I have often told you of my arguments with Louise de Chaulieu in relation to the manner in which women ought to look at life.  I used to tell her that the passion with which she never ceased to pursue the ideal was ill-regulated and fatal to happiness.  To this she answered:  “You have never loved, my dearest; love has this rare phenomenon about it:  we may live all our lives without ever meeting the being to whom nature has assigned the power of making us happy.  But if the day of splendor comes when that being unexpectedly awakes your heart from sleep, what will you do then?” [See “Memoirs of Two Young Married Women.”]

The words of those about to die are often prophetic.  What if this man were to be the tardy serpent with whom Louise threatened me?  That he could ever be really dangerous to me; that he could make me fail in my duty, that is certainly not what I fear; I am strong against all such extremes.  But I did not, like you, my dear Madame de Camps, marry a man whom my heart had chosen.  It was only by dint of patience, determination, and reason that I was able to build up the solid and serious attachment which binds me to Monsieur de l’Estorade.  Ought I not, therefore, to be doubly cautious lest anything distract me from that sentiment, be it only the diversion of my thoughts in this annoying manner, to another man?

I shall say to you, as, MONSIEUR, Louis XIV.’s brother, said to his wife, to whom he was in the habit of showing what he had written and asking her to decipher it:  See into my heart and mind, dear friend, disperse the mists, quiet the worries, and the flux and reflux of will which this affair stirs up in me.  My poor Louise was mistaken, was she not?  I am not a woman, am I, on whom the passion of love could gain a foothold?  The man who, on some glorious day, will render me happy is my Armand, my Rene, my Nais, three angels for whom I have hitherto lived—­there can never be for me, I feel it deeply, another passion!

V

THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE TO MADAME OCTAVE DE CAMPS

Paris, March, 1839.

About the year 1820 in the course of the same week two news (to use the schoolboy phrase of my son Armand) entered the college of Tours.  One had a charming face, the other would have been thought ugly if health, frankness, and intelligence beaming on his features had not compensated for their irregularity and inelegance.

Here you will stop me, and ask whether I have come to the end of my own adventure, that I should now be writing this feuilleton-story.  No, this tale is really a continuation of that adventure, though it seems little like it; so, give it your best attention and do not interrupt me again.