My dear Lolotte, the pain of our separation has inflamed my blood. My illness has returned. I have no fire in the room; you need to send me a stove, some fuel, bellows, a coffee pot, some cooling herbs, I will also need a closet. You must ask your mother again to go immediately to the doctor about whom I spoke to her and seek out a cornet, like the two I once showed her. I will also need a bowl and a pitcher of water.
Goodbye Lucile, goodbye Horace, goodbye Daronne, goodbye my old father. Write him a letter of consolation. I am sick, I have eaten nothing but your soup since yesterday.
Heaven has taken pity on my innocence and sent me, in sleep, a dream where I saw you all; send me your hair and your portrait I beg you, because I think only of you, and never of the affair which has brought me here which I cannot understand.