The Department of the Jura, with its mountains and cross-cuts, delays me more than ten days. I have one disappointment after another. It is as if I were still crossing my first mountain. I have not the least desire to go to Italy. It is pure imagination on your part. Your letter pleased me at times, and at others enraged me. I read sometimes between the lines the sweetest things in the world, and again you seem more chilly than usual. It is only the postscript that satisfies me. I saw it only the last thing. It is at such a great distance from the rest of the letter! If you write immediately, send it to Besançon; if not, address it to me in Paris. I do not know where I shall be a week from this time. LXXVII PARIS, _September, 1843_. I am terribly dull without you, to use an expression that you affect. I did not realise the other day, clearly at least, that we were saying farewell for a long, long time. Is it true now that we shall see each other no more? We separated without speaking, almost without looking at each other. It was almost like a former occasion. I felt a sort of calm happiness, which is not usual to me. It seemed to me for a few moments that I desired nothing more. Now, if we can experience that happiness again, why should we refuse it? It is true that we may quarrel again, as we have done so many times. But what is the memory of a quarrel compared to that of a reconciliation? If you feel about this half as I do you must be anxious to go again for one of our walks. I am going away on a short journey next week. Saturday, if you like, or even the Tuesday following, we might meet. I have not written sooner because I had persuaded myself that the suggestion to revisit our woods would come from you. I was mistaken, but I am not very much offended. You possess the secret of making me forget many things, and of making sentiment take the place of reason. Let me see you once more. I shall have no reproaches for you. One is fortunate to be able thus to dream. LXXVIII PARIS, _September, 1843_. Our letters crossed. You realise now, I hope, that my anger, which I now regret deeply, was not caused by what you imagine. Your letter proves, however, that it is impossible for us not to quarrel. We are too unlike. You are wrong to repent of what you have done. I was wrong to wish you to be other than what you are. I beg you to believe that I have not changed. I regret more than all having left you as I did, but there are moments when one can not be composed. I want to see you now that we may repeat one of our beautiful dreams of last summer, and to bid you a long farewell, leaving you with a sweet and tender mood.