WORDS OF LOVE

Sunday.—­

You do not write to me, I never see you, you never come, so I must suppose that you have ceased to love me.  But why?  What have I done?  Pray tell me, my own dear love.  I love you so much, so dearly!  I should like always to have you near me, to kiss you all day while I called you every tender name that I could think of.  I adore you, I adore you, I adore you, my beautiful cock.—­Your affectionate hen,

SOPHIE.

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Monday.—­

My dear friend,

You will absolutely understand nothing of what I am going to say to you, but that does not matter, and if my letter happens to be read by another woman, it may be profitable to her.

Had you been deaf and dumb, I should no doubt have loved you for a very long time, and the cause of what has happened is, that you can talk; that is all.

In love, you see, dreams are always made to sing, but in order that they might do so, they must not be interrupted, and when one talks between two kisses, one always interrupts that frenzied dream which our souls indulge in, unless they utter sublime words; and sublime words do not come out of the little mouths of pretty girls.

You do not understand me at all, do you?  So much the better, and I will go on.  You are certainly one of the most charming and adorable women whom I have ever seen.

Are there any eyes on earth that contain more dreams than yours, more unknown promises, greater depths of love?  I do not think so.  And when that mouth of yours, with its two round lips, smiles, and shows the glistening white teeth, one is tempted to say that there issues from this ravishing mouth ineffable music, something inexpressibly delicate, a sweetness which extorts sighs.

It is then that you quietly call out to me, my great and renowned “lady-killer,” and it then seems to me as though I had suddenly found an entrance into your thoughts, which I can see is ministering to your soul—­that little soul of a pretty, little creature, yes, pretty, but—­and that is what troubles me, don’t you see, troubles me more than tongue can tell.  I would much prefer never to see you at all.

You go on pretending not to understand anything, do you not?  I calculate on that.

Do you remember the first time you came to see me at my residence?  How gaily you stepped inside, an odor of violets, which clung to your skirts, heralding your entrance; how we regarded each other, for ever so long, without uttering a word, after which we embraced like two fools....  Then ... then from that time to this, we have never exchanged a word.

But when we separated, did not our trembling hands and our eyes say many things, things ... which cannot be expressed in any language.  At least, I thought so; and when you went away, you murmured: