_My Dear Heart_,--The Emperor received me today, and I handed over my credentials; he received me kindly, is looking well, has grown somewhat stouter, but by no means fat and aged, as he generally is in caricatures. The Empress is still one of the most beautiful women I know, in spite of Petersburg; she has, if anything, grown more beautiful in the past five years. The whole affair was official, ceremonial; I was taken back in court-carriage with master of ceremonies, etc. Next time I shall probably have a private audience. I long for business, for I don't know what to do with myself. Today I dined alone, the young gentlemen were out; the entire evening rain; and at home alone. To whom should I go? In the midst of big Paris I am lonelier than you are at Reinfeld, and sit here like a rat in a deserted house. The only pleasure I have had was sending the cook away because of overcharges. You know my indulgence in this matter, but Rembours was a child in comparison. I am dining for the present in a café. How long that will last, God knows. I shall probably receive a summons, by telegram, to Berlin, in eight or ten days, and then good-by to this song-and-dance. If my opponents only knew what a boon their victory would be to me, and how heartily I desire it! Then Rechberg would, perhaps, out of malice, do his best to have me called to Berlin. You can't have any more aversion to Wilhelmstrasse than myself, and if I am not persuaded that it must be, then I will not go. I consider it cowardice and disloyalty to leave the King in the lurch, under pretence of illness. If it is not to be, then God will permit those who search to find another _princillon_ who will offer himself as cover for the pot. If it is to be, then "_s'Bogom"_ ("with God"), as our Russian drivers used to say, when they took up the reins. * * * Your v.B. Bordeaux, July 27, '62.