When I had read your letter to a close, I prayed God to send you among us for a day, that you might see what family life really is, and learn the nature of those joys, which are lasting and sweeter than tongue can tell, because they are genuine, simple, and natural.  But, alas! what chance have I with the best of arguments against a fallacy which makes you happy?  As I write these words, my eyes fill with tears.  I had felt so sure that some months of honeymoon would prove a surfeit and restore you to reason.  But I see that there is no limit to your appetite, and that, having killed a man who loved you, you will not cease till you have killed love itself.  Farewell, dear misguided friend.  I am in despair that the letter which I hoped might reconcile you to society by its picture of my happiness should have brought forth only a paean of selfishness.  Yes, your love is selfish; you love Gaston far less for himself than for what he is to you.

LIV

MME. GASTON TO THE COMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE
May 20th.

Renee, calamity has come—­no, that is no word for it—­it has burst like a thunderbolt over your poor Louise.  You know what that means; calamity for me is doubt; certainty would be death.

The day before yesterday, when I had finished my first toilet, I looked everywhere for Gaston to take a little turn with me before lunch, but in vain.  I went to the stable, and there I saw his mare all in a lather, while the groom was removing the foam with a knife before rubbing her down.

“Who in the world has put Fedelta in such a state?” I asked.

“Master,” replied the lad.

I saw the mud of Paris on the mare’s legs, for country mud is quite different; and at once it flashed through me, “He has been to Paris.”

This thought raised a swarm of others in my heart, and it seemed as though all the life in my body rushed there.  To go to Paris without telling me, at the hour when I leave him alone, to hasten there and back at such speed as to distress Fedelta.  Suspicion clutched me in its iron grip, till I could hardly breathe.  I walked aside a few steps to a seat, where I tried to recover my self-command.

Here Gaston found me, apparently pale and fluttered, for he immediately exclaimed, “What is wrong?” in a tone of such alarm, that I rose and took his arm.  But my muscles refused to move, and I was forced to sit down again.  Then he took me in his arms and carried me to the parlor close by, where the frightened servants pressed after us, till Gaston motioned them away.  Once left to ourselves, I refused to speak, but was able to reach my room, where I shut myself in, to weep my fill.  Gaston remained something like two hours at my door, listening to my sobs and questioning with angelic patience his poor darling, who made no response.

At last I told him that I would see him when my eyes were less red and my voice was steady again.