BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XV

THE COUNTESS DE CAMORS

After passing the few weeks of the honeymoon at Reuilly, the Comte and Comtesse de Camors returned to Paris and established themselves at their hotel in the Rue de l’Imperatrice.  From this moment, and during the months that followed, the young wife kept up an active correspondence with her mother; and we here transcribe some of the letters, which will make us more intimately acquainted with the character of the young woman.

Madame de Camors to Madame de Tecle. 
“October.

“Am I happy?  No, my dearest mother!  No—­not happy!  I have only
wings and soar to heaven like a bird!  I feel the sunshine in my
head, in my eyes, in my heart.

“It blinds me, it enchants me, it causes me to shed delicious tears!  Happy?  No, my tender mother; that is not possible, when I think that I am his wife!  The wife—­understand me—­of him who has reigned in my poor thoughts since I was able to think—­of him whom I should have chosen out of the whole universe!  When I remember that I am his wife, that we are united forever, how I love life! how I love you! how I love God!

   “The Bois and the lake are within a few steps of us, as you know. 
   We ride thither nearly every morning, my husband and I!—­I repeat,
   I and my husband!  We go there, my husband and I—­I and my husband!

   “I know not how it is, but it is always delicious weather to me,
   even when it rains—­as it does furiously to-day; for we have just
   come in, driven home by the storm.

   “During our ride to-day, I took occasion to question him quietly as
   to some points of our history which puzzled me.  First, why had he
   married me?

   “‘Because you pleased me apparently, Miss Mary.’  He likes to give me
   this name, which recalls to him I know not what episode of my
   untamed youth—­untamed still to him.

   “‘If I pleased you, why did I see you so seldom?’

   “’Because I did not wish to court you until I had decided on
   marrying.’

   “‘How could I have pleased you, not being at all beautiful?’

   “‘You are not beautiful, it is true,’ replies this cruel young man,
   ’but you are very pretty; and above all you are grace itself, like
   your mother.’

“All these obscure points being cleared up to the complete satisfaction of Miss Mary, Miss Mary took to fast galloping; not because it was raining, but because she became suddenly—­we do not know the reason why—­as red as a poppy.

   “Oh, beloved mother! how sweet it is to be loved by him we adore,
   and to be loved precisely as we wish—­as we have dreamed—­according
   to the exact programme of our young, romantic hearts!