see the inconveniences of your position.  You will scarcely find anything without something that is annoying and troublesome, but if you cannot learn to put up with things you will never be a man.

“This is the end of my sermon.  I expect you have had enough of it, especially as you are not accustomed to reading my bad handwriting.  I shall be glad to hear from you, but do not consider your letter as a State affair, and do not torment yourself to arrange well-turned phrases.  I do not care for such phrases at all.  A letter is always good enough when the writer expresses himself naturally, and says what he thinks.  Fine pages are all very well for the schoolmaster, but I do not appreciate them at all.  Promise me to be reasonable, and to think of my sermons now and then.  That is all I ask.  You may be very sure that if it were not for my friendship for you I should not take the trouble to lecture you.  I should be afraid of annoying you if it were not for that.  As it is, I am sure that you are not displeased to have my lectures, and that you understand the feeling which dictates them.

“Adieu, my dear Adolphe.  Write to me often and tell me always about your affairs.  Take care of yourself, and try to keep well; but if you should feel ill come back to your native place.  There will always be milk and syrup for you, and you know that I am not a bad nurse.  Every one wishes to be remembered to you, and I send you my holy blessing.

     “AURORE D——­”

She considered him idle, and reproached him with his lack of dignity and with making himself too familiar with his inferiors.  She could not admit this familiarity, although she was certainly a friend of the people and of the peasants.  Between sympathy and familiarity there was a distinction, and Aurore took care not to forget this.  There was always something of the grande dame in her.  Boucoiran was devoted, though, and she counted on him for looking after her children, for keeping her strictly au courant, and letting her know in case of illness.  Perfectly easy on this score, she could live in Paris on an income of sixty pounds by adding to it what she could earn.

Casimir made no objections.  All that happened later on in this existence, which was from henceforth so stormy, happened with his knowledge and with his consent.  He was a poor sort of man.

Let us consider now, for a moment, Baronne Dudevant’s impressions after such a marriage.  We will not speak of her sadness nor of her disgust.  In a union of this kind, how could the sacred and beneficial character of marriage have appeared to her?  A husband should be a companion.  She never knew the charm of true intimacy, nor the delight of thoughts shared with another.  A husband is the counsellor, the friend.  When she needed counsel, she was obliged to go elsewhere for it, and it was from another man that guidance and encouragement came.  A husband