No, I am not Catholic, but I reject monstrosities.  I say that the hideous old man who buys young girls does not make love and that there is in it neither death nor birth, nor infinity, nor male nor female.  It is a thing against nature; for it is not desire that drives the young girl into the arms of the ugly old man, and where there is not liberty nor reciprocity there is an attack against holy nature.  Therefore that which he regrets is not regrettable, unless he thinks that his little cocottes will regret his person, and I ask you if they will regret anything else than their dirty wages?  That was the gangrene in this great and admirable mind, so lucid and so wise on all other subjects.  One pardons everything in those one loves, when one is obliged to defend them from their enemies.  But what we say between ourselves is buried, and I can tell you that vice has quite spoiled my old friend.

We must believe that we love one another a great deal, dear comrade, for we both had the same thought at the same time.  You offer me a thousand francs with which to go to Cannes; you who are as hard up as I am, and, when you wrote to me that you were bothered about money matters, I opened my letter again, to offer you half of what I have, which still amounts to about two thousand francs; it is my reserve.  And then I did not dare.  Why?  It is quite stupid; you were better than I, you came straight to the point.  Well, I thank you for that kind thought and I do not accept.  But I would accept, be sure of it, if I did not have other resources.  Only I tell you that if anyone ought to lend to me, it is Buloz who has bought chateaux and lands with my novels.  He would not refuse me, I know.  He even offers it to me.  I shall take from him then, if I have to.  But I am not in a condition to leave, I have had a relapse these last few days.  I slept thirty-six hours together, exhausted.  Now I am on my feet again, but weak.  I confess to you that I have not the energy to wish to live.  I don’t care about it; moving from where I am comfortable, to seek new fatigues, working like a dog to renew a dog’s life, it is a little stupid, I think, when it would be so sweet to pass away like that, still loving, still loved, at strife with no one, not discontent with oneself and dreaming of the wonders of other worlds--this assumes that the imagination is still fresh.  But I don’t know why I talk to you of things considered sad, I have too much the habit of looking at them pleasantly.  I forget that they appear afflicting to those who seem in the fulness of life.  Don’t let’s talk about them any longer and let spring do the work, spring which perhaps will breathe into me the desire to take up my work again.  I shall be as docile to the interior voice that tells me to walk as to that telling me to sit down.

It is not I who promised you a novel on the Holy Virgin.  At least I don’t think so.  I can not find my article on faience.  Do look and see if it was printed at the end of one of my volumes to complete the last sheet.  It was entitled Giovanni Freppa ou les Maioliques.