Sweetheart, I too am free! And I am the first too, unless you have
written to Blois, at our sweet tryst of letter-writing.
Raise those great black eyes of yours, fixed on my opening sentence,
and keep this excitement for the letter which shall tell you of my first
love. By the way, why always "first?" Is there, I wonder, a second love?
Don't go running on like this, you will say, but tell me rather how
you made your escape from the convent where you were to take your vows.
Well, dear, I don't know about the Carmelites, but the miracle of my own
deliverance was, I can assure you, most humdrum. The cries of an alarmed
conscience triumphed over the dictates of a stern policy--there's the
whole mystery. The sombre melancholy which seized me after you left
hastened the happy climax, my aunt did not want to see me die of a
decline, and my mother, whose one unfailing cure for my malady was a
novitiate, gave way before her.
So I am in Paris, thanks to you, my love! Dear Renee, could you have
seen me the day I found myself parted from you, well might you have
gloried in the deep impression you had made on so youthful a bosom. We
had lived so constantly together, sharing our dreams and letting our
fancy roam together, that I verily believe our souls had become welded
together, like those two Hungarian girls, whose death we heard about
from M. Beauvisage--poor misnamed being! Never surely was man better cut
out by nature for the post of convent physician!
Tell me, did you not droop and sicken with your darling?
In my gloomy depression, I could do nothing but count over the ties
which bind us. But it seemed as though distance had loosened them; I
wearied of life, like a turtle-dove widowed of her mate. Death smiled
sweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly to die. To be at Blois, at
the Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there, a
Mlle. de la Valliere, but without her prelude, and without my Renee! How
could I not be sick--sick unto death?
How different it used to be! That monotonous existence, where every hour
brings its duty, its prayer, its task, with such desperate regularity
that you can tell what a Carmelite sister is doing in any place, at any
hour of the night or day; that deadly dull routine, which crushes out
all interest in one's surroundings, had become for us two a world of
life and movement. Imagination had thrown open her fairy realms, and in
these our spirits ranged at will, each in turn serving as magic steed
to the other, the more alert quickening the drowsy; the world from
which our bodies were shut out became the playground of our fancy, which
reveled there in frolicsome adventure. The very _Lives of the Saints_
helped us to understand what was so carefully left unsaid! But the day
when I was reft of your sweet company, I became a true Carmelite, such
as they appeared to us, a modern Danaid, who, instead of trying to fill
a bottomless barrel, draws every day, from Heaven knows what deep, an
empty pitcher, thinking to find it full.
My aunt knew nothing of this inner life. How could she, who has made a
paradise for herself within the two acres of her convent, understand my
revolt against life? A religious life, if embraced by girls of our age,
demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we, sweetheart, do
not possess, or else an ardor for self-sacrifice like that which makes
my aunt so noble a character. But she sacrificed herself for a brother
to whom she was devoted; to do the same for an unknown person or an idea
is surely more than can be asked of mortals.
For the last fortnight I have been gulping down so many reckless words,
burying so many reflections in my bosom, and accumulating such a store
of things to tell, fit for your ear alone, that I should certainly
have been suffocated but for the resource of letter-writing as a sorry
substitute for our beloved talks. How hungry one's heart gets! I am
beginning my journal this morning, and I picture to myself that yours
is already started, and that, in a few days, I shall be at home in your
beautiful Gemenos valley, which I know only through your descriptions,
just as you will live that Paris life, revealed to you hitherto only in
our dreams.
Well, then, sweet child, know that on a certain morning--a red-letter
day in my life--there arrived from Paris a lady companion and Philippe,
the last remaining of my grandmother's valets, charged to carry me off.
When my aunt summoned me to her room and told me the news, I could not
speak for joy, and only gazed at her stupidly.
"My child," she said, in her guttural voice, "I can see that you leave
me without regret, but this farewell is not the last; we shall meet
again. God has placed on your forehead the sign of the elect. You have
the pride which leads to heaven or to hell, but your nature is too noble
to choose the downward path. I know you better than you know yourself;
with you, passion, I can see, will be very different from what it is
with most women."
She drew me gently to her and kissed my forehead. The kiss made my flesh
creep, for it burned with that consuming fire which eats away her life,
which has turned to black the azure of her eyes, and softened the lines
about them, has furrowed the warm ivory of her temples, and cast a
sallow tinge over the beautiful face.
Before replying, I kissed her hands.
"Dear aunt," I said, "I shall never forget your kindness; and if it has
not made your nunnery all that it ought to be for my health of body and
soul, you may be sure nothing short of a broken heart will bring me
back again--and that you would not wish for me. You will not see me
here again till my royal lover has deserted me, and I warn you that if I
catch him, death alone shall tear him from me. I fear no Montespan."
She smiled and said:
"Go, madcap, and take your idle fancies with you. There is certainly
more of the bold Montespan in you than of the gentle la Valliere."
I threw my arms round her. The poor lady could not refrain from
escorting me to the carriage. There her tender gaze was divided between
me and the armorial bearings.
At Beaugency night overtook me, still sunk in a stupor of the mind
produced by these strange parting words. What can be awaiting me in this
world for which I have so hungered?
To begin with, I found no one to receive me; my heart had been schooled
in vain. My mother was at the Bois de Boulogne, my father at the
Council; my brother, the Duc de Rhetore, never comes in, I am told,
till it is time to dress for dinner. Miss Griffith (she is not unlike a
griffin) and Philippe took me to my rooms.
The suite is the one which belonged to my beloved grandmother, the
Princess de Vauremont, to whom I owe some sort of a fortune which no
one has ever told me about. As you read this, you will understand
the sadness which came over me as I entered a place sacred to so many
memories, and found the rooms just as she had left them! I was to sleep
in the bed where she died.
Sitting down on the edge of the sofa, I burst into tears, forgetting I
was not alone, and remembering only how often I had stood there by her
knees, the better to hear her words. There I had gazed upon her face,
buried in its brown laces, and worn as much by age as by the pangs of
approaching death. The room seemed to me still warm with the heat which
she kept up there. How comes it that Armande-Louise-Marie de Chaulieu
must be like some peasant girl, who sleeps in her mother's bed the very
morrow of her death? For to me it was as though the Princess, who died
in 1817, had passed away but yesterday.
I saw many things in the room which ought to have been removed. Their
presence showed the carelessness with which people, busy with the
affairs of state, may treat their own, and also the little thought which
had been given since her death to this grand old lady, who will always
remain one of the striking figures of the eighteenth century. Philippe
seemed to divine something of the cause of my tears. He told me that the
furniture of the Princess had been left to me in her will and that my
father had allowed all the larger suites to remain dismantled, as the
Revolution had left them. On hearing this I rose, and Philippe opened
the door of the small drawing-room which leads into the reception-rooms.
In these I found all the well-remembered wreckage; the panels above
the doors, which had contained valuable pictures, bare of all but empty
frames; broken marbles, mirrors carried off. In old days I was afraid
to go up the state staircase and cross these vast, deserted rooms; so I
used to get to the Princess' rooms by a small staircase which runs
under the arch of the larger one and leads to the secret door of her
dressing-room.
My suite, consisting of a drawing-room, bedroom, and the pretty
morning-room in scarlet and gold, of which I have told you, lies in the
wing on the side of the Invalides. The house is only separated from the
boulevard by a wall, covered with creepers, and by a splendid avenue
of trees, which mingle their foliage with that of the young elms on
the sidewalk of the boulevard. But for the blue-and-gold dome of the
Invalides and its gray stone mass, you might be in a wood.
The style of decoration in these rooms, together with their situation,
indicates that they were the old show suite of the duchesses, while
the dukes must have had theirs in the wing opposite. The two suites are
decorously separated by the two main blocks, as well as by the central
one, which contained those vast, gloomy, resounding halls shown me
by Philippe, all despoiled of their splendor, as in the days of my
childhood.
Philippe grew quite confidential when he saw the surprise depicted on my
countenance. For you must know that in this home of diplomacy the very
servants have a reserved and mysterious air. He went on to tell me that
it was expected a law would soon be passed restoring to the fugitives
of the Revolution the value of their property, and that my father is
waiting to do up his house till this restitution is made, the king's
architect having estimated the damage at three hundred thousand livres.
This piece of news flung me back despairing on my drawing-room sofa.
Could it be that my father, instead of spending this money in arranging
a marriage for me, would have left me to die in the convent? This was
the first thought to greet me on the threshold of my home.
Ah! Renee, what would I have given then to rest my head upon your
shoulder, or to transport myself to the days when my grandmother made
the life of these rooms? You two in all the world have been alone in
loving me--you away at Maucombe, and she who survives only in my heart,
the dear old lady, whose still youthful eyes used to open from sleep at
my call. How well we understood each other!
These memories suddenly changed my mood. What at first had seemed
profanation, now breathed of holy association. It was sweet to inhale
the faint odor of the powder she loved still lingering in the room;
sweet to sleep beneath the shelter of those yellow damask curtains with
their white pattern, which must have retained something of the spirit
emanating from her eyes and breath. I told Philippe to rub up the old
furniture and make the rooms look as if they were lived in; I explained
to him myself how I wanted everything arranged, and where to put each
piece of furniture. In this way I entered into possession, and showed
how an air of youth might be given to the dear old things.
The bedroom is white in color, a little dulled with time, just as the
gilding of the fanciful arabesques shows here and there a patch of red;
but this effect harmonizes well with the faded colors of the Savonnerie
tapestry, which was presented to my grandmother by Louis XV. along with
his portrait. The timepiece was a gift from the Marechal de Saxe,
and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece came from the Marechal de
Richelieu. My grandmother's portrait, painted at the age of twenty-five,
hangs in an oval frame opposite that of the King. The Prince, her
husband, is conspicuous by his absence. I like this frank negligence,
untinged by hypocrisy--a characteristic touch which sums up her charming
personality. Once when my grandmother was seriously ill, her confessor
was urgent that the Prince, who was waiting in the drawing-room, should
be admitted.
"He can come in with the doctor and his drugs," was the reply.
The bed has a canopy and well-stuffed back, and the curtains are looped
up with fine wide bands. The furniture is of gilded wood, upholstered in
the same yellow damask with white flowers which drapes the windows,
and which is lined there with a white silk that looks as though it were
watered. The panels over the doors have been painted, by what artist
I can't say, but they represent one a sunrise, the other a moonlight
scene.
The fireplace is a very interesting feature in the room. It is easy to
see that life in the last century centered largely round the hearth,
where great events were enacted. The copper gilt grate is a marvel
of workmanship, and the mantelpiece is most delicately finished; the
fire-irons are beautifully chased; the bellows are a perfect gem.
The tapestry of the screen comes from the Gobelins and is exquisitely
mounted; charming fantastic figures run all over the frame, on the feet,
the supporting bar, and the wings; the whole thing is wrought like a
fan.
Dearly should I like to know who was the giver of this dainty work of
art, which was such a favorite with her. How often have I seen the old
lady, her feet upon the bar, reclining in the easy-chair, with her dress
half raised in front, toying with the snuff-box, which lay upon the
ledge between her box of pastilles and her silk mits. What a coquette
she was! to the day of her death she took as much pains with her
appearance as though the beautiful portrait had been painted only
yesterday, and she were waiting to receive the throng of exquisites from
the Court! How the armchair recalls to me the inimitable sweep of her
skirts as she sank back in it!
These women of a past generation have carried off with them secrets
which are very typical of their age. The Princess had a certain turn
of the head, a way of dropping her glance and her remarks, a choice of
words, which I look for in vain, even in my mother. There was subtlety
in it all, and there was good-nature; the points were made without any
affectation. Her talk was at once lengthy and concise; she told a good
story, and could put her meaning in three words. Above all, she was
extremely free-thinking, and this has undoubtedly had its effect on my
way of looking at things.
From seven years old till I was ten, I never left her side; it pleased
her to attract me as much as it pleased me to go. This preference was
the cause of more than one passage at arms between her and my mother,
and nothing intensifies feeling like the icy breath of persecution. How
charming was her greeting, "Here you are, little rogue!" when curiosity
had taught me how to glide with stealthy snake-like movements to her
room. She felt that I loved her, and this childish affection was welcome
as a ray of sunshine in the winter of her life.
I don't know what went on in her rooms at night, but she had many
visitors; and when I came on tiptoe in the morning to see if she
were awake, I would find the drawing-room furniture disarranged, the
card-tables set out, and patches of snuff scattered about.
This drawing-room is furnished in the same style as the bedroom. The
chairs and tables are oddly shaped, with claw feet and hollow mouldings.
Rich garlands of flowers, beautifully designed and carved, wind over the
mirrors and hang down in festoons. On the consoles are fine china
vases. The ground colors are scarlet and white. My grandmother was a
high-spirited, striking brunette, as might be inferred from her choice
of colors. I have found in the drawing-room a writing-table I remember
well; the figures on it used to fascinate me; it is plaited in graven
silver, and was a present from one of the Genoese Lomellini. Each side
of the table represents the occupations of a different season; there are
hundreds of figures in each picture, and all in relief.
I remained alone for two hours, while old memories rose before me,
one after another, on this spot, hallowed by the death of a woman most
remarkable even among the witty and beautiful Court ladies of Louis
XV.'s day.
You know how abruptly I was parted from her, at a day's notice, in 1816.
"Go and bid good-bye to your grandmother," said my mother.
The Princess received me as usual, without any display of feeling, and
expressed no surprise at my departure.
"You are going to the convent, dear," she said, "and will see your aunt
there, who is an excellent woman. I shall take care, though, that they
don't make a victim of you; you shall be independent, and able to marry
whom you please."
Six months later she died. Her will had been given into the keeping of
the Prince de Talleyrand, the most devoted of all her old friends. He
contrived, while paying a visit to Mlle. de Chargeboeuf, to intimate
to me, through her, that my grandmother forbade me to take the vows. I
hope, sooner or later, to meet the Prince, and then I shall doubtless
learn more from him.
Thus, sweetheart, if I have found no one in flesh and blood to meet me,
I have comforted myself with the shade of the dear Princess, and have
prepared myself for carrying out one of our pledges, which was, as you
know, to keep each other informed of the smallest details in our homes
and occupations. It makes such a difference to know where and how the
life of one we love is passed. Send me a faithful picture of the veriest
trifles around you, omitting nothing, not even the sunset lights among
the tall trees.
October 19th.
It was three in the afternoon when I arrived. About half-past five, Rose
came and told me that my mother had returned, so I went downstairs to
pay my respects to her.
My mother lives in a suite on the ground floor, exactly corresponding
to mine, and in the same block. I am just over her head, and the same
secret staircase serves for both. My father's rooms are in the block
opposite, but are larger by the whole of the space occupied by the grand
staircase on our side of the building. These ancestral mansions are so
spacious, that my father and mother continue to occupy the ground-floor
rooms, in spite of the social duties which have once more devolved on
them with the return of the Bourbons, and are even able to receive in
them.
I found my mother, dressed for the evening, in her drawing-room, where
nothing is changed. I came slowly down the stairs, speculating with
every step how I should be met by this mother who had shown herself so
little of a mother to me, and from whom, during eight years, I had heard
nothing beyond the two letters of which you know. Judging it unworthy to
simulate an affection I could not possibly feel, I put on the air of
a pious imbecile, and entered the room with many inward qualms, which
however soon disappeared. My mother's tack was equal to the occasion.
She made no pretence of emotion; she neither held me at arm's-length nor
hugged me to her bosom like a beloved daughter, but greeted me as though
we had parted the evening before. Her manner was that of the kindliest
and most sincere friend, as she addressed me like a grown person, first
kissing me on the forehead.
"My dear little one," she said, "if you were to die at the convent, it
is much better to live with your family. You frustrate your father's
plans and mine; but the age of blind obedience to parents is past. M. de
Chaulieu's intention, and in this I am quite at one with him, is to lose
no opportunity of making your life pleasant and of letting you see the
world. At your age I should have thought as you do, therefore I am not
vexed with you; it is impossible you should understand what we expected
from you. You will not find any absurd severity in me; and if you have
ever thought me heartless, you will soon find out your mistake. Still,
though I wish you to feel perfectly free, I think that, to begin with,
you would do well to follow the counsels of a mother, who wishes to be a
sister to you."
I was quite charmed by the Duchess, who talked in a gentle voice,
straightening my convent tippet as she spoke. At the age of thirty-eight
she is still exquisitely beautiful. She has dark-blue eyes, with silken
lashes, a smooth forehead, and a complexion so pink and white that you
might think she paints. Her bust and shoulders are marvelous, and her
waist is as slender as yours. Her hand is milk-white and extraordinarily
beautiful; the nails catch the light in their perfect polish, the thumb
is like ivory, the little finger stands just a little apart from the
rest, and the foot matches the hand; it is the Spanish foot of Mlle. de
Vandenesse. If she is like this at forty, at sixty she will still be a
beautiful woman.
I replied, sweetheart, like a good little girl. I was as nice to her as
she to me, nay, nicer. Her beauty completely vanquished me; it seemed
only natural that such a woman should be absorbed in her regal part. I
told her this as simply as though I had been talking to you. I daresay
it was a surprise to her to hear words of affection from her daughter's
mouth, and the unfeigned homage of my admiration evidently touched her
deeply. Her manner changed and became even more engaging; she dropped
all formality as she said:
"I am much pleased with you, and I hope we shall remain good friends."
The words struck me as charmingly naive, but I did not let this appear,
for I saw at once that the prudent course was to allow her to believe
herself much deeper and cleverer than her daughter. So I only stared
vacantly and she was delighted. I kissed her hands repeatedly, telling
her how happy it made me to be so treated and to feel at my ease with
her. I even confided to her my previous tremors. She smiled, put her
arm round my neck, and drawing me towards her, kissed me on the forehead
most affectionately.
"Dear child," she said, "we have people coming to dinner to-day. Perhaps
you will agree with me that it is better for you not to make your first
appearance in society till you have been in the dressmaker's hands; so,
after you have seen your father and brother, you can go upstairs again."
I assented most heartily. My mother's exquisite dress was the first
revelation to me of the world which our dreams had pictured; but I did
not feel the slightest desire to rival her.
My father now entered, and the Duchess presented me to him.
He became all at once most affectionate, and played the father's part so
well, that I could not but believe his heart to be in it. Taking my two
hands in his, and kissing them, with more of the lover than the father
in his manner, he said:
"So this is my rebel daughter!"
And he drew me towards him, with his arm passed tenderly round my waist,
while he kissed me on the cheeks and forehead.
"The pleasure with which we shall watch your success in society will
atone for the disappointment we felt at your change of vocation," he
said. Then, turning to my mother, "Do you know that she is going to turn
out very pretty, and you will be proud of her some day?--Here is your
brother, Rhetore.--Alphonse," he said to a fine young man who came in,
"here is your convent-bred sister, who threatens to send her nun's frock
to the deuce."
My brother came up in a leisurely way and took my hand, which he
pressed.
"Come, come, you may kiss her," said my father.
And he kissed me on both cheeks.
"I am delighted to see you," he said, "and I take your side against my
father."
I thanked him, but could not help thinking he might have come to Blois
when he was at Orleans visiting our Marquis brother in his quarters.
Fearing the arrival of strangers, I now withdrew. I tidied up my rooms,
and laid out on the scarlet velvet of my lovely table all the materials
necessary for writing to you, meditating all the while on my new
situation.
This, my fair sweetheart, is a true and veracious account of the return
of a girl of eighteen, after an absence of nine years, to the bosom of
one of the noblest families in the kingdom. I was tired by the journey
as well as by all the emotions I had been through, so I went to bed in
convent fashion, at eight o'clock after supper. They have preserved even
a little Saxe service which the dear Princess used when she had a fancy
for taking her meals alone.