Chapter LXXXVII: PARIS, February 5, 1844

You chide me for my harshness, and, perhaps, with some reason. It seems to me, however, that it would be more reasonable for you to call it anger or impatience. It might also be fitting on your part to reflect whether this anger or this harshness is justifiable or not.

Consider if it is not a most discouraging thing for me to be engaged in an incessant struggle with your pride, and to see your pride get the better of me. I confess that I fail to understand your meaning when you speak of your obedience, which always puts you in the wrong, and which gives you no credit for anything you do. The contrary, it seems to me, is nearer the truth; but on your part it is a question of neither wrong nor merit. Recall for a moment frankly what you are to me. You agree to come with me on those walks which are my life; but your coldness, perpetually renewed, which disheartens me more and more; the pleasure designed, or, as I prefer to believe, instinctive, which you take in making me desire that which you refuse obstinately, may be an excuse for my harshness.

If you have done any wrong, however, it is most certainly that you let your pride take the precedence over your affections. The first sentiment is to the second as a colossus to a pygmy. Your pride is, in reality, only a variety of selfishness. Will you some day abandon this grievous fault, and be as lovable to me as you know how to be? Willingly would I accept this condition, if you would promise to be entirely frank, and if you had the courage to keep your promise. It would be for me, perhaps, a sad experience; nevertheless, I should accept it joyfully, since in any case you would be happy, you say.

Good-bye, and may it not be for long. Wear your seven-league boots, and we shall have a lovely walk; if the weather were no worse than it has been for several days, you would run no risk of catching cold. I am suffering severely from headache and dizziness, but I hope you will cure me.

LXXXVIII

PARIS, _March 12, 1844_.

That is all right. As if I had not vexations enough of every kind! A hundred calls to make! A library which orders me to write and discuss forty pages of prose matter! Proofs to correct! It seems to me that, knowing all this, you might at least send me a few lines of encouragement. I have almost reached the end of my courage, and of my patience. Fortunately, it will all end next Thursday.[9] Thursday, at one o’clock, I shall become once more an ordinary biped. In the meantime, is it too much to ask you to send me a few words of affection, such as you found to say the last time I saw you? It is three o’clock, and I must leave you for my proofs of _Mademoiselle Arsène Guillot_. Monday, or, rather, Tuesday.