CHRISTMAS EVE

[satinette]

December 24th, 1857

To my darling, to my tender-hearted and weak-lunged Joseph,

The rumours of your impending death are not exaggerated this time, I hear from friends, again, but I shan't scold you for your secrecy anymore, sweet Josephine, since you have enough to worry about currently.

Likewise, I hear that I shan't make it home in time to bid you farewell on your next, great journey and it pains me that I will be unable to sit at your bedside and hold your hand which has so often satisfied me, if not physically, then in spirit. Believe me, Joseph, if these are going to be the last words you hear from me, let them be kind as you have been onto me.

The room I am sitting in, writing this letter, is the finest that any roadside inn could offer and I am warm and comfortable and yet, all that I am thinking of are your sweats that must be soaking your bed linen and your clothes, o, it's hateful. I know you detest the smell of it. How often have we not joked about a lady's overly sweet perfume or a gentleman's sandalwood? Well aware of what they are hiding beneath their Oriental odors. We have been cruel to the world, because the world has shown us none of the understanding that we have for each other, mon chéri. To each other, we have been tender and loving, since we first met.

I have loved you without passion, but with every inch of devotion to be found in this body. You alone, little Josephine, have been my beacon of hope for the uglier sex in which I would otherwise never have placed my trust. There are good men, I have learned. And you have been the best of them.

A devoted, faithful husband, one such you have been and what we haven't shared in the physical, we have shared in the spiritual, fully. In these things, soul and mind, you have always, always satisfied me more than any woman has satisfied me in the flesh. It is no small feat, little Josephine, for I have been satisfied many times by many women.

You have been patient with my whims and my bad manners. You have been tolerant of my freedom and accepting of my demands. In turn, be comforted in the knowledge that I shan't let any word or note or memory escape your estate when you are not here any longer. I will burn what we have agreed on and hide the rest for a different time. Prosperity will only know of Joseph Lavigne what he himself has decided.

This is my love declaration to you.

Have no worries, make Raimond play you that nocturne, then sleep peacefully and tight,
Satine