Last summer I happened to fall on a little money. My minister gave me three months’ holiday, and I spent five running about from Malta to Athens and from Ephesus to Constantinople. During these five months I was not bored for five minutes. What would have become of you, to whom I was once such an object of terror, if you had met me during my Asiatic journey, with a belt of pistols, a huge sword, and--would you believe it?--a moustache that extended beyond my ears! Without intending any flattery, I should have struck fear into the heart of the boldest brigand of melodrama. At Constantinople I saw the Sultan, in patent-leather boots, and a frock-coat, and again, afterwards, covered with diamonds in the procession of the _Baïram_. On the same occasion, a handsome woman, on whose toe I had stepped by accident, slapped me severely and called me a _giaour_. This constituted my only intercourse with the Turkish beauties. At Athens, and in Asia, I saw the most splendid monuments in the world, and the loveliest landscapes possible to imagine. The only drawback consisted in fleas and gnats as big as larks; consequently I never slept. Meanwhile, I have grown old. My passport describes me as having turtle locks, which is a pleasant Oriental metaphor for saying all sorts of disagreeable things. Picture to yourself your friend as quite gray. And you, _querida_, have you changed? I am waiting impatiently until you become less pretty, so that I may see you. In two or three years from now, when you write to me, tell me what you are doing and when we are to see each other. Your “respectful remembrance” made me laugh, and also that you should presume to dispute its place in my heart with Ionic and Corinthian columns. In the first place, I do not care for any but the Doric, and there are no columns, not even excepting those of the Parthenon, which can be compared to the memory of an old friendship. Good-bye; go to Italy, and be happy. I start to-day for Evreux, on a matter of business, expecting to return Monday night. If you wish to eat rose leaves, say so; but I warn you there is only a spoonful left for you. XV PARIS, _Monday night, March, 1842_. I have just received your letter, which has put me in a bad humour. So it is your satanic pride which has kept you from seeing me. It is not for me to reproach you, however, for I think I saw you the other day, and was restrained from speaking to you by a feeling quite as paltry. You say you are better than you were two years ago. It is very well for you to say that. I admit that you are more beautiful, but, on the other hand, you seem to have absorbed a good dose of selfishness and hypocrisy. These may be very useful, but they are not qualities for one to brag about. As for me, I have become neither better nor worse; I am not more of a hypocrite than I was, and I may be wrong. Certain it is that I am not loved more on this account.