If you ordain it, Lucullus will retreat into the skin of Diogenes in order not again to read these words: "Your goings-on as Lucullus will retard your freedom."
I dine to-day with one of those who _took_ Algiers, the commissary-general Denniée, who for the last three years is in love with an admired creature (rather a fool), Mademoiselle Amigo, of the Italian Opera. There, came Rossini, in dishabille and not sarcastic. Yesterday, at the first representation of "Erani," Olympe said to me, motioning to Rossini:--
"You cannot imagine how beautiful and sublime the soul of that being is; how kind he is, and to what point he is kind. To reserve his heart and its treasures for her he loves, he wraps himself in sarcasm to the eyes of others; he makes himself prickly."
I took Rossini's hand and pressed it joyfully.
_Mio maestro_," I said to him; "then we can understand each other."
I lowered my head; then I showed him all that brilliant Paris which was present, and said:--
"To cast one's diamonds and pearls into that mud--"
And at that moment my eyes fell upon "Delmar's" box.
My letter has remained for eight days on, in, and underneath "Le Père Goriot." I have had a thousand money worries, but I am getting out of them. Never have I been so powerful to get through this business by my firm will. Another few months, and I am saved.
Within a few days a little joy has come to me. After much pressing, and receiving no for an answer for the last three years, they have consented to sell me "La Grenadière." So I shall have a retreat for study, and the furniture, books, and arrangements I should make will remain mine. I could live there six months, incognito, without seeing any one. So here I am, very happy--so far as a material thing can give happiness.
You have been proud of "Père Goriot." My friends declare that it is comparable to nothing, and is above all my other compositions.
Do you know that I am uneasy on what your last letter said relating to depth of heart, to which no man could ever attain. Those few words make me think you do not know me well, and it grieves me, because you cannot love me as well as I might be loved if I were known better. _Mon Dieu!_ I am the object of a thousand calumnies, each more ignoble than the others, and I pay no more attention to them than he who is above the Jura listens to Pictet. Is that a merit? But a word from you puts alarm into my brain, into my heart.