Write to me from your last resting-place.  The gentlemen want to go and meet our distinguished guests.  Come, Queen of Paris, come to our humble grange, where love at least will greet you!

XXXIV

MME. DE MACUMER TO THE VICOMTESSE DE L’ESTORADE
April 1826.

The name on this address will tell you, dear, that my petition has been granted.  Your father-in-law is now Comte de l’Estorade.  I would not leave Paris till I had obtained the gratification of your wishes, and I am writing in the presence of the Keeper of the Seals, who has come to tell me that the patent is signed.

Good-bye for a short time!

XXXV

THE SAME TO THE SAME
MARSEILLES, July.

I am ashamed to think how my sudden flight will have taken you by surprise.  But since I am above all honest, and since I love you not one bit the less, I shall tell you the truth in four words:  I am horribly jealous!

Felipe’s eyes were too often on you.  You used to have little talks together at the foot of your rock, which were a torture to me; and I was fast becoming irritable and unlike myself.  Your truly Spanish beauty could not fail to recall to him his native land, and along with it Marie Heredia, and I can be jealous of the past too.  Your magnificent black hair, your lovely dark eyes, your brow, where the peaceful joy of motherhood stands out radiant against the shadows which tell of past suffering, the freshness of your southern skin, far fairer than that of a blonde like me, the splendid lines of your figure, the breasts, on which my godson hangs, peeping through the lace like some luscious fruit,—­all this stabbed me in the eyes and in the heart.  In vain did I stick cornflowers in my curls, in vain set off with cherry-colored ribbons the tameness of my pale locks, everything looked washed out when Renee appeared—­a Renee so unlike the one I expected to find in your oasis.

Then Felipe made too much of the child, whom I found myself beginning to hate.  Yes, I confess it, that exuberance of life which fills your house, making it gay with shouts and laughter—­I wanted it for myself.  I read a regret in Macumer’s eyes, and, unknown to him, I cried over it two whole nights.  I was miserable in your house.  You are too beautiful as a woman, too triumphant as a mother, for me to endure your company.

Ah! you complained of your lot.  Hypocrite!  What would you have?  L’Estorade is most presentable; he talks well; he has fine eyes; and his black hair, dashed with white, is very becoming; his southern manners, too, have something attractive about them.  As far as I can make out, he will, sooner or later, be elected deputy for the Bouches-du-Rhone; in the Chamber he is sure to come to the front, for you can always count on me to promote your interests.  The sufferings of his exile have given him that calm and dignified air which goes half-way, in my opinion, to make a politician.  For the whole art of politics, dear, seems to me to consist in looking serious.  At this rate, Macumer, as I told him, ought certainly to have a high position in the state.