So help me, God, I am in love with this man,—love him to the verge of poetry. Indeed, I am writing silly verse in his honor, and later haven't the courage to show it to him. Par example:
I want you most, dear, when the sunset bright
Makes of the hills a glorious funeral pyre,
So die the love-light in your eyes, if die it must,
And leave the wondrous, throbbing silence of the night.
Henry isn't very intellectual, I am afraid, but he is the finest horseman in the world.
If I were Queen, I would barter a regiment to have him appointed my Chief Master of Horse. Augustus of the three-hundred and fifty-two sold one for his first night with Cosel.
I am racking my brains for a pretense to have him appointed to court duty,—anything to give him the entrée to my apartments. But he is far too beautiful. The sanctimonious cats that envy me my happiness, that look upon love as a crime, would at once combine to destroy him.
Well, we'll have to bear with the difficulties of the situation forced upon us by these moral busy-bodies. As for me, I'll be thrice careful, for if He was taken away from me, all the joy would go out of my life.
CHAPTER XLV
LOVE AND THE HAPPINESS IT CONVEYS
My Grand Mistress suspects because I am so amiable—Pangs of jealousy—Every good-looking man pursued by women—A good story of my cousin, the Duchess Berri—We all go cycling together—The Vitzthums—Love making on the street—A mud bath.