that comes from ambition; and the cause of ambition is a little blister under the tongue with a tiny worm inside it no bigger than a pin’s head; and all that is the doing of a certain hairdresser who lives in the Goròkhovaya. I can’t remember his name; but I know positively that he and a certain midwife are trying to spread Mahometanism throughout the whole world; and it is said that in France the greater part of the population has already accepted the Mahometan faith. [Illustration: “I SAID, ‘YOU NEEDN’T TROUBLE ABOUT TOKENS OF ALLEGIANCE,’ AND WENT AWAY.” ] _No date at all; the day was without any date._ I walked incognito along the Nevsky Prospect, giving no sign at all that I am the king of Spain. I thought it would be a breach of etiquette to disclose my identity to every one now, because, first of all, I must present myself at Court. The only thing that hinders me is the want of a Spanish national costume. I must get hold of some sort of mantle. I thought of ordering one, but the tailors are such absolute donkeys; and then, besides, they have quite neglected their work and taken to speculating. And now they have gone in for paving the streets. I finally decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I have only put on twice; but, for fear these scoundrels should spoil my work, I decided to sit with the door locked, so that no one should see me make it. I snipped the uniform all to pieces with the scissors, because it must have quite a different cut. _I don’t remember the day, and there wasn’t any month. The deuce knows what there was._ The mantle is made and quite ready. Mavra shrieked out when I put it on. I cannot make up my mind, though, to present myself at Court yet. There is still no deputation from Spain; and to present myself without a deputation would be a breach of etiquette. I think it would prejudice my dignity. I expect the deputies every minute. _Date 1._ I am amazed at the tardiness of the deputies! What can be the cause of their delay? Can it be France? Yes; that is a most objectionable country. I went to the postoffice to inquire whether the Spanish deputies had arrived; but the postmaster was exceedingly stupid, and knew nothing about it. “No,” he said, “there are no Spanish deputies here; but if you like to write a letter, we can forward it at the ordinary postage rate.” The devil take it! What’s the use of a letter? Letters are all nonsense! Apothecaries write letters.... MADRID, _February 30_.