I think with you, my dear mother, that news from Spain comes slowly. I would like to know all that She does from morning till night, to satisfy the interest that I feel. I am, however, more easy now that I feel the true affection that exists between the King of Spain and Her. I hope, my dear mother, that we shall have in that direction sources of joy only. I pique myself now on being a great personage, and I think that "Mamma" is not suitable. But I shall love still more my dear mother than my dear mamma, because I now understand better what your value is, and what I owe to you. VERSAILLES, January 9, 1702. I have no news from you this week, my dear mother, for which I am sorry: but I think the ice and snow are the reason. The wretched weather prevents our going to Marly, for it is not fit weather for the country. I fear this winter will give us no amusement that I can write about; on account of the mourning there may be no balls, theatres, or any pleasures. I do not regret it much, for the carnival is very short this year, and consequently more easy to do without. January 23, 1702. I send you the plan which M. Mansart has returned to me. It seems to me very pretty, if the works are well executed. He begs me to ask if you would like him to send you a man to execute them. You have only to tell me what you wish. I will gladly take charge of it, my dear mother, desiring nothing so much as to please you in all things. The King of Spain's journey to Italy is decided on. This gives me great pleasure, and I see at the same time that they are still greatly satisfied with my sister. I will tell you more by the next courier. I am now going to see the Queen of England, and thence to Marly, where we shall dance. On this trip we played a comedy [this was the time when they played "Athalie"]; the king was much pleased with it, and so was Monseigneur. Forgive me, my dear mother, if I write badly; it is because I am so hurried. You know well that I love best to write to you and amuse you for a moment. Adieu, my very dear mother; I embrace you with all my heart, my dear mother, with all my heart. MARLY, January 30, 1702. Thank God, I am rid of inflammation, my dear mother, after having my cheek swelled for a week, with fever at night. The great cold prevented them from giving me remedies, of which I was very glad; they wanted at all risks to bleed me, assuring me that the inflammation would continue if it were not done. However, I am rid of the swelling without it, and, provided it does not return, I am content.