In all that you say and do you substitute invariably a conventional for a genuine sentiment. This is, perhaps, etiquette. The question is to know what it means to you, in comparison with something else with which, in my opinion, it would be silly and ridiculous to compare it. You know that while I have very little sympathy for false reasoning, I respect convictions, even those that seem to me the most absurd. You have a great many ridiculous notions (pardon the word) of which I should hesitate to deprive you, since you are so fond of them and have no others to take their place. But we are dreaming. Is it not the realities of life that awaken us invariably from our dreams? Should we still try to close the crevice through which we see fairy-land? What is it you fear? In your letter to-day, among a lot of harsh words and gloomy, pessimistic thoughts, you say something which is true: “I think I never loved you so much as I did yesterday.” You might have added, “I love you less to-day.” I am sure that if you felt to-day as you did yesterday, you would be full of remorse, as I predicted. Yet you seem scarcely touched by it. My remorse is of a very different quality. I repent frequently of sticking too closely to my occupation of being a statue. You opened your heart to me yesterday; I should like to have given you the same confidence, but you did not wish it. The linen cover still conceals the furniture! This is a subject upon which you compel me to scold you sharply. Yet, never did I feel less in the mood for scolding before receiving your letter. After all, I am like you: pleasant memories drive out the disagreeable ones. By the way, how affectionate you are! You are reserving a surprise for my departure. You can guess how impatient I am. Last night, while returning from dinner, I discovered that I knew by heart the speech of _Tecmessa_ which you had admired; and as I was in a thoughtful mood I translated it into verse--English verse, of course, for I detest French verse. I intended giving it to you, but I have changed my mind. Besides, I found a horrible fault of quantity in the word _Ajax_. It must be _Ajax_, must it not? When shall I see you, to tell you what you never tell me? You see that we rule the weather. It clears for our benefit. Between two storms we have always one halcyon day. Tell me, please, that it may be two days, for I am tied down to work now. XXXVII PARIS, _January 3, 1843_.