O dear mother! I have one question to ask, and I tremble when I ask it. Are you sure I had the small-pox? Surely I hope I had. I have luckily got acquainted with a woman who excels in all kinds of cosmetics, and other secrets of great importance. I must purchase them all, cost what they will. You cannot conceive how I am putting your lessons in practice, and successfully too; sometimes I affect silence, lost in thought, and counterfeit indisposition, that I may read the effects in the eyes of certain persons. The French excel in all kinds of intrigue; every man is a lover, and talks of sentiment, but be assured, my dear mother, that real passion never yet found its way into the heart of a Frenchman. I have seen the handsome Ferson twice; he passes for the richest man in Sweden; he lives in great splendour, but, at the same time, with the greatest œconomy. Pougent has promised to give me some lessons in music; he is natural son to the Prince of Conti. Would that I could say I was natural daughter to some prince, or any person that could boast of noble blood! and yet I think there is some in my veins; it is impossible I can be the daughter of a trumpeter; you know I bear no resemblance to him. You see how this sits on my heart; I can say any thing to you. I do not know how long I shall remain in Paris. I have bought a number of pictures; one day they shall adorn my _Chateau_. They have been chosen by an Italian, who is said to be a great connoisseur in that line, but the Italians are great cheats. Do not detain Krebs long; send him to me with good news. I wish you could see me, I never looked so charming in my life. Pray tell me if poor Elmenbent is alive; if she is, you must give her some money; she knows my age, and she may blab it with other secrets. As to.... Krebs will tell you how I am adored. You must not let him be near my sister, for the Count might ask him some questions, and you know how aukward he is in his answers. I have not time to finish this letter; I must dress for the opera. Write, write all, and send Krebs back on the wings of impatience.... * * * * *