How deeply your letter moved me; above all, when I compare our widely
different destinies! How brilliant is the world you are entering, how
peaceful the retreat where I shall end my modest career!
In the Castle of Maucombe, which is so well known to you by description
that I shall say no more of it, I found my room almost exactly as I
left it; only now I can enjoy the splendid view it gives of the Gemenos
valley, which my childish eyes used to see without comprehending. A
fortnight after my arrival, my father and mother took me, along with my
two brothers, to dine with one of our neighbors, M. de l'Estorade,
an old gentleman of good family, who has made himself rich, after the
provincial fashion, by scraping and paring.
M. de l'Estorade was unable to save his only son from the clutches of
Bonaparte; after successfully eluding the conscription, he was forced
to send him to the army in 1813, to join the Emperor's bodyguard. After
Leipsic no more was heard of him. M. de Montriveau, whom the father
interviewed in 1814, declared that he had seen him taken by the
Russians. Mme. de l'Estorade died of grief whilst a vain search was
being made in Russia. The Baron, a very pious old man, practised that
fine theological virtue which we used to cultivate at Blois--Hope!
Hope made him see his son in dreams. He hoarded his income for him, and
guarded carefully the portion of inheritance which fell to him from the
family of the late Mme. de l'Estorade, no one venturing to ridicule the
old man.
At last it dawned upon me that the unexpected return of this son was the
cause of my own. Who could have imagined, whilst fancy was leading us
a giddy dance, that my destined husband was slowly traveling on foot
through Russia, Poland, and Germany? His bad luck only forsook him
at Berlin, where the French Minister helped his return to his native
country. M. de l'Estorade, the father, who is a small landed proprietor
in Provence, with an income of about ten thousand livres, has not
sufficient European fame to interest the world in the wandering Knight
de l'Estorade, whose name smacks of his adventures.
The accumulated income of twelve thousand livres from the property of
Mme. de l'Estorade, with the addition of the father's savings, provides
the poor guard of honor with something like two hundred and fifty
thousand livres, not counting house and lands--quite a considerable
fortune in Provence. His worthy father had bought, on the very eve
of the Chevalier's return, a fine but badly-managed estate, where he
designs to plant ten thousand mulberry-trees, raised in his nursery
with a special view to this acquisition. The Baron, having found his
long-lost son, has now but one thought, to marry him, and marry him to a
girl of good family.
My father and mother entered into their neighbor's idea with an eye to
my interests so soon as they discovered that Renee de Maucombe would be
acceptable without a dowry, and that the money the said Renee ought
to inherit from her parents would be duly acknowledged as hers in the
contract. In a similar way, my younger brother, Jean de Maucombe, as
soon as he came of age, signed a document stating that he had received
from his parents an advance upon the estate equal in amount to one-third
of whole. This is the device by which the nobles of Provence elude the
infamous Civil Code of M. de Bonaparte, a code which will drive as many
girls of good family into convents as it will find husbands for. The
French nobility, from the little I have been able to gather, seem to be
divided on these matters.
The dinner, darling, was a first meeting between your sweetheart and the
exile. The Comte de Maucombe's servants donned their old laced
liveries and hats, the coachman his great top-boots; we sat five in the
antiquated carriage, and arrived in state about two o'clock--the dinner
was for three--at the grange, which is the dwelling of the Baron de
l'Estorade.
My father-in-law to be has, you see, no castle, only a simple country
house, standing beneath one of our hills, at the entrance of that noble
valley, the pride of which is undoubtedly the Castle of Maucombe.
The building is quite unpretentious: four pebble walls covered with a
yellowish wash, and roofed with hollow tiles of a good red, constitute
the grange. The rafters bend under the weight of this brick-kiln.
The windows, inserted casually, without any attempt at symmetry, have
enormous shutters, painted yellow. The garden in which it stands is a
Provencal garden, enclosed by low walls, built of big round pebbles set
in layers, alternately sloping or upright, according to the artistic
taste of the mason, which finds here its only outlet. The mud in which
they are set is falling away in places.
Thanks to an iron railing at the entrance facing the road, this simple
farm has a certain air of being a country-seat. The railing, long sought
with tears, is so emaciated that it recalled Sister Angelique to me.
A flight of stone steps leads to the door, which is protected by a
pent-house roof, such as no peasant on the Loire would tolerate for his
coquettish white stone house, with its blue roof, glittering in the sun.
The garden and surrounding walks are horribly dusty, and the trees seem
burnt up. It is easy to see that for years the Baron's life has been a
mere rising up and going to bed again, day after day, without a thought
beyond that of piling up coppers. He eats the same food as his two
servants, a Provencal lad and the old woman who used to wait on his
wife. The rooms are scantily furnished.
Nevertheless, the house of l'Estorade had done its best; the cupboards
had been ransacked, and its last man beaten up for the dinner, which was
served to us on old silver dishes, blackened and battered. The exile, my
darling pet, is like the railing, emaciated! He is pale and silent, and
bears traces of suffering. At thirty-seven he might be fifty. The once
beautiful ebon locks of youth are streaked with white like a lark's
wing. His fine blue eyes are cavernous; he is a little deaf, which
suggests the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance.
Spite of all this, I have graciously consented to become Mme. de
l'Estorade and to receive a dowry of two hundred and fifty thousand
livres, but only on the express condition of being allowed to work my
will upon the grange and make a park there. I have demanded from my
father, in set terms, a grant of water, which can be brought thither
from Maucombe. In a month I shall be Mme. de l'Estorade; for, dear, I
have made a good impression. After the snows of Siberia a man is ready
enough to see merit in those black eyes, which according to you, used to
ripen fruit with a look. Louis de l'Estorade seems well content to marry
the _fair Renee de Maucombe_--such is your friend's splendid title.
Whilst you are preparing to reap the joys of that many-sided existence
which awaits a young lady of the Chaulieu family, and to queen it in
Paris, your poor little sweetheart, Renee, that child of the desert,
has fallen from the empyrean, whither together we had soared, into
the vulgar realities of a life as homely as a daisy's. I have vowed to
myself to comfort this young man, who has never known youth, but passed
straight from his mother's arms to the embrace of war, and from the joys
of his country home to the frosts and forced labor of Siberia.
Humble country pleasures will enliven the monotony of my future. It
shall be my ambition to enlarge the oasis round my house, and to give
it the lordly shade of fine trees. My turf, though Provencal, shall be
always green. I shall carry my park up the hillside and plant on the
highest point some pretty kiosque, whence, perhaps, my eyes may catch
the shimmer of the Mediterranean. Orange and lemon trees, and all
choicest things that grow, shall embellish my retreat; and there will I
be a mother among my children. The poetry of Nature, which nothing can
destroy, shall hedge us round; and standing loyally at the post of
duty, we need fear no danger. My religious feelings are shared by my
father-in-law and by the Chevalier.
Ah! darling, my life unrolls itself before my eyes like one of the great
highways of France, level and easy, shaded with evergreen trees. This
century will not see another Bonaparte; and my children, if I have
any, will not be rent from me. They will be mine to train and make men
of--the joy of my life. If you also are true to your destiny, you
who ought to find your mate amongst the great ones of the earth, the
children of your Renee will not lack a zealous protectress.
Farewell, then, for me at least, to the romances and thrilling
adventures in which we used ourselves to play the part of heroine. The
whole story of my life lies before me now; its great crises will be
the teething and nutrition of the young Masters de l'Estorade, and the
mischief they do to my shrubs and me. To embroider their caps, to
be loved and admired by a sickly man at the mouth of the Gemenos
valley--there are my pleasures. Perhaps some day the country dame may go
and spend a winter in Marseilles; but danger does not haunt the purlieus
of a narrow provincial stage. There will be nothing to fear, not even an
admiration such as could only make a woman proud. We shall take a great
deal of interest in the silkworms for whose benefit our mulberry-leaves
will be sold! We shall know the strange vicissitudes of life in
Provence, and the storms that may attack even a peaceful household.
Quarrels will be impossible, for M. de l'Estorade has formally announced
that he will leave the reins in his wife's hands; and as I shall
do nothing to remind him of this wise resolve, it is likely he may
persevere in it.
You, my dear Louise, will supply the romance of my life. So you must
narrate to me in full all your adventures, describe your balls and
parties, tell me what you wear, what flowers crown your lovely golden
locks, and what are the words and manners of the men you meet. Your
other self will be always there--listening, dancing, feeling her
finger-tips pressed--with you. If only I could have some fun in Paris
now and then, while you played the house-mother at La Crampade! such
is the name of our grange. Poor M. de l'Estorade, who fancies he is
marrying one woman! Will he find out there are two?
I am writing nonsense now, and as henceforth I can only be foolish by
proxy, I had better stop. One kiss, then, on each cheek--my lips are
still virginal, he has only dared to take my hand. Oh! our deference and
propriety are quite disquieting, I assure you. There, I am off again....
Good-bye, dear.
_P. S._--I have just opened your third letter. My dear, I have about one
thousand livres to dispose of; spend them for me on pretty things, such
as we can't find here, nor even at Marseilles. While speeding on your
own business, give a thought to the recluse of La Crampade. Remember
that on neither side have the heads of the family any people of taste in
Paris to make their purchases. I shall reply to your letter later.