Letters of Two Brides

THE SAME TO THE SAME

April 2nd.

Yesterday the weather was splendid. I dressed myself like a girl who

wants to look her best in her sweetheart's eyes. My father, yielding

to my entreaties, has given me the prettiest turnout in Paris--two

dapple-gray horses and a barouche, which is a masterpiece of elegance.

I was making a first trial of this, and peeped out like a flower from

under my sunshade lined with white silk.

As I drove up the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, I saw my Abencerrage

approaching on an extraordinarily beautiful horse. Almost every man

nowadays is a finished jockey, and they all stopped to admire and

inspect it. He bowed to me, and on receiving a friendly sign of

encouragement, slackened his horse's pace so that I was able to say to

him: "You are not vexed with me for asking for my letter; it was no use to

you." Then in a lower voice, "You have already transcended the ideal.

. . . Your horse makes you an object of general interest," I went on

aloud. "My steward in Sardinia sent it to me. He is very proud of it; for

this horse, which is of Arab blood, was born in my stables."

This morning, my dear, Henarez was on an English sorrel, also very

fine, but not such as to attract attention. My light, mocking words

had done their work. He bowed to me and I replied with a slight

inclination of the head.

The Duc d'Angouleme has bought Macumer's horse. My slave understood

that he was deserting the role of simplicity by attracting the notice

of the crowd. A man ought to be remarked for what he is, not for his

horse, or anything else belonging to him. To have too beautiful a

horse seems to me a piece of bad taste, just as much as wearing a huge

diamond pin. I was delighted at being able to find fault with him.

Perhaps there may have been a touch of vanity in what he did, very

excusable in a poor exile, and I like to see this childishness.

Oh! my dear old preacher, do my love affairs amuse you as much as your

dismal philosophy gives me the creeps? Dear Philip the Second in

petticoats, are you comfortable in my barouche? Do you see those

velvet eyes, humble, yet so eloquent, and glorying in their servitude,

which flash on me as some one goes by? He is a hero, Renee, and he

wears my livery, and always a red camellia in his buttonhole, while I

have always a white one in my hand.