Edgar, these two years I really lived—.  In that little room I spent what will remain, I very much fear, the purest, the brightest, the best period of my whole life.  I am not of much account now, formerly I was nothing; the little good that is in me was developed in those two years of deep vigils.  I thought, reflected, suffered and nourished myself with the bread of the strong.  I initiated myself into the stern delights of study, the austere joys of poverty.

O! days of labor and privation, beautiful days!  Where have you gone?  Holy enchantments, shall I ever taste you again?  Silent and meditative nights! when at the first glimmer of dawn I saw the angel of revery alight at my side, bend his beautiful face over me, and fold my wearied limbs in his white wings; blissful nights! will you ever return?

If you only knew the life I led through these two years!  If you knew what dreams visited me in that humble nest by the dim light of the lamp, you would be jealous of them, my poet!

The days were passed in serious study.  At evening I took my frugal repast, in winter, by the hearth, in summer by the open window.  In December I had guests that kings might have envied.  Hugo, George Sand, Lamartine, De Musset, yourself, dear Edgar.  In April I had the soft breezes, the perfume of the lilacs, the song of the birds warbling among the branches, and the joyous cries of the children playing in the distant alleys, while the young mothers passed slowly through the fresh grass, their faces wreathed with sweet smiles, like the happy shadows that wander through the Elysian fields.

Sometimes on a dark night I would venture into the streets of Paris, my hat drawn over my eyes to keep out the glare of gas.  On one of these solitary rambles I met you.  Imagine the courage I required not to rush into your open arms.  I returned frequently along the quays, listening to the confused roar, like the distant swell of the ocean, made by the great city before falling to sleep, listening to the murmurs of the river and gazing at the moon like a burning disk from the furnace, slowly rising behind the towers of Notre Dame.

Often I prowled under the windows of my friends, stopping at yours to send you a good-night.

Returning home I would rekindle my fire and begin anew my labors, interrupted from time to time by the bells of the neighboring convents and the sound of the hours striking sadly in the darkness.

O! nights more beautiful than the day.  It was then that I felt germinate and flourish in my heart a strange love.

Opposite me, beyond the garden that separated us, was a window, in a story on a level with mine; it was hid during the day by the tall pines, but its light shone clear and bright through the foliage.  This lamp was lit invariably at the same hour every evening and was rarely extinguished before dawn.  There, I thought, one of God’s poor creatures works and suffers.  Sometimes I rose from my desk to look at this little star twinkling between heaven and earth, and with my brow pressed against the pane gazed sadly at it.