Good-bye, sweet one.  Shall we ever again let years pass without writing?  Happiness is a monotonous theme, and that is, perhaps, the reason why, to souls who love, Dante appears even greater in the Paradiso than in the Inferno.  I am not Dante; I am only your friend, and I don’t want to bore you.  You can write, for in your children you have an ever-growing, every-varying source of happiness, while mine . . .  No more of this.  A thousand loves.

LIII

MME. DE L’ESTORADE TO MME. GASTON

My dear Louise,—­I have read and re-read your letter, and the more deeply I enter into its spirit, the clearer does it become to me that it is the letter, not of a woman, but of a child.  You are the same old Louise, and you forget, what I used to repeat over and over again to you, that the passion of love belongs rightly to a state of nature, and has only been purloined by civilization.  So fleeting is its character, that the resources of society are powerless to modify its primitive condition, and it becomes the effort of all noble minds to make a man of the infant Cupid.  But, as you yourself admit, such love ceases to be natural.

Society, my dear abhors sterility; but substituting a lasting sentiment for the mere passing frenzy of nature, it has succeeded in creating that greatest of all human inventions—­the family, which is the enduring basis of all organized society.  To the accomplishment of this end, it has sacrificed the individual, man as well as woman; for we must not shut our eyes to the fact that a married man devotes his energy, his power, and all his possession to his wife.  Is it not she who reaps the benefit of all his care?  For whom, if not for her, are the luxury and wealth, the position and distinction, the comfort and the gaiety of the home?

Oh! my sweet, once again you have taken the wrong turning in life.  To be adored is a young girl’s dream, which may survive a few springtimes; it cannot be that of the mature woman, the wife and mother.  To a woman’s vanity it is, perhaps, enough to know that she can command adoration if she likes.  If you would live the life of a wife and mother, return, I beg of you, to Paris.  Let me repeat my warning:  It is not misfortune which you have to dread, as others do —­it is happiness.

Listen to me, my child!  It is the simple things of life—­bread, air, silence—­of which we do not tire; they have no piquancy which can create distaste; it is highly-flavored dishes which irritate the palate, and in the end exhaust it.  Were it possible that I should to-day be loved by a man for whom I could conceive a passion, such as yours for Gaston, I would still cling to the duties and the children, who are so dear to me.  To a woman’s heart the feelings of a mother are among the simple, natural, fruitful, and inexhaustible things of life.  I can recall the day, now nearly fourteen