Blush, good, white paper! I am giving an account of my feelings, and if they be impure, there's something wrong with nature.
Even as I write, I tremble with longing, with desire for Henry.
Ten days since we first met. It might have been this morning, so lively and overwhelming is the recollection. I am impatient for his kisses, for his blonde loveliness, for his whole self,—just as if we hadn't loved and kissed scarce an hour ago.
"My horse, Lucretia. We'll go for a canter. I must have air and plenty of it."
Pillnitz, September 10, 1900.
I must give some additional account of our first meeting at the court ball. Ah, I was the hussy for fair! He couldn't help seeing the impression he made upon me. My eyes must have reflected it in letters of flame. I wish he were as bold as the Duc, who slept on a pillow stuffed with the hair of his mistresses, past and present.
I never made such advances to any man. I was gone clean off my head.
When he reddened and when his left hand, resting on the hilt of his sword, trembled, I became intoxicated.
And I danced with him, and I was angry with myself for lacking the courage to say: "Feel my heart beat." My great-great-aunt and namesake, Marie Antoinette, did and won the love of her life,—Fersen.