treasures in store to bestow on those who endure to the end. . . .
Your letter has gained for you the sincerest of friends in the
person of my wife, from whom I have had no secrets for a long time
past, and she has known you by all the instances of your greatness
of soul, which I have told her, also by my gratitude for your
treasures of hospitality toward me. I have described you so well,
and your letter has so completed your portrait, that now you are
felt to be a very old friend. Also, with the same impulse, with
one voice, and with one and the same feeling in our hearts, we
offer you a pleasant little room in our house in Paris, in order
that you may come there absolutely as if it were your own house.
And what shall I say to you? You are the only creature to whom we
could make this offer, and you must accept it or you would deserve
to be unfortunate, for you must remember that I used to go to your
house, with the sacred unscrupulousness of friendship, when you
were in prosperity, and when I was struggling against all the
winds of heaven, and overtaken by the high tides of the equinox,
drowned in debts. I have it now in my power to make the sweet and
tender reprisals of gratitude . . . You will have some days'
happiness every three months: come more frequently if you will;
but you are to come, that is settled. I did this in the old times.
At St. Cyr, at Angouleme, at Frapesle, I renewed my life for the
struggle; there I drew fresh strength, there I learned to see all
that was wanting in myself; there I obtained that for which I was
thirsty. You will learn for yourself all that you have
unconsciously been to me, to me a toiler who was misunderstood,
overwhelmed for so long under misery, both physical and moral. Ah!
I do not forget your motherly goodness, your divine sympathy for
those who suffer. . . . Well, then as soon as you wish to come to
Paris, you will come without even letting us know. You will come