_Monte Catini,
August._
The papers today announce the engagement of the Prince of Naples. And
so they are happy, for I believe it is a genuine love affair.
Charlton says the Prince is a fine fellow because he is a numismatist,
a collector of coins, while I think him a fine fellow for choosing his
bride so, and doubtless we both are right. I wish them all luck, don’t
you?
Boris and I said goodbye before I left Rome for Monte Catini. He may
have an idea of how happy I am (he saw me enthusiastically so) but he
didn’t let on. Indeed he may not suspect we are writing to each other.
He is starting for Paris, but journeying there only indirectly. I
can’t help wondering whether he is going to see you, or going on one
of his strange private errands--perhaps a combination of both. You
know every naval or military attaché is really more or less of a spy.
However, he is not acknowledged as an attaché by his embassy. Rather
peculiar, on the whole.
Just before leaving Rome he fought a duel. It appears he was rude to
the Marquis Gonzaga, who they say, behaved like a gentleman in the
affair, and there was a rencontre at which, alas! the Marquis was
scratched, literally scratched, and honor (the Prince’s honor) was
satisfied. So they shook hands. What a farce!
I believe that, as usual in such cases, a woman’s name was mixed up in
it, but I do not know whose. I sincerely hope it was not yours. I
remember they had words about you the night of Pittsburgo’s dinner at
the Grand when Gonzaga tried to kiss you. Perhaps Boris will tell you
all about it.
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