LOUISE DE CHAULIEU TO RENEE DE MAUCOMBE

WHAT!

To be married so soon. But this is unheard of. At the end of a

month you become engaged to a man who is a stranger to you, and about

whom you know nothing. The man may be deaf--there are so many kinds of

deafness!--he may be sickly, tiresome, insufferable!

Don't you see, Renee, what they want with you? You are needful for

carrying on the glorious stock of the l'Estorades, that is all. You

will be buried in the provinces. Are these the promises we made each

other? Were I you, I would sooner set off to the Hyeres islands in a

caique, on the chance of being captured by an Algerian corsair and

sold to the Grand Turk. Then I should be a Sultana some day, and

wouldn't I make a stir in the harem while I was young--yes, and

afterwards too!

You are leaving one convent to enter another. I know you; you are a

coward, and you will submit to the yoke of family life with a lamblike

docility. But I am here to direct you; you must come to Paris. There

we shall drive the men wild and hold a court like queens. Your

husband, sweetheart, in three years from now may become a member of

the Chamber. I know all about members now, and I will explain it to

you. You will work that machine very well; you can live in Paris, and

become there what my mother calls a woman of fashion. Oh! you needn't

suppose I will leave you in your grange! Monday.

For a whole fortnight now, my dear, I have been living the life of

society; one evening at the Italiens, another at the Grand Opera, and

always a ball afterwards. Ah! society is a witching world. The music

of the Opera enchants me; and whilst my soul is plunged in divine

pleasure, I am the centre of admiration and the focus of all the

opera-glasses. But a single glance will make the boldest youth drop

his eyes.

I have seen some charming young men there; all the same, I don't care

for any of them; not one has roused in me the emotion which I feel

when I listen to Garcia in his splendid duet with Pellegrini in

Otello. Heavens! how jealous Rossini must have been to express

jealousy so well! What a cry in "Il mio cor si divide!" I'm speaking

Greek to you, for you never heard Garcia, but then you know how

jealous I am!

What a wretched dramatist Shakespeare is! Othello is in love with

glory; he wins battles, he gives orders, he struts about and is all

over the place while Desdemona sits at home; and Desdemona, who sees

herself neglected for the silly fuss of public life, is quite meek all

the time. Such a sheep deserves to be slaughtered. Let the man whom I

deign to love beware how he thinks of anything but loving me!




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