I have fallen into an abyss. I live in a world so curious, so strange. Of the dream that was my life, this is my nightmare.

It is in fact agreed that I am the plague, the cholera of the benevolent and generous men who are interested in art and that, when I show myself with my plasters, even the Emperor of the Sahara would flee.

When you left on Saturday, I felt a horrible void, I saw you everywhere, on the beach, in your room, in the garden: impossible for me to get used to the idea that you had left.

I have been back in Paris for two weeks. Nothing new. Life is still bitter.

If you are nice, and keep your promise, we will be in paradise.

I don't want to say anything because I know I am unable to protect you from the harm that I see.

Don't fear anything for your letters, they are burnt one by one and I hope you do the same with mine.