第 143 节

nd say, “I thank you,” and, without even looking at it, put it upon the table, immediately speak of something else, and when he has left the room, put it away out of sight without ever speaking of it again, or appearing to know what has become of it.

I have just been interrupted for an hour and a half by M. de Fiennes—very agreeable is it not? You must forgive me if I am unable to write to you at length; what I have said to you above is for the future, but the past is over since he has those studs. I forbid you to give him something in future, unless you cannot possibly do otherwise; and, in that case, you must give cigarettes or anything which does not last. I will see what is to be done about your shawl, was it not II who gave it to you? Thanks, my treasure, to walk so far from II; it is so good of you to give up to me that walk, which I hate when you take it with him.

Ah! new projects again, but let us hope these will be the last, how I pity you. You were so well you told me two days ago, and now you are already obligated to take some powders—it is II system. Nice health you seem to have; you have good reason for believing that the regimen you have hitherto followed is a good one, it succeeds so well! Poor darling I can comprehend how uncomfortable these frequent agitations must make you. I suffer from them so often myself.

I will make you some drawings later. I have not the time today. Those uncertainties of your mother are terrible. Oh, yes, I am in despair at that departure, particularly before my lot is decided, and knowing, as I do, that you are unhappy. But, my child, do not fear to let it be known in every direction that you cannot endure II, and that you have taken a disgust to him. Do not hesitate to give the true reasons when you refuse to do anything, simply, “Yes, or No, the hand, but with ……… it is not necessary. I can dispense with it, nothing of that sort is necessary.” And then, when that has produced the desired effect, add, “We can only live under the same roof upon those conditions, for sooner would I go away altogether than that it should be otherwise.” Speak in this manner; it won’t answer very well at first perhaps; but he will soon get accustomed to it, “How do you do?” in the morning, and “Good night,” at night. Then gradually get into the way of saying “Mr. C.” when talking of, or speaking to him. You may be told it is not the custom. Answer you don’t care, it is not the custom to be such an idiot as he is. Ah, you are too sad, poor child, all that is charming, and all our superstitions. Moreover, one must think of what has been, not of what will be, and compare it with what is. The progress is very delightful and consoling.

Do not be unhappy about my horse, he did not go very well, and then I do not care about driving in a carriage when you are on foot.

I have made two drawings, one prettier than the other, and I have had a copious emission.

Mrs. S. has made no tentative overtures towards me. She is often that way inclined, and with everybody. Be calm then; but, after all, you are perfectly so, only you pretend to be otherwise. God bless you for speaking so often of your pretty rose-coloured silk stockings. I like them so much, and adore you for wearing _them_, although it is not the custom, above all in the day time. Doubtless it is very coquettish, pretty, and wondrously exciting. Even only to think of them gives me an erection. And that rice powder! how divine you must look. It is to be hoped that the powder in your hair will not give ideas to II and embolden him—take care. Thanks for thinking so often of me, my idolized angel. Adieu, my good, my best treasure, I love and embrace you tenderly. I will have my revenge, for I, too, had prepared a half sheet, but will not send it till tomorrow.

Rome, _Saturday, for Sunday’s Post_

_August 6th, 1859, 2 o’clock_.

I wish to give you a little surprise, my own dear little darling, in sending you this letter, which you will receive with a half sheet upon which you had not reckoned on Tuesday morning, so as to supply the place of Sunday’s post. It was to give you this little surprise, and in no way of retaliation, that I did not send a half sheet in my letter of this morning. It was very unkind of you not to send yours upon the pretext that I was at Albano, but you will have been ashamed of it since. Besides, even supposing that I had been there, I should not have committed any indiscretion with your envelopes, which are so excellent, and, if one had felt inclined to do so, your letter was sufficient to make me indifferent to it. I suspect you of not having prepared what is necessary, I shall be sure to see if it be so; tomorrow’s letter ought to contain two. I continue your letter 17, and I perceive with rapture that you have had a thick cream-like emission of enjoyment. How delicious it would be in my tea. How I should like to send you some like it also. It is a good thing that my letter to the little girl was successful. Will you tell Madame de Delmar that I am sorry to hear that she is suffering, particularly as her ordinarily detestable disposition only becomes more thick and more execrable. Suppress this latter part if you think it better.

Ah! you think that Madame Salvi has played her cards well and in what way, I ask? You are too bad, too implacable. I do not like that in you. I have told you that your suspicions wounded me, and I think you can believe me when I tell you that I have completely changed my conduct in that respect. Besides, what can I possibly do. I am very uncomfortable here. The Abdol don’t want me; besides, the Duke has given me to understand that I ought occasionally to go and see his wife, and the Borgh bother me with all their children.

Thanks, my good angel, for the letter Des Pierre. If it be decided that you leave, I shall go for a few days to Civita—sad and mournful consolation. Why do you tell me that you will go barefooted when I go to see you. I am quite of your opinion that your feet are only too delicious. The costume rather disgusted me than otherwise, without, however, producing any effect upon me. Tomorrow I shall pay the Duchess de Grano a visit, and since it seems to put you out, shall not return again to Albano.

Heaven knows that the pleasure is not great, and that I care very little for it. The other day I did not even find it any cooler there. The Duchess of St. Alban’s leaves on the 20th for Schwalback and England on account of the apprehensions about war—another subject of uneasiness for me—such is life. I can go and live with the Duchess de Grano and Salvi. No one would say anything about the one, and not much about the other, whatever you yourself might say, but that annoys me exceedingly, and disgusts me, and I dare not do so with you. You might, however, have been my ambassadress, see what it is to be so seductive, so graceful, so pretty, so kind and gentle. Just fancy, dearest, that I have not answered Madame Rudiger. I must really do