Thoughts such as these, which I bury in my inmost heart, add to the preoccupation only natural to a woman soon to be a mother.  And yet, as the family cannot exist without children, I long to speed the moment from which the joys of family, where alone I am to find my life, shall date their beginning.  At present I live a life all expectation and mystery, except for a sickening physical discomfort, which no doubt serves to prepare a woman for suffering of a different kind.  I watch my symptoms; and in spite of the attentions and thoughtful care with which Louis’ anxiety surrounds me, I am conscious of a vague uneasiness, mingled with the nausea, the distaste for food, and abnormal longings common to my condition.  If I am to speak candidly, I must confess, at the risk of disgusting you with the whole business, to an incomprehensible craving for rotten fruit.  My husband goes to Marseilles to fetch the finest oranges the world produces—­from Malta, Portugal, Corsica—­and these I don’t touch.  Then I hurry there myself, sometimes on foot, and in a little back street, running down to the harbor, close to the Town Hall, I find wretched, half-putrid oranges, two for a sou, which I devour eagerly.  The bluish, greenish shades on the mouldy parts sparkle like diamonds in my eyes, they are flowers to me; I forget the putrid odor, and find them delicious, with a piquant flavor, and stimulating as wine.  My dear, they are the first love of my life!  Your passion for Felipe is nothing to this!  Sometimes I can slip out secretly and fly to Marseilles, full of passionate longings, which grow more intense as I draw near the street.  I tremble lest the woman should be sold out of rotten oranges; I pounce on them and devour them as I stand.  It seems to me an ambrosial food, and yet I have seen Louis turn aside, unable to bear the smell.  Then came to my mind the ghastly words of Obermann in his gloomy elegy, which I wish I had never read, “Roots slake their thirst in foulest streams.”  Since I took to this diet, the sickness has ceased, and I feel much stronger.  This depravity of taste must have a meaning, for it seems to be part of a natural process and to be common to most women, sometimes going to most extravagant lengths.

When my situation is more marked, I shall not go beyond the grounds, for I should not like to be seen under these circumstances.  I have the greatest curiosity to know at what precise moment the sense of motherhood begins.  It cannot possibly be in the midst of frightful suffering, the very thought of which makes me shudder.

Farewell, favorite of fortune!  Farewell, my friend, in whom I live again, and through whom I am able to picture to myself this brave love, this jealousy all on fire at a look, these whisperings in the ear, these joys which create for women, as it were, a new atmosphere, a new daylight, fresh life!  Ah! pet, I too understand love.  Don’t weary of telling me everything.  Keep faithful to our bond.  I promise, in my turn, to spare you nothing.