We left each other in anger; but to-night, when I reflect upon it calmly, I regret nothing that I said, unless it be a few hasty words, for which I ask your pardon. Yes, we are great fools. We should have realised it sooner. We should have seen how contrary were our sentiments and our feelings about everything. The concessions we have made to each other have had no other result than to make us more unhappy. More far-seeing than you, I blame myself bitterly for this mistake. To prolong an illusion of which I should never have dreamed, I have caused you the keenest anguish. Forgive me, I pray you, for I, too, have suffered. I would I could leave with you more joyous memories of me. I hope you will attribute to circumstances the vexation I may have caused you. Never in your presence have I appeared as I wished to be, or rather as I had intended to appear in your eyes. I had too much self-confidence. My heart has sought to struggle against that which my better judgment has demonstrated. Everything considered, perhaps you will come to see in our folly only its lovely side, to remember none but the moments of happiness which we have spent together. I do not upbraid you in any way. You have tried to reconcile two incompatible beings, and you have not succeeded. Should I not be grateful to you for having tried to accomplish for me the impossible? LXXXV PARIS, _Tuesday night, 1843_. All day I have expected a letter from you. This is not what has kept me from writing before, but I have been frightfully busy. I believe the fine weather to-day has had a solacing effect on my mood. I am no longer angry, even if I was so, and I can think with less sorrow of your lecture of yesterday. The clouds, perhaps, are greatly to blame for what happened between us. Once before we quarrelled in stormy weather; it is because our nerves get the better of us. I have a strong desire to see you, and to know your state of mind. Suppose we attempt to-morrow to take that walk in which we failed so disastrously yesterday? What do you think of it? Your pride will, of course, not respond to this suggestion, but I am now appealing to your heart. It will be very kind of you to send me an answer before noon to-morrow, whether you will or will not come. Do not come, however, if you are in a bad humour or if you have a previous engagement, and, above all, if you have the slightest doubt that our walk will obliterate the hideous impressions of yesterday. LXXXVI PARIS, _Saturday night, January 15, 1844_.