I am grossly ignorant and I read a lot, but quite indiscriminately, one book leading to another.  I find the names of fresh books on the cover of the one I am reading; but as I have no one to direct me, I light on some which are fearfully dull.  What modern literature I have read all turns upon love, the subject which used to bulk so largely in our thoughts, because it seemed that our fate was determined by man and for man.  But how inferior are these authors to two little girls, known as Sweetheart and Darling—­otherwise Renee and Louise.  Ah! my love, what wretched plots, what ridiculous situations, and what poverty of sentiment!  Two books, however, have given me wonderful pleasure—­Corinne and Adolphe.  Apropos of this, I asked my father one day whether it would be possible for me to see Mme. de Stael.  My father, mother, and Alphonse all burst out laughing, and Alphonse said: 

“Where in the world has she sprung from?”

To which my father replied: 

“What fools we are!  She springs from the Carmelites.”

“My child, Mme. de Stael is dead,” said my mother gently.

When I finished Adolphe, I asked Miss Griffith how a woman could be betrayed.

“Why, of course, when she loves,” was her reply.

Renee, tell me, do you think we could be betrayed by a man?

Miss Griffith has at last discerned that I am not an utter ignoramus, that I have somewhere a hidden vein of knowledge, the knowledge we learned from each other in our random arguments.  She sees that it is only superficial facts of which I am ignorant.  The poor thing has opened her heart to me.  Her curt reply to my question, when I compare it with all the sorrows I can imagine, makes me feel quite creepy.  Once more she urged me not to be dazzled by the glitter of society, to be always on my guard, especially against what most attracted me.  This is the sum-total of her wisdom, and I can get nothing more out of her.  Her lectures, therefore, become a trifle monotonous, and she might be compared in this respect to the bird which has only one cry.

III

The same to the same
December.

My Darling,—­Here I am ready to make my bow to the world.  By way of preparation I have been trying to commit all the follies I could think of before sobering down for my entry.  This morning, I have seen myself, after many rehearsals, well and duly equipped—­stays, shoes, curls, dress, ornaments,—­all in order.  Following the example of duelists before a meeting, I tried my arms in the privacy of my chamber.  I wanted to see how I would look, and had no difficulty in discovering a certain air of victory and triumph, bound to carry all before it.  I mustered all my forces, in accordance with that splendid maxim of antiquity, “Know thyself!” and boundless was my delight in thus making my own acquaintance.  Griffith was the sole spectator of this doll’s play, in which I was at once doll and child.  You think you know me?  You are hugely mistaken.