_Tuesday night, October, 1842._
I have lost nothing, as it seems, by waiting for your letter. It is
studiously perverse; but believe me, perverseness is not becoming to
you. Abandon this style, and resume your customary coquetry, which suits
you marvellously.
It would be nothing short of cruelty on my part to wish to see you,
since this would cause you to be so ill that it would require an
enormous quantity of cakes to cure you. I can not imagine where you have
conceived the idea that I have friends in the four corners of the globe.
You know perfectly well that I have only one or two friends in Madrid.
Believe me, I am very grateful for the kindness you showed me at the
Italian opera the other night. I appreciate, as I should, your
condescension in letting me see your face for two hours; and truth
compels me to say that I admired it extremely, as I did your hair also,
which I had never seen so closely before.
As for your assertion that you have never refused me anything that I
asked, you will have to remain several million years in purgatory for
that pretty fib. I see that you are anxious to have my Etruscan stone,
and as I am more magnanimous than you, I shall not say, like Leonidas,
“Come and take it!” but I shall ask you again how you wish me to send it
to you.
I have no recollection of comparing you to Cerberus; yet both have,
indeed, several points of resemblance, not only because, like him, you
love tarts, but also because you have three heads. I mean to say three
brains; one, that of a shocking coquette; another, that of an
experienced diplomatist; the third I shall not tell you, because I am
not going to say anything amiable to you to-day. I am very ill and
miserable on account of several misfortunes that have descended on my
head. If you have any influence with Destiny, pray him to treat me
kindly for the next two or three months. I have just been to see
_Frédégonde_, which bored me to death, in spite of Mademoiselle Rachel,
who has magnificent black eyes, without any white, like the devil’s,
they say.