_Paris,
December._
I followed you to Paris and showed you nightly and by day in the
restaurants and the Bois, and all the places of fashion, and everybody
he look with eyes of admiration at you and at me glances of envy. When
you smile with me, then I was for a moment happy. But though you
smile, you do not stay--you go away to America. You are like pretty
floating milkweed, you touch here and there in your travels. The wind
(your Aunt) blow you from place to place.
In sables from Siberia I would dress you and jewels from the Urals,
and take you to the opera at Moscow. We would travel in the East, and
you are so clever, you would help me in my secret missions. We would
decipher riddles and gather secret news. You would fascinate the great
ones of the earth, and they would tell you tales of State that would
help the great cause. What would you say, _ma petite_? Be my Princess
and let me carry you to my castle in the mountains; it is a little
savage among the Tartars, but I hope the hummingbird find it in her
heart to make her nest there with me some day.
Soon I meet you in America and we talk again.
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