MADAM, do you know the old play? It is quite an extraordinary play, only a little too melancholy. I once played the leading part in it myself, so that all the ladies wept; only one did not weep, not even a single tear, and that was the point of the play, the whole catastrophe. Oh, that single tear! it still torments my thoughts. When Satan wishes to ruin my soul, he hums in my ear a ballad of that unwept tear, a deadly song with a more deadly tune. Ah, such a tune is only heard in hell! You can readily form an idea, Madam, of what life is like in heaven, the _more_ readily as you are married. There people amuse themselves altogether superbly, every sort of entertainment is provided, and one lives in mere desire and delight. One eats from morning to night, and the cookery is as good as Fagor’s; roast geese fly round with gravy-boats in their bills, and feel flattered if any one eats them; tarts gleaming with butter grow wild like sunflowers; everywhere there are brooks of bouillon and champagne, everywhere trees on which napkins flutter, and you eat and wipe your lips and eat again without injury to your stomach; you sing psalms or flirt and joke with the dear, delicate little angels, or take a walk on the green Hallelujah-meadow; and your white flowing garments fit very comfortably; and nothing disturbs the feeling of blessedness; no pain, no vexation--even when one accidentally treads on another’s corns and exclaims, “_Excusez_,” he smiles as if enraptured, and assures, “Thy foot, brother, did not hurt in the least; quite _au contraire_--a deeper thrill of heavenly rapture shoots through my heart!”