Maurice LEBLANC (1864-1941). L.A.S. "Maurice", Nice December 7 [1889?], to Louis Fabulet; 12 pages in-8. A very beautiful, long letter revealing the strength of his feelings for his sister, the singer Georgette Leblanc. The letter is addressed to his close friend and former classmate at the Lycée de Rouen, Louis Fabulet (1862-1933), translator (of Kipling in particular). We will only quote a few extracts. He is in Nice with his wife and his "mioche" (his daughter, who was born on November 28)... "My present kind of life, which lends itself to a new kind of life," he says.My present way of life, which lends itself wonderfully to regular work and constant production, unfortunately prevents me from thinking about anything that is not within my sphere of ideas, within the radius of dreams and reflections where the work in progress moves me. The beings that surround me, all essentially banal and unsuggestive, absorb, and beyond, what is material and down-to-earth in me. Apart from the few books I allow myself to read, apart from my sister's letters, that so original and artistic spirit, I have nothing. [...] When I study my present state of mind [...], I discover two contrary feelings, one of love for my wife, the other of infinite affection for my sister. Between them, they dominate my life. One is more indispensable than the other, my sister. I can lose the other, but I know how to replace her. For me, my sister is irreplaceable. I love her above all else, I love her only. She is friendship, the other is only love. [...] With Marie I eat, I sleep, I go for walks; with Georgette I dream, I think, I hope. Everything is happy, absolutely happy with the one, I imagine the greater, higher, more delicate happiness I would have with the other. In this way, I have come to a complete splitting of my being. One part of me lives in the present, the other in a future that I call from the depths of my soul, and yet that I push away when it seems to be too close to me. [...] And yet, when it was all over, when the child had been pulled from its mother's womb, when the mother had smiled at me, delivered at last, [...] then I felt that my chain was forever riveted, that there was no more hope, and more tears, bitter tears ran down my cheeks"... He leads "a reclusive, happy, fairly banal life, in the midst of which I have reserved for myself a large part of the dream; the dream is life in Paris in winter, in the country in summer, with my sister, an artistic, eventful, original life. Dreams are enough to fuel the romantic side of me". He talks about his success with women... Then he tries to reassure his friend, who is having a crisis of anxiety and mysticism. Finally, he mentions a few books, Les Fellatores, and Sodome by Henri d'Argis... Etc.