PARIS, _Thursday night, August 2, 1843_.
I am not as poetical as you. The χθὡν εὑρυοδεἱη, that is to say, the
broad earth, in spite of the mackintosh, was colder even than you, and
I caught cold; but I bear no malice. To do that I should have to read
all that you say, and that you consider agreeable. How many _buts_
there are always! How clever you are to deprive others of the charm
which may belong to them, and to absorb it for yourself! I say charm,
but I am wrong, doubtless, for I do not believe that marmots have any.
You were one of those pretty creatures before Brahma transmitted your
soul into a woman’s body.
To do you justice, you wake up sometimes, and, as you say yourself, it
is to fall out with me. Be kind and gracious, as you know so well how to
be. Notwithstanding my crossness, I had rather see you with your grand,
indifferent airs than not to see you at all. I told you wisely that all
that botanical collection was no good, but you will always have your own
way. I have discovered things much more curious than those found in
country rambles, and from less evident indications too. Take my advice,
throw all those faded flowers in the fire, and let us go and look for
fresh ones. Good-bye.