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!