Paris 4 August 1889.
I found it so strange to have received no letter from you that I telegraphed to find out if you were well. Dr Peyron
answered me in a letter that you’ve been ill for a few days but that it’s already a little better.1
My poor fellow, how I wish I knew what to do to get these nightmares to stop. When your letter didn’t come I imagined, I don’t know why, that you were on your way here and would come and surprise us. Should you ever think that it might do you good to
be among people who would like to do their best to cheer you up a little, and who would like to have you with them, then think of our little room. It was inaugurated not long ago by Jo’s mother
so it’s proved usable. I hope that this indisposition was nothing but an after-effect of the previous crisis,3
but if there was anything particular to which you ascribe this recurrence, at any rate tell me.
Are the doctor
and the other staff good to you? Is a distinction made between the various patients, and does this depend on what they pay? When one’s concerned one imagines things to be different and worse than they are, so write to me
as soon as you can, and even if it’s only a few words. I’m not getting more concerned than necessary, but all the same I hope you’ll tell me everything. We are well; I feel much better than a while ago and am not coughing at all any more because of Rivet
’s medicine. In your last letter you wrote that we are brothers for more than one reason.4
I feel that too, and even if my heart isn’t as sensitive as yours, I can sometimes imagine the distress that you feel because of so many thoughts that aren’t resolved. Don’t lose heart, and remember that I need you so much. Jo
sends her best wishes for your recovery. I hope that you’ll soon be able to send good reports.