Another thing I have observed is that you never allude to my letters. You neither notice the complaints I make nor the love I shower upon you with every word. You have turned my happiness and content into sadness. My Toto, _you do not love me as I love you_. You have exhausted your faculty of loving. I tell myself that the enthusiastic and passionate devotion you once cherished for me has degenerated into mere partiality--then I mourn and mope, like a woman betrayed.
If you knew how I love you, my Toto, you would understand the anguish of my eagerness, you would pity me, and, instead of leaving my letters unanswered, you would fly to me the moment you have read them, to reassure and comfort me if my fears are unfounded.
Never mind, I give you a thousand kisses. How many will you waste?
You have written me a very charming letter. I cannot send you one as fascinating; all I can do is to give you my whole heart and thoughts and life.
You are quite right when you say that I shall soon give myself to you again, regardless of the sorrows that may follow. It is true, for I could sooner dispense with life than with your love.
But let me tell you again the joy, surprise, and happiness, your letter caused me. You are better than I, and you are right when you think me an old idiot. I am in the seventh heaven this morning. You have never given me so much happiness, my dear little Toto. I am so grateful! I cannot love you more in return, for that were impossible; but I can appreciate in a higher degree your worth and the depth of your affection for me.
You are my dear little man, my lover, my god, my adored tyrant! I love you, adore you, think of you, desire you, call upon you!
Which do you like best, quality or quantity?
I adore your jealousy when it gives me the pleasure of seeing you at an unaccustomed hour; but when it simply consists in suspecting me without advantage to ourselves, oh, how I detest it!
You were rather cross to-day, but you atoned so amply by coming as you did, that I would willingly see you a little bit unjust to me every day, if it entailed the pleasure of having you one minute longer in the evening.
If you only knew how true it is that I love you, you could never be jealous, or admit the possibility of my being unfaithful to you; and again, if you knew how much I love you, you would come every moment of the day and of the night, to surprise me in that occupation, and you would ever be welcomed with transports of joy.