« Quelle tristesse que Paris quand on revient des pays éclairés du soleil. Bruxelles est encore plus noir, pauvre garçon ! »

Three autograph letters signed by Gérard de Nerval (2 pages signed « Gérard »), Théophile Gautier (1 page), and a third, unsigned letter (1 page) penned by a certain « Robert » (cf. Nerval's letter)
 
Louis Desessart, Théophile Gautier's appointed publisher, co-published Nerval’s play Léo Burckart with Barba in 1839. Following financial difficulties, he was forced to take refuge « in that sad and charming city of Brussels ».
 
The three friends wrote this letter from Paris, where they had reunited following Nerval’s long journey to the East: « I spent six months in Egypt; then three months in Syria – four months in Constantinople, and the rest en route. It’s quite beautiful. I only enjoy myself while traveling and try to live twice as much as I can. »
 
This journey deeply impressed Théophile Gautier, who would only travel to Turkey and Egypt years later: « I am in Paris and wish I were in Cairo, from where Gérard is returning. » The exoticism of distant lands starkly contrasts with the melancholy and severity of Europe: « How sad Paris is when one returns from sunlit countries. » (Nerval) And in Paris, far from dreams of escape, life means toil and melancholy:
« We are like sick people who are never comfortable anywhere. I think the good times are gone, and the golden hours of the past when we spoke such wise follies will never return. What’s the point of living if we must work and cannot see our friends or write to them or do anything we would like? » (Gautier)
The two writers express great compassion for their friend’s Belgian exile, with Brussels appearing as the capital of spleen: « What ! You’re still in that sad and charming city of Brussels ! [...] Brussels is even darker, poor fellow ! » (Nerval)
This joint letter was in fact initiated by « Robert » :
« Isn’t it true, my dear friend, that I’m quite skilled at making you forget my faults? [...] as a way of making it up to you, I’m sending you the autographs of two of your [...] comrades, your fondest memories, two men of fame who, despite all their affection and friendship for you, would never have written a word had I not trimmed their quills and handed them paper like sulky children, and told them : write at once, at once to the exile you love most. »