I wished to write you a letter to-day, but remembering my promise, I have decided not to do so. I did wrong. You should have appointed the day and the hour, which would have saved us the inconvenience of missing each other. I hope, however, that this will not happen. I suppose you are really anxious to take this walk, for your letter is colder than usual. There is a charming equipoise in your actions. You are unwilling that I should ever be perfectly happy, so you make your plans in advance to put me in a rage. This will be, perhaps, more difficult than you think, for although I have been ill for two days, the world to-day looks rose-colour. I dined yesterday at a house where, as I entered the room late, among a lot of women I thought I saw you. Consequently I was struck dumb for a quarter of an hour. I did not glance in the direction of the person I supposed to be you, unable to decide, as is always the case when one is embarrassed, whether to speak to you or not. Making a desperate effort finally, I walked up to the lady, who turned out to be a Spanish woman whom I had met several times. It only rests with her to believe _che ha fatto colpo_. I am sending you Dickens’ _Sketches_, which amused me when I read them. You may have read them already, but no matter! At two o’clock, then, to-day, Thursday. XXXIX PARIS, _Sunday, January 16, 1843_. I thank you for having thought to reassure me, but I am anxious about those flushed cheeks of which you speak so lightly. I regret sincerely, I assure you, that my persuasions brought you out in that frightful downpour. It happens seldom that I sacrifice others to myself, and when this does occur I am overcome with remorse. Anyhow, you are not ill, and you are not angry, which is the most important consideration. It is a blessing that a small misfortune arises now and then to turn aside greater ones. We must give the devil his due. It seems to me we were both depressed, although happy enough at heart. Some joys are so deep that they do not show on the surface. I hope you felt a little of what I experienced. Until you tell me the contrary, I shall believe that you did. You say twice in your letter, “Good-bye, until we meet again!” You are sincere, are you not? But where and when shall it be? My last suggestion proved to be so unfortunate, that I am altogether discouraged. Henceforth I shall trust your inspirations only. I have a wretched cold this evening, but the rain is not responsible for it, I fancy. I spent the entire morning in a room without fire, examining Chaldean and Persian talismans and rings, while the antiquarian was dying for fear I should steal them. Just to tease him, I remained in the cold room longer than my wishes inclined me. Good-night, and may we soon meet. It is now your turn to command. Were it only to have you assure me that the rain has not given you a cold, or made you despondent or vexed, I should like to see you. XL _Sunday night, January, 1843._