Letters of Two Brides

My mother lives in a suite on the ground floor, exactly corresponding

to mine, and in the same block. I am just over her head, and the same

secret staircase serves for both. My father's rooms are in the block

opposite, but are larger by the whole of the space occupied by the

grand staircase on our side of the building. These ancestral mansions

are so spacious, that my father and mother continue to occupy the

ground-floor rooms, in spite of the social duties which have once more

devolved on them with the return of the Bourbons, and are even able to

receive in them.

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.