too soundly to hear it. You have slept so little and so badly for many nights, that it would be only fair that this night should be long and good. As for me, I hardly slept at all, but I do not mind and am hardly surprised, as it is a habit of mine. But the thing I feel I cannot become inured to, is the apprehension of the perils you are about to encounter on your journey to Paris, ranging from the loss of your wealth to the death of your love for me--either would finish me. I think with terror of the tortures of all kinds I shall undergo there; my courage fails me and craves mercy in anticipation. I have fought all night against the wicked temptation to desert my post in a cowardly manner before even meeting the enemy--not an enemy that can be fought with fire and blood, but one that stabs you smiling. But I have not even the courage of cowardice; I am ready to suffer a thousand deaths if only I can preserve you from a single danger. You must live at any cost, that you may be enabled to complete your glorious task, and be happy, no matter how or with whom. My duty is to devote myself to that end, whatever betide. If I go under in the execution of it, so much the worse for me, or possibly, so much the better. To serve you and love you is my mission in this world--the rest does not concern me.

J.

_Thursday morning, July 20th, 1871_.

This is your patron-saint's day, my great beloved. Others will congratulate you with flowers and music and expressions of admiring gratitude and emotion, but nobody will love you more than I do, or bless and adore you as you deserve to be loved, blessed and adored!

I hope this anniversary may be the beginning of a new year less sinister and sad than the last, and that your dear grandchildren will give you as much joy and happiness as you have had sadness and misfortune in the past. I say this hastily, as best I can, with emotion in my old heart and thrills of joy in my soul. As I sit scribbling, I hear your voice calling me and I rush towards you just as in the early days of our love.

I kiss your hair, your eyes, your lips, your hands, your feet. I adore you.

JULIETTE.

PARIS, _Thursday, 10.15, January 18th, 1872_.

Good morning, my great and venerated one. I kiss one by one the wounds of your heart, praying God to heal those that ache worst. I beg Him to give me strength to help you carry your heavy cross to the end. I ask Him, above all, to give me that which, alas, is lacking in my nature, namely, that infinite gentleness without which the most perfect devotion is unavailing. Since the day before yesterday, my poor, sublime martyr, my heart has been wrung by the new blow that has fallen upon you,[114] and I weep helplessly, without power to check my tears. God Who gave you genius makes you pay heavy toll for that favour, by overwhelming your life with the pangs of sorrow. My beloved, I beg you to tell me how I may serve you. I will do anything you desire. I will use my whole heart and strength in your service.

I love you.

J.

PARIS, _8 a.m., Monday, February 26th, 1872_.

This is your birthday, beloved--the anniversary of anniversaries, acclaimed in Heaven by the great men of genius who preceded you upon earth, and blessed by me ever since the day I first gave myself to you. We used to celebrate it with all the sweetest instruments of love; kisses, words of endearment, letters, all were pressed into service to make this date, February 26th, a perfume, an ecstasy, a ray of sunshine. To-day these winged caresses have flown to other realms, but there remains to us the solemn devotion that better becomes the sacred marriage of two souls for all eternity. In the name of that devotion I send you my tenderest greetings and beg you to let me know how you spent the night. I hope your little breach of regulations yesterday did not prevent you from sleeping. As for me, I slept little, but I am quite well this morning, thanks to the influence of this radiant date. I ask little Georges and little Jeanne to kiss you for me as many times as you have lived minutes in this world. My dearly beloved, I bless you.

J.

PARIS, _Saturday, 2 p.m., April 13th, 1872_.

This is a day of sunshine: God, in His Heaven above, and little Jeanne under my roof. I hardly know--or rather, perhaps I do know which is the brighter of the two, but I am not going to tell you, for fear of making you too proud. What a beautiful day, and what an adorable little girl! But what a pity we cannot all enjoy these spring-time delights together, walking and driving, in town and country-meadows. I am really afraid the good God will weary of us and pronounce the fatal dictum: "IT IS TOO LATE" when at last we make up our minds to take our share of life, sunshine, and happiness. The terrible part is that whether innocent or guilty we shall all suffer alike for _your_ transgression, for divine justice is very like that of man. As for me, I enter my protest from my little retreat, but it serves no purpose except that of an idle pastime; it does not even keep me from adoring you.

J.

PARIS, _Tuesday, 12 noon, November 18th, 1873_.

My beloved, I do not desire to turn your successes into a scourge for your back, but I cannot help feeling that my old-fashioned devotion cuts a sorry figure amongst the overdressed _cocottes_ who assail you incessantly with their blandishments and invitations. This fantastic chase has gone on for a long time without extorting from you any sign of weariness or satiety. As for me, I long only for repose--if not in this life (which seems difficult in my case to obtain), then in the immobility of death, which cannot long be delayed at the pace I am going. I ask your permission to begin preparing for it by giving up my daily letters. That will be something gained; the rest will come gradually, little by little, till one fine day we shall find ourselves quite naturally on the platform of indifference, or of reason, as you will prefer to call it. From to-day on, therefore, I place the key of my heart on your doorstep, and will wander away alone in the direction of God.

J.

PARIS, _Friday, 11.15 a.m., December 26th, 1873_.

Dear adored one. All your desires in life, as well as mine, are granted to-day if your dear Victor has spent a good night, as I hope. I am anxiously waiting for Mariette's return to know how the dear invalid is....

My poor beloved, I am in despair--I have just seen Mariette, who tells me that your poor son is in high fever at this moment.[115] I do not know how to tell you; I do not think I shall have the strength to do so. Dr. Sée has been sent for and Mariette has just gone back to hear what he thinks of this relapse. Oh, Heaven have mercy on us! I hardly dare breathe or even weep, so greatly do I dread betraying to you the misfortune which threatens you, my beloved. How can I ward off the fate that is hanging over you? What can I say or do? My brain reels! Ought I to tell you everything--would it be wrong to conceal from you the imminent sorrow that is going to wring your heart once more? I know not, but I lack the courage either to speak or to be silent; I am in despair, yet I dare not make moan. I suffer, I adore you. Pity me, as I pity you. Let us love each other under this cruel trial, as we should if Heaven were opening its gates to us.

J.

PARIS, _Monday, 5 o'clock p.m., December 29th, 1873_.

Go, dearest, try to find in a solitary walk, which may prove fruitful to the world, some solace for the painful agitation of your heart. My thoughts follow you lovingly and bless every one of your steps. Do not worry about me in the new arrangements of your life. Whatever you settle shall be accepted by me. For forty-one years I have followed that programme, and I will do so now, more than ever. Provided you love me as I love you, I desire nothing more from God or you. The advice I give you, apart from my own personal concerns, is always practical and in your own interest and that of your dear grandchildren. I should feel I had failed in my duty if I kept the least of my ideas from you, whether good or bad, insignificant or stupid. I love you and adore you, body, heart and soul.

J.

PARIS, _Tuesday, 12.30 p.m., February 17th, 1874_.

Dear one, there is rather more bustle about us than usual on this our sweet and sacred anniversary. We have the little excitement of your two adorable grandchildren, which we had not expected, but which is all the more delightful for that. The perfection of happiness would have been to take them ourselves to that famous circus which little Georges already knows, and little Jeanne dreams of; but the bad weather and the remains of my influenza counsel a pusillanimous prudence. It is not without regret, beloved, that I impose this sacrifice of one of our most precious joys upon you, but I feel I cannot do otherwise to-day. As for the dear little things, their pleasure will, fortunately, not be marred in any way. So long as they can revel in the antics of Mr. and Mrs. Punch and their august family, they will not mind whom they go with. That being the case, Mariette is a sufficient escort to the promised land of Auriol and Punch.

As for ourselves, dearest, I trust that our two souls, communing together, will not miss those fascinating little witnesses of our love over much.

J.

PARIS, _Wednesday, 7 p.m., March 11th, 1874_.

He whose heart is younger than his years suffers all the sorrows of his age. This aphorism contains in a few words the secret of the turmoil I involuntarily bring into your life, while I myself suffer like a soul in damnation. Still, I must not allow this ridiculous folly to be an annoyance to you; I must and will get the better of it, and leave you your liberty, every liberty, especially that of being happy whenever and however you like. Otherwise, my poor beloved, you will very shortly come to hate the sight of me. I know it, and it terrifies me in anticipation. So I am determined to crush my heart at all costs, that I may restore peace and happiness to yours.

J.

PARIS, _Saturday, 1.45 p.m., April 4th, 1874_.

I thank you dear one, for having been loyal enough to tell me this morning that you had written another poem to Madame M. I thank you also for having offered to read it to me, and not to send it to her till afterwards. I accepted this respite in the first instance, but I realised later that _what is delayed is not lost_, and that I should gain nothing by struggling against being bracketed with this _statue inhabited by a star_, and that I was simply putting myself in the absurd position of the ostrich that tries to avert danger by hiding his head in the sand. Therefore beloved, I beg you to act quite freely, and to send the verses dedicated to your beautiful muse whenever you like. Once the poetry has been written, it is quite natural that you should intoxicate each other without consideration for me. Besides, in my opinion, infidelity does not consist in action only; I consider it already accomplished by the sole fact of desire. That being settled, my dear friend, I beg you to behave exactly as you like, and as if I were no longer in the way. I shall then have leisure to rest from the fatigues of life before taking my departure for eternity. Try and be happy if you can.

J.

PARIS, _Thursday, 7 a.m., April 11th, 1874_.

Permit me, my great beloved, to offer you my three-score years and ten, freshly completed this morning. Give the poor old things a friendly reception, for they are as blazing with love for you now, as if they had only been born yesterday. I commission little Jeanne to give you seventy million kisses for me to-day, not one less, but a few more if she likes. I hope little Georges' nose has not bled since yesterday, and that he slept well like the rest of you. I slept like a top, and am splendid this morning. I feel a degree of youthfulness that must proceed from the seventy springs I have absorbed so freely. The sky itself contributes its birthday greeting by pouring its measure of sunshine upon us. Therefore, long live love, for us in the first place, (for a little selfishness will not harm happiness,) and in the second, long live love for all whom we love. May you be blest, my beloved, in all those you care for. I adore you.

J.

PARIS, _Thursday, 10.45 p.m., May 7th, 1874_.

Dear, dear one, the separation I dreaded as a veritable calamity is now an accomplished fact. God grant it may not be the beginning of the end of my happiness. My heart is full of sad presentiment. The distance that separates us is like a broken bridge between our hearts, over which neither joy nor hope may pass henceforth. I cherish no illusion; from this evening forward, all intimacy between us is over, and my sweet horizon of love is for ever clouded. I try to give myself courage by reflecting that the happiness I lose is gained by you in the affection of your two dear grandchildren. I tell myself that this compensation should be sufficient for me; still I am in despair, and I can hardly help shedding floods of tears, as if some irreparable misfortune had befallen me when you walked away just now. I accustomed myself far too speedily to a happiness that was only lent to me for a little while. But however short-lived it proved, I bless you, and pray God to turn my regrets and sorrow into a future of joy and kisses and ecstasy for you and your two little angels.

J.

PARIS, _9.30 a.m., Sunday, June 21st, 1874_.

I had hoped that nothing would happen to disturb the sanctity of this sad anniversary,[116] and had counted on the assistance of the angels of death to defend me from the aggressions of the devils of life. Alas, I was sadly at fault, for never was a more audacious or more cynical attempt made against my peace of mind. One might think that the mangled remains of my poor heart were a target for the arrows of those emissaries of vice! I declare myself vanquished without a fight, and ere my reason finally succumbs, I mean to place my bruised heart in shelter, far from the flattering intrigues of which you are the fortunate hero.

_3 p.m._

You wish me not to be anxious, not to relinquish a tussle in which I am unarmed? It is more generous than wise on your part, for what happened to-day, happened yesterday, and will again to-morrow, and I have no strength left, either physical or moral. This martyrdom of Sisyphus, who daily raises his love heavenward only to see it fall back with all its weight upon his heart, inspires me with horror, and I prefer death a thousand times over, to such torture. Have mercy upon me! Let me go! It shall be wherever you will. Do not run the risk for yourself and me of my committing some frightful act of folly. I ask you this in the name of your daughter and mine--in the name of little Georges and your dear little Jeanne. Give me a chance to recover from these reiterated attacks. I assure you it is the only remedy possible, or capable of effecting my cure. You will hardly notice my absence; the children of your blood, and those of your genius, and the rest, will easily fill the void of my absence, and meanwhile I shall regain calmness. I shall become resigned and perhaps be cured, and in any case it will be a respite for you as well as for me. I assure you my treasure, that it will be a good thing for you. I beg you to let me try it. The abuse of love, like the abuse of health, brings suffering and death in its train. The soul may have a plethora, as well as the body. Mine suffocates under its own weight. Let me try to lighten it in solitude and the contemplation of our past happiness. I beg and implore it of you--I ask it in the name of those you mourn and love.

J.

PARIS, _Monday, 6 p.m., February 16th, 1875_.

My dearest, your letter burns and dazzles me, and I feel humbled by it, because physically I know myself to be so far beneath your ideal; but morally, when I look inward and see my soul as your love has transformed it, I am arrogant enough to think myself above it, and to have no fear of the moment when I may reveal to you its resplendent purity in the eyes of God. Pending this, sublime and divine treasure of mine, you must shut your eyes to the sad reality of my old, sickly body, and await with patience the rejuvenation promised in Heaven. I pray God to allow me to live as long as you, because I do not know how I could exist a single minute without you, even in Paradise with our holy angels. I hope He will grant my ardent prayer, and that we shall die and rise again together on the same day and at the same hour. To ensure this, I must put my health on a level with yours, which will be difficult, for I am very feeble. I try to, every day, without much success so far, but I am counting on the spring to give me a push up the hill, so that I may continue to pace the road at your side. This evening, if nobody comes, and if Madame Charles leaves us early, I shall beg you to let me do _Le Passus_ with you. I should like to celebrate the day by something brave and wholesome. I hope I shall manage it. I love you, bless you, and adore you.

J.

GUERNSEY, _Tuesday, 7.45 a.m., April 21st, 1875_.

Good morning my great, good, ineffable, adorable beloved. I pray Heaven to bless you in Heaven as I bless you here below. I hope you slept as well as I did, that you bear me no grudge for the irritability born of excessive fatigue, and that you do not love me less on account of it. My confidence in your inexhaustible indulgence lends me courage to proceed with the sad business that brought me here.[117] The thought that we shall never return to these houses of ours, where we loved and suffered and were happy together, makes my heart as heavy as if we were already attending our funerals. This fresh break between the sweet past of our love and the short future that remains to us in this life, makes the present very painful. But I am not unthankful for the compensations that await us in Paris in the society of your dear grandchildren--far from it! I shall smile upon them and bless them with my last breath, as the tangible angels of your happiness and mine. I am doing my best to be ready to start on Tuesday morning. I regret not being able to carry away every relic of our love, from the soil of the garden, to the air you breathe. By the way I have a petition to make to you, but am ready to submit to a refusal if you do not approve of granting it. I want you to allow me to give Louis the two splendid drawings of St. Paul and the Cock, which are really mine to dispose of, since you gave them to me long ago. Some mementoes are more prized by an heir than mere money, and I should like to leave these from you to my kind and worthy nephew, if you consent. Meanwhile, as I said before, I will bow to a refusal, even if you give me no reason, for I adore you.

J.

PARIS, _Tuesday, 7.45 a.m., October 5th, 1875_.

Good news from your dear little travellers. The top of the morning to you, and long live love! The telegram, which came after I was in bed, that is to say after eleven o'clock, is dated from Genoa, and says they arrive the day after to-morrow at Madame Ménard's, and will write at once from there. Meanwhile they send you thousands of kisses, of which I make bold to reserve a share, before being quite certain that I am meant to do so. This long delayed arrival in France heralds their speedy return home, which is not at all displeasing to me--_on the contrary!_ My gaze, night and morning, at their dear little portraits in no degree replaces their kisses, their sweet faces, and the joyous little shrieks one hears all day long. At last we are touching the end of our long abstinence and shall soon be able to devour them whole. Meanwhile I continue to feed upon your heart, to whet my appetite.

J.

PARIS, _Sunday, 5 p.m., November 21st, 1875_.

Dear beloved, your promise to take me every day to Versailles, if you are obliged to return to the Assemblée, fills my heart with such joy that I have been humming all the merry songs I used to sing. It is long since I have done such a thing. What would it be if some lucky event sent us all back to Guernsey, never to leave it again ... or at least, not for a very long time! What enchantment, what a starlit dream, if God were to give us that bliss a second time! I think I should promptly return to the age I was when I received your first kiss. Fortunately for France, God will not grant this selfish wish, but He will forgive me for entertaining it I hope, for I cannot help loving you beyond everything in this world, and it does not hinder me from being satisfied with whatever happiness He is pleased to vouchsafe, so long as you are content, and love only me, who adore you.

J.

PARIS, _Tuesday, 8 a.m., April 25th, 1876_.

My treasure, I pray God not to separate us in this life or the next. That is why I am anxious to be with you in the crowd that will rush to see and hear you at the cemetery to-day.[118] I know by experience that your enthusiasm borders on imprudence, so I want to press my body to yours as closely as our souls are riveted, so that whatever befalls you on this sad occasion, may include me. As the love animating our hearts is identical, it is only fair that our fate should be the same. I wish this evening were safely over, that I might be satisfied that everything has gone off well; for I am afraid if poor Louis Blanc attends the mournful ceremony in his present state of ill-health and weakness, he may not be able to get through it. I shall not be easy until we are at home again. Meanwhile I pray Heaven and our angels above to watch over you and preserve you from all danger. I bless, love, and adore you, for all eternity.

J.

PARIS, _Wednesday, 7.30 a.m., April 26th, 1876_.

I thank you with sacred emotion, my dear one, for your inclusion of me in the sublime and magnificent exordium you pronounced yesterday on the noble wife of Louis Blanc. I accept it without false modesty, because I feel I deserve it, and I am proud and grateful for this ante-apotheosis you made of me, a living woman, standing at the open grave of the devoted deceased. I am sure her spirit will not have grudged it, and that she blesses you from above, as I do from below, joining her prayers to mine, that God may grant all grace and divine consolation to those we love. I have already re-read your splendid oration many times to-day, and although I know it by heart, each repetition discloses some fresh beauty in it. My one cry is: I love you! I love you!! I love you!!! All my heart and soul are contained in those words: I love you.

J.

_Monday, 10 a.m., November 11th, 1878._

No, my beloved, you have no right to endanger your precious health and risk your glorious life for nothing. "Art for art's sake" is not permissible in your case, and we shall oppose it strenuously, even at the risk of curtailing your liberty. I am sorry, but there it is--you must make up your mind to it. There are plenty of useless men in this world who may waste their lives as they like, but you must guard and preserve yours for as long as it pleases God to grant it to you for the honour and happiness of humanity. So, my dear little man, I implore you not to repeat yesterday's imprudence, or any other, for all our sakes, including your adorable grandchildren's and mine whose health and life and soul you are. When I see you so careless of yourself I cannot help feeling you no longer love me, and that my continued presence is so wearisome to you that you want to be rid of it at any price. Then I am seized with a desperate longing to deliver you of me for ever, rather than be the involuntary accomplice of your repeated suicidal acts, which have been ineffectual so far, not through your fault, but because God intends you to go on living, for His greater glory and your own. May His will be done. Amen.

J.

Victor Hugo Museum.]

The writing reads thus: "A la Juliette de Victor Hugo, plus charmante et plus aimée que la Juliette de Shakespeare." The original belongs to M. Louis Barthou.]

VILLEQUIER, _Friday and Saturday mornings, September 12th and 13th, 1879_.

A double letter, my beloved; to-day's and yesterday's, which, for want of paper, pens and ink, I was not able to send you at the proper time, in spite of the inexhaustible fount of my love. This morning being better provided, I can let myself go in the happiness of being with you in the house of your respected friends,[119] enjoying their tender and devoted hospitality. I am proud and yet shy of sharing it with you; proud, because I think myself worthy, shy because I do not know how to thank them or to prove my gratitude. Fortunately the honour and pleasure of your presence is reward enough for those you esteem, and from whom you accept this filial friendship, admiration, and devotion. I express myself badly, but you are accustomed to grasp my meaning, in spite of the lapses of my pen; so I never worry about the confusion of my scribbles, and I end them imperturbably, as I begin them, by the sacred words: I love you. I did not venture to ask your permission yesterday to accompany you on your pious pilgrimage,[120] but I add the prayers I addressed to God and your dear dead, to the sacrifice I was forced to make to appearances. If you allow me, I shall go before we leave Villequier, and kneel beside those venerated tombs, to offer under the open sky my profound respect and eternal benediction. I shall only do it if you consent, for I should not like to offend against good taste by the outward manifestation of the sentiment I cherish in my heart for your dear dead relations. I know you slept well--thanks evidently to the calm and happy life your friends provide for you in their circle, for which I thank and bless them from the bottom of my heart. I do not know whether the weather will be favourable to-day for the excursion we planned; it is foggy so far, but whatever be the state of the barometer, I am disposed to be quite happy if you are, and to adore you without conditions of any kind. By the way, how are you going to evade the attentions of the mayor and corporation of Le Hâvre without hurting the feelings of the poor workmen who implore you to go amongst them while you are in their neighbourhood? It is not an easy problem to solve. Luckily nothing is a difficulty to you--nor to me either when there is any question of loving you with all my might from one end of life to the other!

J.

PARIS, _Monday, 7 a.m., May 30th, 1880_.

How beautiful, how grand, how divine!!! I have just finished that glorious reading, and am electrified by the elixir of your ardent poetry; my fainting soul clings to your mighty wings, to arrest its fall from the starry heights in which you plane, to the profound abyss of my ignorance. I was afraid I might disturb your sleep by the rustling of the leaves as I cut and devoured them greedily, never noticing that night was turning into day. Finally, fearing to be caught by you, I dragged myself unwillingly to bed at three o'clock, and have now already been up an hour, in triumphant health, rejuvenated by the virility of the thoughts your inexhaustible genius pours forth without intermission before a dazzled and grateful humanity. My hand shakes from my inward tremor, and it is with difficulty that I finish this poor little cry of admiration. Even my voice, if I tried to speak at this moment, could hardly stammer out my adoration. I am in the throes of a kind of delirium which would be painful, were it not as exquisite as the divine love which overflows from my heart.

J.

PARIS, _Tuesday, 8 a.m., November 2nd, 1880_.

Beloved, Heaven decrees that in the absence of your dear departed souls, your sweet angels here below should be restored to you to-day. Let us bless Him with all reverence, and be solemnly happy with the memory of those who once made our felicity, and the kisses of your adorable grand-children, who constitute your present and future content. What joy it is to see them once more, lovelier than ever if possible, and in still better health. All night I listened to every sound, that I might be the first to welcome them on the threshold. I succeeded, and was repaid by their hugs. The sun shot forth its brightest beams in their honour. As for you, divine grandpapa, I trust your horrid cold will yield to the tender caresses that await you, and that we shall have you with us in our enjoyment. The least we can hope for is an indulgence in unlimited caresses, after these three months of separation. I make a start by flinging myself into your arms.

J.

PARIS, _Tuesday, 9 a.m., December 14th, 1881_.

I come to fetch my heart where I left it, that is to say in yours. I return it to you, praying you not to bruise it over much by unjust and wounding tyrannies. My independent, proud nature has always borne them ill, and is now in revolt. I beg you beloved, not to constitute yourself the critic of my little personal needs. Whatever I may ask, I assure you I shall never exceed the bounds of necessity, and never will I take unfair advantage of your trust and generosity. The position you have given me in your household precludes me from placing myself at a disadvantage in the eyes of your guests by an appearance not in consonance with your means. Therefore, please, dear great man, leave it to my discretion to do honour to you as well as to myself. Besides, the little time I have to spend on earth is not worth haggling about. So, my great little man, let us be good to each other for the rest of the time God grants us to live side by side, and heart to heart.

J.

PARIS, _Sunday, Noon, July 10th, 1881_.