"Man of great phrases, I write to you to inform you of the hatred with which you inspire me.I wish you to understand that from the first day I saw you, your bearing, your face, your manners, your whole person, have been objects of distrust and aversion to me.Ithought I recognized an enemy in you, and the result has proved that I was not mistaken.Now I hate you, and I tell you so frankly, for I am not a hypocrite, and I want you to know, that just now in my prayers I supplicated St.George to give me an opportunity of revenging myself upon you.What do you want in this house? What is there between us and you? How long do you intend to torture me with your odious presence, your ironical smiles, and your insulting glances? Before your arrival I was not completely unhappy.God be praised, it has been reserved for you to give me the finishing stroke.Before, I could weep at my ease, with none to busy themselves in counting my tears; the man that makes me shed them does not lower himself to such petty calculations; he has confidence in me, he knows that at the end of the year the account will be there; but you! you watch me, you pry into me, you study me.I see very well that, while you are looking at me, you are indulging in little dialogues with yourself, and these little dialogues are insupportable to me.Mark me now, I forbid you to understand me.It is an affront which you have no right to put upon me, and I have the right to be incomprehensible if it pleases me.Ah! once a little while ago, I felt that you had your eyes fastened on me again.And then I raised my head, and looked at you steadily and forced you to blush....Yes, you did blush; do not attempt to deny it! What a consolation to me! What a triumph!
Alas! for all that, I dare not go to my own window any longer for fear of seeing you ogling the sky, and making declamations of love to nature with your sentimental air.
"Tell me, now, in a few words, clever man that you are, how you manage to combine so much sentimentality with such skillful diplomacy? Tender friend of childhood, of virtue and of sunsets, what an adroit courtier you make! From the first day you came here, the master honored you with his confidence and his affection.
How he esteems you! how he cherishes you! what attentions! what favors! Will he not order us tomorrow to kiss the dust under your feet? If you want to know what disgusts me the most in you, it is the unalterable placidity of your disposition and your face.You know the faun who admires himself night and day in the basin upon the terrace; he is always laughing and looks at himself laugh.Idetest this eternal laughter from the bottom of my soul, as Idetest you, as I detest the whole world with the exception of my horse Soliman.But he, at least, is sincere in his gayety; he shows himself what he really is, life amuses him, great good may it do him! But you envelop your beatific happiness in an intolerable gravity.Your tranquil airs fill me with consternation; your great contented eyes seem to say: 'I am very well, so much the worse for the sick!' One word more.You treat me as a child--I will prove to you that I am not a child, showing you how well I have divined you.The secret of your being is, that you were born without passions! Confess honestly that you have never in your life felt a sentiment of disgust, of anger, or of pity.Is there a single passion, tell me, that you have experienced, or that you are acquainted with, except through your books? Your soul is like your cravat, which is always tied precisely the same way, and has such an air of repose and rationality about it, that it is perfectly insufferable to me.Yes, the bow of that cravat exasperates me;the two ends are always exactly the same length, and have an effect of INDERANGEABILITY which nearly drives me mad.Not that this famous bow is elegant.No, a thousand times no! but it has an exasperating accuracy.And in this, behold the true story of your soul.Every night when you go to bed you put it in its proper folds; every morning you unfold it carefully without rumpling it!
And you dare to plume yourself on your wisdom! What does this pretended wisdom prove? Nothing, unless it be that you have poor blood, and that you were fifty years old when you were born.There is, however, one passion which no one will deny that you possess.
You understand me,--man of the gilded tongue and the viper's heart,--you have a passion common to many others! But, hold, in commencing this letter, I intended to conceal from you that I had discovered everything.I feared it would give you too much pleasure to learn that I know.--Oh! why can't I make you stand before me now this moment! I should confound you! how I would force you to fall at my feet and cry for pardon!
"Oh, my dear flowers, my Maltese cross, my verbenas, my white starred fox, and you, my musk rosebush, and above all my beautiful variegated carnation, which ought to be opening to-day! Was it then for him,--was it to rejoice the eyes of this insolent parasite, that I planted, watered, and tended you with so much care? Beloved flowers, will you not share my hate? Send out from each of your cups, from each of your corollas, some devouring insect, some wasp with pointed sting, some furious horse-fly, and let them all together throw themselves upon him, harass him and persecute him with their threatening buzzing, and pierce his face with their poisoned stings.And you yourselves, my cherished daughters, at his approach, fold up your beautiful petals, refuse him your perfumes, cheat him of his cares and hopes, let the sap dry up in your fibers, that he may have the mortification of seeing you perish and fall to dust in his hands.And may he, this treacherous man, may he before your blighted petals and drooping stems, pine away himself with ennui, spite, anger, and remorse!"
