My beloved little man, you are so good and sweet when you see me that it is a pity you should see me so seldom, and that you should forget me as soon as your back is turned. To punish you, I am not going to write you two letters to-day; partly in consideration for your dear little eyes, and partly because it would be unfair to reward indifference and coldness in the same degree as affection and assiduity. Pray do not take the above expression, "dear little eyes," in an ironical sense--I mean it on the contrary as an endearing diminutive; your "dear little eyes" signify to me my adored, beautiful eyes, the mirrors of my soul, the stars of my heaven, everything that is most beautiful and fascinating, gentlest, noblest, and highest.
I love you, my Toto. I kiss your ripe red lips, your dazzling teeth, your little hands, and your twinkling feet. I am writing only your little daily bulletin, because your eyes are bad, and you have no time to waste; neither do I wish to tire or bore you, but only to make you love me a little bit.
_Thursday, 8.30 p.m., November 22nd, 1838._
My little treasure of a man, you were sweet to select my hovel for a resting-place from which to write your laudatory remarks upon Mlle. Atala Beauchêne,[79] commonly called Beaudouin. It gave me a chance to admire your charming profile and kiss your beautiful shining locks. I thank you for that happiness, and I consent to your inditing daily effusions concerning that lady, if only you do so in my room and under my eyes.
As you promised to come back presently, the chances are that you will not return. I have half a mind to undress, light my fire, and set to work to bruise poppy-heads; for my provision is almost at an end, and later on I may be busy at the theatre, if Joly[80] persists in his crazy idea of giving us a whole week's rehearsals of a piece which is only to be played four months hence. It is an inducement to use the time at my disposal now, to prepare your little daily remedy.
I love you, Victor, I love you, my darling Toto.
Why is it, my little beloved, that you always seem so jealous? You take the bloom off all those scraps of happiness your dear presence would otherwise give me, for nothing chills one's embraces so much as the vexed, uneasy mien you usually wear. It would not even be so bad if you did not accuse _me_ of that same constrained, annoyed look; but the more suspicious you are, the more you think it is I who am cross, although this is simply the effect of the glasses through which your jealousy views me. Never mind, I love you and forgive you, and if only you will come and take me out a little this evening and show me part of _Lucrèce_ I shall be happy and content. What a beautiful day! I would have given days and even months for the chance of strolling by your side wherever your rêverie led you. Alas, it is I who am sad, and with excellent reason! As for you, you old lunatic, what have you to complain of? You are adored, and you are free to accept and make use of that sentiment as much and as often as you desire; perhaps that is why you desire it so seldom.... But let us talk of other things. Please love me a little, while I give you my whole soul.