Why should we not take a walk Friday? If it will not inconvenience you, it will give me the greatest pleasure. I hope we shall have fine weather. You promised, moreover, to tell me something which must be too important to be deferred. I shall bring along a Spanish book, and, if you like, we will read. You have not yet told me whether you would pay me for my lessons. The time which we spend otherwise than in what you are pleased to call talking nonsense, seems to me so ill-employed that I ought at least to earn something for my pains. Why should I not give you Spanish lessons at your house? I could call myself Don Furlano, or something else, and bring you a letter of introduction from Madame de P. describing me as victim of Espartero’s tyranny. I am beginning to find our dependence on sunshine and rain somewhat irksome. I want, also, to paint your portrait. You have promised often to invent some plan of meeting. You pretend to govern, but, as a fact, you discharge your duties very badly, and I can judge very unfairly, therefore, of your possibilities and your impossibilities. If you were to reflect upon the delicate problem of how to see each other as often as possible, would you not be doing a worthy action? There are many other things I wish to say to you, but it would be necessary to refer to our quarrel, and I desire to blot it altogether from my memory. I want to remember only our reconciliation, which you seem to regret. That would be unkind in you. I am sorry, indeed, that I must owe so much happiness to such an unfortunate cause. Good-bye. Consider your statue, and animate without first harassing it. LXVII PARIS, _June 14, 1843_. I am delighted to learn that you are better, and very sorry that you should have wept. You misunderstand invariably the meaning of my words. You interpret as anger or unkindness what is only sadness. I can no longer recall what I said on that occasion, but I am sure that I intended to express but one thing, which was that you had grieved me sorely. All these quarrels prove how very unlike we are, and since, notwithstanding this difference, there exists between us a strong affinity--it is the _Wahlverwandschaft_ of Goethe--there results inevitably a struggle in which I suffer keenly. When I say that I suffer, do not understand it as a reproach against you. Things which a moment ago seemed rose-colour to me, now look black. You know perfectly well how to efface with two words this blackness; and as I read your letter to-night I feel that, perhaps, after all, the sun is not hidden forever.