It would be self-conceit in me, Princess, to complain of your
silence. Your letters have always been for me a favor, a charm. I
am not meaning to say that I have the slightest right to them.
Nevertheless, as you do not reply to me any more, I hope you will
at least permit me to tell you how very much I feel the very
slightest marks of your kindness, and what a price I set upon
your remembrance.

Some numbers of the Gazette or Revue Musicale, which have
accidentally fallen into my hands at the house of one of my
Russian friends (for in this happy country of the Arts, and of
music in particular, you can well imagine that no one is foolish
enough to spend a thirty francs' subscription on the Revue
Musicale), have informed me that you had decidedly raised altar
for altar, and made your charming salon echo with magnificent
harmonies. I confess that this is perhaps the one regret of my
winter. I should so immensely have liked to be there to admire
you, to applaud you. Several people who had the honor of being
present at these choice evenings have spoken to me about them
with enthusiasm.

What a contrast to the tiresome musical soliloquies (I do not
know what other name to give to this invention of mine) with
which I contrived to gratify the Romans, and which I am quite
capable of importing to Paris, so unbounded does my impudence
become! Imagine that, wearied with warfare, not being able to
compose a programme which would have common sense, I have
ventured to give a series of concerts all by myself, affecting
the Louis XIV. style, and saying cavalierly to the public, "The