When the list of senators is published, I am not on it.
Like my admittance into the Académie française, my elevation to the Senate takes two tries.
And now comes the betrayal, and the end of my friendship with Napoleon’s niece.
I should not have been surprised that the members of the Senate were cronies of the emperor. Other writers in Paris assumed that I was also of this camp. They felt that I had defected from their midst, that my liberal views had just been a pretence, that my presence in the Senate was a reflection of my true political feelings. What is more true is that I am not a political man—meaning, I am not a man who is driven by politics. I have always been devoted to literature. Devotion and drive are two different things. Someone with drive likes to lead. Someone with devotion likes to serve. Politics are always the province of those with drive and direction. Action is required to advance a political movement. I had not really given up my liberal views; I was just not defined by them.
So when one of the senators attacked the work of Renan in a speech, I defended my Magny dining companion. And when the ratepayers of Saint-Etienne petitioned the Senate to ban certain books from their local library, I made a speech against this. (The books submitted for banning included Candide by Voltaire, the works of Rousseau, and all the novels of Balzac and George Sand.)
I was accused of being an atheist. One of my fellow senators challenged me to a duel, which, thankfully, the president of the Senate dismissed.
Next up was the Press Law, which proposed charging anyone who wished to start a newspaper fifty thousand francs. Of course, I had to make a speech about the inherent freedom of the press. During this speech, some of the senators actually walked out of the chambers.
Then there was the education bill, which proposed denying a liberal education to the young. My speech about the absurdity of this brought a delegation of students to my house with flowers. I had tea with them in the garden. It was all very pleasant.
None of my liberal Senate speeches went over well with Princess Mathilde. She regarded my words and actions as treacherous. To her mind, I had supported Bonapartism until I became a senator and then, when I was safely ensconced in the Senate, had renounced the politics of the man who had put me there.
She had a point.
I am in my sixties when I become a senator. I am in my sixties, and my health has begun to fail. I am afflicted in my weakest spot by the condition that has plagued me all my adult life—hypospadias. My bladder has become obstructed. I have had an operation to remove a stone, but nothing has really improved since then. I am still in pain. My bladder is weak, and I am forced to use a catheter. During the course of a dinner party, I have to rise three or four times to relieve myself. I don’t believe that I have long to live. This condition that has made my life miserable will inevitably be the death of me.
So I mind losing the friendship of Princess Mathilde very much. I mind not having a confidante. I miss the intimacy. It cannot be said that this friendship was merely one of convenience for me.
But still, this is said.
I have done enough work. I do not have books hovering inside me, waiting to be released. I have written my fill. I have had my say. Work is a continuing solace to me, but I do not feel the burning need to produce another book.
There is just one thing I would like before I die. One thing I would like above all others. I have wanted this for many years, and so, when it finally does happen, it seems entirely miraculous.
Halifax, Canada
Dédé
MY DARLING ALBERT,
I know you will be anxious for news of me, and so I am sending word that my ship has docked and I have taken a room at the Halifax Hotel. I have registered under the name Miss Lewly, and you will find me waiting for you any afternoon that you are free to come. I have used a nom de plume because I want to avoid any association with Papa. It seems that he is as popular in the New World as he is in France, and I do not wish to engage in conversation about his books. I do not wish to be known here as Victor Hugo’s daughter. I long, instead, to be Albert Pinson’s wife.
As your French is better than my English, I am writing to you in my language.
Your beloved Adèle
My darling Albert,
I am worried that you did not receive my last letter. I think perhaps the mail service in Halifax is not what it was in France, so I have delivered this letter myself to the garrison where I know you are stationed. The soldier in the guardhouse assured me it would find its way into your hands, and so, knowing that you will read this, I wait eagerly for a reply. Or better still, a visit. I have taken a room in the Halifax Hotel under the name of Miss Lewly. I will wait in every afternoon for your arrival there. It will be so wonderful to see you again. I have missed you so much and simply long to be in your presence.
Your beloved Adèle
Dear Maman,
Do not worry for me, Maman. I had to leave. You know how Papa is, how he would never have let me marry Albert if I had remained on Guernsey. I could only follow the man I loved, even to this dismal town that grows colder with each passing day. There was no other choice. Please understand that I did this not to hurt you, but rather to be with my beloved. Now we can be married. Nothing will make me happier than to be Madame Pinson. Please be happy for me, Maman. I beg you.
Your Dédé
My darling Albert,
I do not understand why you haven’t come. I will take this letter to the garrison, and again I will ask the soldier in the guardhouse to deliver it to you. I know you are busy with your duties, but you must have a few hours free each day. I see many soldiers around the town. I have asked after you, and several of the soldiers have reported to me that you are indeed here at the garrison, and that they have seen you. Oh, if only I could be so fortunate! It was no small undertaking to leave my family, to lie about my whereabouts, to take passage, alone, across the North Atlantic. I was frightened on the ship, but I consoled myself with thoughts of you. I would do anything for you, Albert. Will you not come and see me and let me prove my love to you?
Your impatient, beloved Adèle
Dear François-Victor,
Is it not possible to prise some more coins from Papa’s talons? It is costly preparing for the wedding, and I have had to outfit myself in warmer clothes for the coming winter. It is very cold in Halifax, a cold you could not imagine. Remember that day when we were children and we awoke to snow? It was a mere dusting on the roofs and grass, but it made us so happy. Remember, dear brother? Well, here, apparently, when the snow comes it can be as high as a man’s chest, and so cold that one is forced to remain indoors for weeks at a time. The wind off the sea in Guernsey is nothing compared to the bitter gales that blow in from the sea here.
Nothing of the Old World is adequate enough to meet the demands of the New World, including my allowance. It is one thing to have a pittance while I am living at home on Guernsey, but quite another to have to survive on it here. I know you will understand, François-Victor. Please see what you can do with Papa.
Your loving sister, Adèle
My darling Albert,
You must be very busy with your duties. Vexing as it is not to see you, I understand how frustrating it must be for you to be unable to walk the few blocks to the Halifax Hotel and take me in your arms. So I will come to you, my darling. I have found out that there is to be a dance tonight at the big house at the top of the hill. (Forgive me, Albert, for not having learned the street names yet, even though I walk out every day with that very intent.) I will come to the dance and we will be reunited. I understand. It must be me who finds you. Just as I had to journey across the ocean, I will walk the final mile or so between our two bodies. Oh, to be with you again! I can hardly wait. I will wear my best dress. It is a new one that I had sent from Paris before I left Guernsey. You have not seen it.
Your beloved Adèle
My darling Albert,
Why did you refuse to see me at the dance? And then, whe
n I lingered outside, why did you come out onto the darkened steps and tell me to leave? Why do you lie and say that you don’t love me, and that you never asked me to come to Halifax? In Jersey you were my beloved. How can you change your mind? Why did you tell me that you have changed your mind? How does one stop loving? Please tell me that. How does one stop loving?
My dress was ruined from my rush back to the hotel, from my skirts dragging in the mud. The streets are too rough here. They are not meant for a lady. The mud and the cold and the darkness—it takes all my courage to remain here. Why did you say you wanted me to return to France? How can you mean that?
How can you stop loving me, Albert, when I love you more than ever?
How can you?
My dear Maman,
Oh, Maman, I wish you could have been here to see the wedding. There was such celebrating! And such dancing! We had the reception in one of the grand houses at the top of the hill, just up from the garrison where Albert is posted. The house had pillars inside and out, and a ballroom decorated with gold curtains and plaster cherubs on the ceiling. It was so beautiful and I was so happy. I have never known such happiness, Maman. The only happiness that could be greater is if you had been able to attend the wedding. How it would have pleased me to have you here. But I will content myself with knowing that you will be happy for me, that you understand the sacrifices that have to be made for true love. I know you understand that, Maman. I know you understand my happiness, and that makes me love you all the more.
Your Dédé
Dear François-Victor,
Oh, that is discouraging news, dear brother. Could you not ask him again? Surely he will relent now that Albert and I have married. It will be expensive to set up a home here, and Albert’s salary is too small for such a task. Could you not persuade Papa that this could be his wedding gift to me?
I cannot wait for you to meet my new husband, Brother. You and he have so much in common. You will like each other immediately. I know that. He will become a true brother to you, and that will please me greatly.
But in the meantime, François-Victor, there is the winter to get through, and I must have money to furnish our new home. Papa is stubborn, but he will listen to you. Could you not make him listen to you?
Your loving sister, Adèle
My darling Albert,
I know what it is to be afraid. I have been afraid of Papa’s rages and his strict rules for me. On Guernsey, I was allowed out only to fetch the papers, and only then if I didn’t go anywhere else en route.
I have been afraid that my sister no longer hears me, that she is gone somewhere far away and I won’t be able to find her again.
I have been afraid that Maman will die, that she will be worn out by Papa and by the life on that miserable island, and that she will choose to be with Léopoldine rather than with me.
I have been afraid that I would lose you, my darling husband (because even though you are reluctant to marry me, that is what you are in my heart—my true husband). I had to follow you so I would not lose you.
I have been afraid that I would drown on the crossing to Halifax. Some nights the ship groaned and heaved so much, it was like an animal trying to throw me from its back.
What keeps the fear away is my love for you. It is my only defence against it, and some days, when the fear is everywhere, I have to fight hard to remember my love. But I always do. I always triumph. So I know that you can triumph as well, that you can stop being afraid of my love and welcome it instead. I will wait, with patience and an open heart, for that day.
Your beloved Adèle
Dear François-Victor,
Thank you for the little bit of money. I know how difficult it must have been to wrest it from Papa. I appreciate your efforts, but I urge you to keep them up. By the time the money reaches me, I am in need of more again. Just the expense involved in keeping warm during this terrible winter is considerable.
Albert and I are finding married life very agreeable. I recommend it for you, dear brother, though I understand the impossibility of meeting anyone suitable while you remain in exile with Papa. I wish that you could return to Paris without suffering his wrath. Or better yet, that you could come and make a new life here in Halifax, near to me. You would find winter an adventure, and I have heard that summer offers equal challenges, that there are large blood-sucking insects lighting on one’s flesh from May to August. I am not sure why anyone would choose to live here, but I must admit that some days the fresh air sets my blood racing, and the view from the Citadel Hill at sunset is very pleasing.
You asked, in your last letter, if I regret what I have done. If I regret leaving Guernsey. I miss you and Maman so much, and Charles, and sometimes even Papa, but I do not miss the island at all. My only regret is that I did not leave it sooner.
Your loving sister, Adèle
My darling Albert,
I can no longer afford to stay in the hotel. I have moved into a boardinghouse down the street. It is still very close to the garrison, and I still wait for you to come and see me. Every afternoon I will be sitting in the small front parlour near to the coal fire. Even if you knock only once at the front door, I will hear you. The landlady’s name is Mrs. Saunders.
Your beloved Adèle
My darling Albert,
It must be very cold out on parade. I have begun to make you a scarf. I am making it in red wool, to match your uniform. It gives me solace to be making something practical for my betrothed.
Your beloved Adèle
My darling Albert,
The scarf is finished and is waiting for you. If you do not come by to try it on, I will simply have it sent to the garrison. I have begun on some gloves to accompany it.
Your beloved Adèle
My dear Maman,
You would be very proud of me, Maman. I have kept up my needlework, and my stitches have much improved. I am working on a pillowslip for my husband, an intricate design of birds in a nest. I work on it most evenings by the coal fire in the parlour of our house. It is much too cold now to go out at nights. The wind beats against the windows like a living being, and the cold is so cold it is like a kind of heat. When the snow lashes against my face, my skin feels as though it has been scalded.
But it is cosy in our little house, and I am very happy here. You should not worry about me, Maman. I know that I am far away in one sense, but in another, I am as close as ever. And you know that I will always be your Dédé.
My darling Albert,
It was cruel to come to the boardinghouse and say those words to me. It was cruel to give me that package, which I was so excited to receive, hardly daring to breathe as I opened it, then finding inside the gifts I had sent to you. All those hours over the weak coal fire, my fingers stiff with cold, making that scarf and those gloves, that pillow slip where you have never once laid your head.
I do not understand what has changed you, why you don’t feel what you once did. Perhaps you could explain it to me? Perhaps then I’d be able to understand.
I stood in the hallway after you’d gone, the cold blast of air from the open door still lingering around me. But I felt colder than that air. I felt as cold as the dead feel. I felt dead.
I cried. But it does no good to cry. No one hears you when you cry. There must be an ear for a voice, just as there must be a saucer for a cup. This letter is at least an ear for my voice, although I am not sure I will have the courage to send it to you. There was a stack of my letters in that parcel you gave me, tied neatly together with a black ribbon. Some of the envelopes not even opened.
Why do I not deserve your love, Albert? Answer me that. What have I done that is so terrible that I cannot have your love?
Your heartbroken Adèle
My dear Papa,
I cannot simply return to France. I am a married woman now. My duties are with my husband. Please stop asking me to return.
Adèle
My darling Albert,
I will heed your request, my dar
ling. You will see no more of Adèle. She will not follow you through the streets or wait for you outside the fancy houses where you go to dance. She will not send you any more letters—although she will continue to write them. No, you will see no more of Adèle.
I have bought myself a cane and a top hat, a coat with tails. I am reborn as Antoine Lewly. There is such freedom when I go out in the evenings now. No one gives Antoine a second glance. I can walk the frozen streets with such liberty.
I know that you are going to Bellevue House on Spring Garden Road for a dance this Saturday night with your regiment. I know this because I heard the soldiers talking outside the garrison. Have no fear—Adèle will not show up to bother you. But Antoine will be there. He can hide in plain sight, simply by being a man. Antoine can wait for you on the steps. Antoine can saunter about outside, wandering from lighted window to lighted window to catch a glimpse of you dancing. Antoine can even venture indoors and ask one of the fine young ladies of Halifax for a dance himself.
I have never known such liberty!
I feel such happiness!
Your beloved (Adèle) Antoine
Dear François-Victor,
I am disappointed in you, dear brother. A letter has arrived without a money order. Did you forget to slip it inside?
Your loving sister, Adèle
My dear Maman,
Tonight there is a dance for Albert’s regiment at Bellevue House, one of the fancy houses in Halifax. It is very exciting! We will dine early and take a carriage to the house, even though it is close enough to walk. The streets here are unfit for walking in a ball gown, or for my husband to walk in his polished boots. Sometimes the streets are so muddy and torn up that boards have to be placed down over the mess, and even then, there are times when the boards are actually afloat in the puddles!
Nothing will make me happier than to arrive at the dance on my husband’s arm. He is so handsome in his uniform. And his manners are so good. He has such confidence in all he says! I am sure he will be given an officer ranking soon. It is not right that so fine a man be only an ensign. I know this was one of the reasons Papa was opposed to the match, but does Papa not remember the days when he was simply an unpublished poet? Why does Papa take no account of anyone’s ambition but his own?
Helen Humphreys Three-Book Bundle Page 52