My dear friend,
Believe me that I was sincerely afflicted when I learned of the loss you suffered: a steam powered urinal is not easily replaced. Yours, which had, among other precious peculiarieies, the ability to sing the Marseillaise when in use, was certainly worthy of the esteem you bestowed upon it. So, it is easy for me to understand the despair that your sister felt when it became evident that the urinal was definitively lost. Nevertheless, from that to suicide is quite a step! And, although I know that many fond memories were associated with its possession, I cannot but condemn such a fatal resolve. But this censure does not prevent me from profoundly deploring her sad end. A suicide is always, for those close to the deceased, a tragic and agonising event; but when it is accomplished by means of jam, one cannot be less than terrified. Never would I have believed that your sister could resolve to die embedded in a vat of jam! and yet, all those unlucky enough to befriend her knew of her almost morbid attraction to jam, even in jars. Do you remember how she could not contain herself when she saw it with desserts, how she had to caress it even before serving herself? Numerous incidents of this nature should have aroused our suspicion; but, blind that we were, we never understood their profound significance. Her love of jam was in the end but the love of death by jam; and it took the completion of her fatal gesture for us to understand it all. Nonetheless, I shiver at the thought of how her last moments must have been.
Please believe that I share your pain, and approve of your decision to banish jam from your life. This is a healthy reaction and I can only commend it from the bottom of my heart. It demonstrates both your determination, and your courage in overcoming pain, as well as your instinct for self-preservation. I am truly glad that without jam, you do not, indeed, risk letting yourself be compelled to follow the example of your sister.
. . .
My dear colleague,
It's not for nothing that I was nicknamed the terror of Sebastopol street. When I pass near the square of Arts-et-Metiers, it stands aside for me, and the department stores lower their metal shutters. You cannot, then doubt that I exercise a sovereign authority in this neighbourhood that no one dares contest.
I did not write to you for the purpose of receiving advice. I expect something completely different from you: some money. In your interest as well as that of France and other countries, if not, beware! I will not back down for anything. I will not hesitate to replace all the bridges with wastepaper baskets and to root cops there. I will even, if your obstinacy forces me, go so far as to melt all the churches into floods of sticky mud which will flow across the cities so that the inhabitants will be obliged to evacuate via the roof for fear of being stuck in the streets. I am the emissary of the good wooden god and I can make your happiness just as easily as your unhappiness and that of the whole earth as well, by letting loose the loneliness which will cover everything like a tidal wave.
I will wait for you at the Porte Maillot tomorrow at midnight. I demand that you come alone, otherwise I will let the loneliness loose; and you know as well as I do what to expect from that.
Do not displease me because all the madmen are on my side. I have them in the palm of my hand like a fistful of pepper. Take care that I do not throw them in your face.
Until tomorrow.
