white.

I feel sad, unnerved, I should like to smile and to weep. No,
really, love is full of interest.

I was in good spirits this evening, I talked with my aunt, and
complained of M---- A----. She answered that M---- A---- was a girl
of the street, a worthless creature. I declared that she deserved
every punishment for having, without knowing me, from mere gossip,
formed a bad opinion of me and basely slandered me. Seizing a sheet
of paper, I wrote:

"Contemptible old creature, your daughter no longer loves G----,
she loves a door-keeper in the Théâtre Italien, who is a very
handsome fellow."

I sent this to D----, who is going to mail it as if it came from
Nice.

I wanted to howl this morning, but it would be too much like the
dogs--I sigh and I laugh, which is amusing.

"Good Heavens," I said to my aunt yesterday, "do you suppose I could
be in love? What I want is wealth. If my heart beats, it is when I
see superb carriages, magnificent horses; if I am agitated, it is
with the longing to have all these things.

"No, Madame, even if I loved any one, the luxury here would cure me
very quickly. You don't know me, or you pretend not to know me."