IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN to MME. LA VICOMTESSE DE BRAIMES,
Hotel of the Prefecture, Grenoble (Isère).

PONT DE L’ARCHE, May 29th 18.

Valentine, this time I rebel, and question your infallibility.

It is useless for you to say to me, “You do not love him.” I tell you I do love him, and intend to marry him. Nevertheless you excite my admiration in pronouncing against me this very well-turned sentence. “Genuine and fervid love is not so ingenuous. When you love deeply, you respect the object of your devotion and are fearful of giving offence by daring to test him.

“When you love sincerely you are not so venturesome. It is so necessary for you to trust him, that you treasure up your faith and risk it not in suspicious trifling.

“Real love is timid, it would rather err than suspect, it buries doubts instead of nursing them, and very wisely, for love cannot survive faith.”

This is a magnificent period, and you should send it to Balzac; he delights in filling his novels with such very woman-like phrases.

I admit that your ideas are just and true when applied to love alone; but if this love is to end in marriage, the “test” is no longer “suspicious trifling,” and one has the right to try the constancy of a character without offending the dignity of love.

Marriage, and especially a marriage of inclination, is so serious a matter, that we cannot exercise too much prudence and reasonable delay before taking the final step.

You say, “Love is timid;” well, so is Hymen. One dares not lightly utter the irrevocable promise, “Thine for life!” these words make us hesitate.

When we wish to be honorable and faithfully keep our oaths, we pause a little before we utter them.

Now I can hear you exclaim, “You are not in love; if you were, instead of being frightened by these words, they would reassure you; you would be quick to say ‘Thine for life,’ and you could never imagine that there existed any other man you could love.”

I am aware that this gives you weapons to be used against me; I know I am foolish! but­well, I feel that there is some one somewhere that I could love more deeply!

This silly idea sometimes makes me pause and question, but it grows fainter daily, and I now confess that it is folly, childish to cherish such a fancy. In spite of your opinion, I persist in believing that I am in love with Roger. And when you know him, you will understand how natural it is for me to love him.

I would at this very moment be talking to him in Paris but for you! Don’t be astonished, for your advice prevented my returning to Paris yesterday.

Alas! I asked you for aid, and you add to my anxiety.

I left the hotel de Langeac with a joyful heart. The test will be favorable, thought I,­and when I have seen Roger in the depths of despair for a few days, seeking me everywhere, impatiently expecting me, blaming me a little and regretting me deeply, I will suddenly appear before him, happy and smiling! I will say, “Roger, you love me; I left you to think of you from afar, to question my own heart­to try the strength of your devotion; I now return without fear and with renewed confidence in myself and in you; never again shall we be separated!”

I intend to frankly confess everything to him; but you say the confession will be fatal to me. “If you intend to marry M. de Moubert, for Heaven’s sake keep him in ignorance of the motive of your departure; invent an excuse­be called off to perform a duty­to nurse a sick friend; choose any story you please, rather than let him suspect you ran away to experiment upon the degree of his love.”

You add, “he loves you devotedly and never will he forgive you for inflicting on him these unnecessary sufferings; a proud and deserving love never pardons suspicious and undeserved trials of its faith.”

Now what can I do? Invent a falsehood? All falsehoods are stupid! Then I would have to write it, for I could not undertake to lie to his face. With strangers and people indifferent to me, I might manage it; but to look into the face of the man who loves me, who gazes so honestly into my eyes when I speak to him, who understands every expression of my countenance, who observes and admires the blush that flushes my cheek, who is familiar with every modulation of my voice, as a musician with the tones of his instrument

Why, it is a moral impossibility to attempt such a thing! A forced smile, a false tone, would put him on his guard at once; he becomes suspicious.

At his first question my fine castle of lies vanishes into air, and I have to fall back on the unvarnished truth.

To gratify you, Valentine, I will lie, but lie at a distance. I feel that it is necessary to put many stations and provinces between my native candor and the people I am to deceive.

Why do you scold me so much? You must see that I have not acted thoughtlessly; my conduct is strange, eccentric and mysterious to no one but Roger.

To every one else it is perfectly proper. I am supposed to be in the neighborhood of Fontainebleau, with the Duchess de Langeac, at her daughter’s house; and as the poor girl is very sick and receives no company, I can disappear for a short time without my absence calling forth remark, or raising an excitement in the country.

I have told my cousin a part of the truth­she understands my scruples and doubts. She thinks it very natural that I should wish to consider the matter over before engaging myself for life; she knows that I am staying with an old friend, and as I have promised to return home in two weeks, she is not a bit uneasy about me.

“My child,” she said when we parted, “if you decide to marry, I will go with you to Paris; if not, you shall go with us to enjoy the waters of Aix.” I have discovered that Aix is a good place to learn news of our friends in Isère. You also reproach me for not having told Roger all my troubles; for having hidden from him what you flatteringly call “the most beautiful pages of my life.”

O, Valentine! in this matter I am wiser than you, in spite of your matronly experience and acknowledged wisdom. Doubtless you understand better than I do, the serious affairs of life, but about the frivolities, I think I know best, and I tell you that courage in a woman is not an attraction in the eyes of these latter-day beaux.

Their weak minds, with an affected nicety, prefer a sighing, supplicating coquette, decked in pretty ribbons, surrounded by luxuries that are the price of her dignity; one who pours her sorrows into the lover’s ear­yes! I say they prefer such a one to a noble woman who bravely faces misery with proud resignation, who refuses the favors of those she despises, and calm, strong, self-reliant, waters with her tears her hard-earned bread.

Believe me, men are more inclined to love women they can pity than women they must admire and respect; feminine courage in adversity is to them a disagreeable picture in an ugly frame; that is to say, a poorly dressed woman in a poorly furnished room. So you now see why, not wishing to disgust my future husband, I was careful that he should not see this ugly picture.

Ah! you speak to me of my dear ideal, and you say you love him? Ah! to him alone could I fearlessly read these beautiful pages of my life. But let us banish him from our minds; I would forget him!

Once I was very near betraying myself; my cousin and I called on a Russian lady residing in furnished apartments on Rivoli street.

M. de Monbert was there­as I took a seat near the fire, the Countess R. handed me a screen­I at once recognised a painting of my own. It represented Paul and Virginia gardening with Domingo.

How horrible did all three look! Time and dust had curiously altered the faces of my characters; by an inexplicable phenomenon Virginia and Domingo had changed complexions; Virginia was a negress, and Domingo was enfranchised, bleached, he had cast aside the tint of slavery and was a pure Caucasian. The absurdity of the picture made me laugh, and M. de Monbert inquired the cause of my merriment. I showed him the screen, and he said “How very horrible!” and I was about to add “I painted it,” when some one interrupted us, and so prevented the betrayal of my secret.

You will not have to scold me any more; I am going to take your advice and leave Pont de l’Arche to-day. Oh I how I wish I were in Paris this minute! I am dreadfully tired of this little place, it is so wearying to play poverty.

When I was really poor, the modest life I had to lead, the cruel privations I had to suffer, seemed to me to be noble and dignified.

Misery has its grandeur, and every sorrow has its poetry; but when the humility of life is voluntary and privations mere caprices, misery loses all its prestige, and the romantic sufferings we needlessly impose on ourselves, are intolerable, because there is no courage or merit in enduring them.

This sentiment I feel must be natural, for my old companion in misfortune, my good and faithful Blanchard, holds the same views that I do. You know how devoted she was to me during my long weary days of trouble!

She faithfully served me three years with no reward other than the approval of her own conscience. She, who was so proud of keeping my mother’s house, resembling a stewardess of the olden time; when misfortune came, converted herself for my sake into maid of all work! Inspired by love for me, she patiently endured the hardships and dreariness of our sad situation; not a complaint, not a murmur, not a reproach. To see her so quietly resigned, you would have supposed that she had been both chamber-maid and cook all her life, that is if you never tasted her dishes! I shall always remember her first dinner. O, the Spartan broth of that day! She must have gotten the receipt from “The Good Lacedemonian Cook Book.”

I confidently swallowed all she put before me. Strange and mysterious ragout! I dared not ask what was in it, but I vainly sought for the relics of any animal I had ever seen; what did she make it of? It is a secret that I fear I shall die without discovering.

Well, this woman, so devoted, so resigned in the days of adversity; this feminine Caleb, whose generous care assuaged my misery; who, when I suffered, deemed it her duty to suffer with me; when I worked day and night, considered it an honor to labor day and night with me­now that she knows we are restored to our fortune, cannot endure the least privation.

All day long she complains. Every order is received with imprecatory mutterings, such as “What an idiotic idea! What folly! to be as rich as Croesus and find amusement in poverty! To come and live in a little hole with common people and refuse to visit duchesses in their castles! People must not be surprised if I don’t obey orders that I don’t understand.”

She is stubborn and refractory. She will drive me to despair, so determined does she seem to thwart all my plans. I tell her to call me Madame; she persists in calling me Mademoiselle. I told her to bring simple dresses and country shoes; she has brought nothing but embroidered muslins, cobweb handkerchiefs and gray silk boots. I entreated her to put on a simple dress, when she came with me. This made her desperate, and through vengeance and maliciously exaggerated zeal she bundled herself up like an old witch. I tried to make her comprehend that her frightfulness far exceeded my wildest wishes; she thereupon disarmed me with this sublime reply:

“I had nothing but new hats and new shawls, and so had to borrow these clothes to obey Mademoiselle’s orders.”

Would you believe it? The proud old woman has destroyed or hidden all the old clothes that were witnesses of our past misery. I am more humble, and have kept everything. When I returned to my little garret, I was delighted to see again my modest furniture, my pretty pink chintz curtains, my thin blue carpet, my little ebony shelves, and then all the precious objects I had saved from the wreck; my father’s old easy-chair, my mother’s work-table, and all of our family portraits, concealed, like proud intruders, in one corner of the room, where haughty marshals, worthy prelates, coquettish marquises, venerable abbesses, sprightly pages and gloomy cavaliers all jostled together, and much astonished to find themselves in such a wretched little room, and what is worse, shamefully disowned by their unworthy descendant. I love my garret, and remained there three days before coming here; and there I left my fine princess dresses and put on my modest travelling suit; there the elegant Irene once more became the interesting widow of the imaginary Albert Guerin. We started at nine in the morning. I had the greatest difficulty in getting ready for the early train, so soon have I forgotten my old habit of early rising. When I look back and recall how for three years I arose at dawn, it looks like a wretched dream. I suppose it is because I have become so lazy.

It is distressing to think that only six months have passed since I was raised from the depths of poverty, and here I am already spoiled by good fortune!

Misfortune is a great master, but like all masters he only is obeyed when present; we work with him, but when his back is turned forget his admonitions.

We reached the depot as the train was starting, obtaining comfortable seats. I met with a most interesting adventure, that is, interesting to me; how small the world is! I had for a companion an old friend of Roger, but who fortunately did not know me; it was M. Edgar de Meilhan, the poet, whose talents I admire, and whose acquaintance I had long desired; judging from his conversation he must be quite an original character. But he was accompanied by one of those explanatory gossips who seem born to serve as cicérones to the entire world, and render useless all penetrating perspicacity.

These sort of bores are amusing to meet on a journey; rather well informed, they quote their favorite authors very neatly in order to display the extent of their information; they also have a happy way of imposing on the ignorant people, who sit around with wide-stretched mouths, listening to the string of celebrated names so familiarly repeated as to indicate a personal intimacy with each and all of them; in a word, it is a way of making the most of your acquaintance, as your witty friend M.L. would say. Now I must give you a portrait of this gentleman; it shall be briefly done.

He was an angular man, with a square forehead, a square nose, a square mouth, a square chin, a square smile, a square hand, square shoulders, square gayety, square jokes; that is to say, he is coarse, heavy and rugged. A coarse mind cultivated often appears smooth and moves easily in conversation, but a square mind is always awkward and threatening. Well, this square man evidently “made the most of his acquaintances” for my benefit, for poor little me, an humble violet met by chance on the road! He spoke of M. Guizot having mentioned this to him; of M. Thiers, who dined with him lately, having said that to him; of Prince Max de Beauvau, whom he bet with at the last Versailles races; of the beautiful Madame de Magnoncourt, with whom he danced at the English ambassador’s ball; of twenty other distinguished personages with whom he was intimate, and finally he mentioned Prince Roger de Monbert, the eccentric tiger-hunter, who for the last two months had been the lion of Paris. At the name of Roger I became all attention; the square man continued:

“But you, my dear Edgar, were brought up with him, were you not?”

“Yes,” said the poet.

“Have you seen him since his return?”

“Not yet, but I hear from him constantly; I had a letter yesterday.”

“They say he is engaged to the beautiful heiress, Irene de Chateaudun, and will be married very soon.”

“’Tis an idle rumor,” said M. de Meilhan, in a dry tone that forced his dreadful friend to select another topic of conversation.

Oh, how curious I was to find out what Roger had written to M. de Meilhan! Roger had a confidant! He had told him about me! What could he have said? Oh, this dreadful letter! What would I not give to see it! My sole thought is, how can I obtain it; unconsciously I gazed at M. de Meilhan, with an uneasy perplexity that must have astonished him and given him a queer idea of my character.

I was unable to conceal my joy, when I heard him say he lived at Richeport, and that he intended stopping at Pont de l’Arche, which is but a short distance from his estate; my satisfaction must have appeared very strange.

A dreadful storm detained us two hours in the neighborhood of the depot. We remained in company under the shed, and watched the falling rain. My situation was embarrassing; I wished to be agreeable and polite to M. de Meilhan that I might encourage him to call at Madama Taverneau’s, Pont de l’Arche, and then again I did not wish to be so very gracious and attentive as to inspire him with too much assurance. It was a difficult game to play. I must boldly risk making a bad impression, and at the same time keep him at a respectful distance. Well, I succeeded in solving the problem within the pale of legitimate curiosity, offering to share with my companion in misfortune a box of bon-bons, intended for Madame Taverneau.

But what attentions he showered on me before meriting this great sacrifice! What ingenious umbrellas he improvised for me under this inhospitable shed, that grudgingly lent us a perfidious and capricious shelter! What charming seats, skilfully made of sticks and logs driven into the wet ground!

When the storm was over M. de Meilhan offered to escort us to Pont de l’Arche; I accepted, much to the astonishment of the severe Blanchard, who cannot understand the sudden change in my conduct, and begins to suspect me of being in search of adventures.

When we reached our destination, and Madam Taverneau heard that M. de Meilhan had been my escort, she was in such a state of excitement that she could talk of nothing else. M. de Meilhan is highly thought of here, where his family have resided many years; his mother is venerated, and he himself beloved by all that know him. He has a moderate fortune; with it he quietly dispenses charity and daily confers benefits with an unknown hand. He seems to be very agreeable and witty. I have never met so brilliant a man, except M. de Monbert. How charming it would be to hear them talk together!

But that letter! What would I not give for that letter! If I could only read the first four lines! I would find out what I want to know. These first lines would tell me if Roger is really sad; if he is to be pitied, and if it is time for me to console him. I rely a little upon the indiscretion of M. de Meilhan to enlighten me. Poets are like doctors; all artists are kindred spirits; they cannot refrain from telling a romantic love affair any more than a physician can from citing his last remarkable case; the former never name their friends, the latter never betray their patients. But when we know beforehand, as I do, the name of the hero or patient, we soon complete the semi-indiscretion.

So I mercilessly slander all heiresses and capricious women of fashion that I may incite Roger’s confidant to relate me my own history. I forgot to mention that since my arrival here M. de Meilhan has been every day to call on Madame Taverneau. She evidently imagines herself the object of his visits. I am of a different opinion. Indeed, I fear I have made a conquest of this dark-eyed young poet, which is not at all flattering to me. This sudden adoration shows that he has not a very elevated opinion of me. How he will laugh when he recognises this adventurous widow in the proud wife of his friend!

You reproach me bitterly for having sacrificed you to Madame Taverneau. Cruel Prefect that you are, go and accuse the government and your consul-general of this unjust preference.

Can I reach Grenoble in three hours, as I do Rouen? Can I return from Grenoble to Paris in three hours; fly when I wish, reappear when ’tis necessary? In a word have you a railway? No! Well, then, trust to my experience and believe that where locomotion is concerned there is an end to friendship, gratitude, sympathy and devotion. Nothing is to be considered but railways, roads, wagons that jolt you to death, but carry you to your destination, and stages that upset and never arrive.

We cannot visit the friends we love best, but those we can get away from with the greatest facility.

Besides, for a heroine wishing to hide herself, the asylum you offer has nothing mysterious, it is merely a Thebais of a prefecture; and there I am afraid of compromising you.

A Parisian in a provincial town is always standing on a volcano, one unlucky word may cause destruction.

How difficult it is to be a Prefect! You have commenced very properly­four children! All that is necessary to begin with. They are such convenient excuses. To be a good Prefect one must have four children. They are inexhaustible pretexts for escaping social horrors; if you wish to decline a compromising invitation, your dear little girl has got the whooping cough; when you wish to avoid dining a friend in transitu, your eldest son has a dreadful fever; you desire to escape a banquet unadorned by the presence of the big-wigs­brilliant idea! all four children have the measles.

Now confess you did well to have the four lovely children! Without them you would be conquered in spite of your wisdom; it requires so much skill for a Parisian to live officially in a province!

There all the women are clever; the most insignificant citizen’s wife can outwit an old diplomat. What science they display under the most trying and peculiar circumstances! What profound combination in their plans of vengeance! What prudence in their malice! What patience in their cruelty! It is dreadful! I will visit you when you reside in the country, but while you reign over a prefecture, I have for you the respectful horror that a democratic mind has for all authorities.

Who is this poor convalescent whose wound caused you so much anxiety? You don’t tell me his name! I understand you, Madame! Even to an old friend you must show your administrative discretion!

Is this wounded hero young? I suppose he is, as you do not say he is old. He is “about to leave, and return to his home;” “his home” is rather vague, as you don’t tell me his name! Now, I am different from you; I name and fully describe every one I meet, you respond with enigmas.

I well know that your destiny is fulfilled, and that mine has all the attractiveness of a new romance. Nevertheless, you must be more communicative if you expect to be continued in office as my confidant.

Embrace for me your dear little ones, whom I insist upon regarding as your best counsellors at the prefecture, and tell my goddaughter, Irene, to kiss you for me.

IRENE DE CHATEAUDUN.