Yesterday the weather was splendid. I dressed myself like a girl who
wants to look her best in her sweetheart's eyes. My father, yielding
to my entreaties, has given me the prettiest turnout in Paris--two
dapple-gray horses and a barouche, which is a masterpiece of elegance.
I was making a first trial of this, and peeped out like a flower from
under my sunshade lined with white silk.
As I drove up the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, I saw my Abencerrage
approaching on an extraordinarily beautiful horse. Almost every man
nowadays is a finished jockey, and they all stopped to admire and
inspect it. He bowed to me, and on receiving a friendly sign of
encouragement, slackened his horse's pace so that I was able to say to
him:
"You are not vexed with me for asking for my letter; it was no use to
you." Then in a lower voice, "You have already transcended the ideal.
... Your horse makes you an object of general interest," I went on
aloud.
"My steward in Sardinia sent it to me. He is very proud of it; for this
horse, which is of Arab blood, was born in my stables."
This morning, my dear, Henarez was on an English sorrel, also very fine,
but not such as to attract attention. My light, mocking words had done
their work. He bowed to me and I replied with a slight inclination of
the head.
The Duc d'Angouleme has bought Macumer's horse. My slave understood that
he was deserting the role of simplicity by attracting the notice of the
crowd. A man ought to be remarked for what he is, not for his horse, or
anything else belonging to him. To have too beautiful a horse seems to
me a piece of bad taste, just as much as wearing a huge diamond pin. I
was delighted at being able to find fault with him. Perhaps there may
have been a touch of vanity in what he did, very excusable in a poor
exile, and I like to see this childishness.
Oh! my dear old preacher, do my love affairs amuse you as much as
your dismal philosophy gives me the creeps? Dear Philip the Second in
petticoats, are you comfortable in my barouche? Do you see those velvet
eyes, humble, yet so eloquent, and glorying in their servitude, which
flash on me as some one goes by? He is a hero, Renee, and he wears my
livery, and always a red camellia in his buttonhole, while I have always
a white one in my hand.
How clear everything becomes in the light of love! How well I know my
Paris now! It is all transfused with meaning. And love here is lovelier,
grander, more bewitching than elsewhere.
I am convinced now that I could never flirt with a fool or make any
impression on him. It is only men of real distinction who can enter into
our feelings and feel our influence. Oh! my poor friend, forgive me. I
forgot our l'Estorade. But didn't you tell me you were going to make a
genius of him? I know what that means. You will dry nurse him till some
day he is able to understand you.
Good-bye. I am a little off my head, and must stop.