I found my mother, dressed for the evening, in her drawing-room, where nothing is changed.  I came slowly down the stairs, speculating with every step how I should be met by this mother who had shown herself so little of a mother to me, and from whom, during eight years, I had heard nothing beyond the two letters of which you know.  Judging it unworthy to simulate an affection I could not possibly feel, I put on the air of a pious imbecile, and entered the room with many inward qualms, which however soon disappeared.  My mother’s tack was equal to the occasion.  She made no pretence of emotion; she neither held me at arm’s-length nor hugged me to her bosom like a beloved daughter, but greeted me as though we had parted the evening before.  Her manner was that of the kindliest and most sincere friend, as she addressed me like a grown person, first kissing me on the forehead.

“My dear little one,” she said, “if you were to die at the convent, it is much better to live with your family.  You frustrate your father’s plans and mine; but the age of blind obedience to parents is past.  M. de Chaulieu’s intention, and in this I am quite at one with him, is to lose no opportunity of making your life pleasant and of letting you see the world.  At your age I should have thought as you do, therefore I am not vexed with you; it is impossible you should understand what we expected from you.  You will not find any absurd severity in me; and if you have ever thought me heartless, you will soon find out your mistake.  Still, though I wish you to feel perfectly free, I think that, to begin with, you would do well to follow the counsels of a mother, who wishes to be a sister to you.”

I was quite charmed by the Duchess, who talked in a gentle voice, straightening my convent tippet as she spoke.  At the age of thirty-eight she is still exquisitely beautiful.  She has dark-blue eyes, with silken lashes, a smooth forehead, and a complexion so pink and white that you might think she paints.  Her bust and shoulders are marvelous, and her waist is as slender as yours.  Her hand is milk-white and extraordinarily beautiful; the nails catch the light in their perfect polish, the thumb is like ivory, the little finger stands just a little apart from the rest, and the foot matches the hand; it is the Spanish foot of Mlle. de Vandenesse.  If she is like this at forty, at sixty she will still be a beautiful woman.

I replied, sweetheart, like a good little girl.  I was as nice to her as she to me, nay, nicer.  Her beauty completely vanquished me; it seemed only natural that such a woman should be absorbed in her regal part.  I told her this as simply as though I had been talking to you.  I daresay it was a surprise to her to hear words of affection from her daughter’s mouth, and the unfeigned homage of my admiration evidently touched her deeply.  Her manner changed and became even more engaging; she dropped all formality as she said: