And so, my doe, while I found no one to welcome me, I consoled myself with that beloved princess’s specter, and I looked forward to honoring one of our pacts, which is, you remember, to tell each other every detail of our new circumstances and surroundings. How comforting it is to know the life of an absent friend! Carefully paint for me every little thing around you, everything, even the light of the setting sun on the tall trees.
October 10
It was three o’clock when I arrived; at around half past five, Rose came to tell me that my mother was at home, and I went down to pay my respects. My mother lives on the ground floor, in rooms laid out like mine, in the same wing. I am above her, and we share a hidden staircase. My father’s rooms are in the facing wing, but since on the courtyard side he has the additional space taken up on our side by the great staircase, his rooms are far larger than ours. In spite of the duties of the rank they regained with the return of the Bourbons, my mother and father still live and receive guests on the ground floor alone, so vast are the houses of our forefathers. I found my mother in her drawing room, where nothing has changed. She was dressed as if for company. As I made my way down the stairs, I wondered what to expect from that woman, so little a mother to me that in eight years I received from her only the two letters I showed you. Thinking it unworthy of me to feign an affection I could not feel, I adopted the air of a simpleminded nun and entered the room with some trepidation.
My concerns were soon dispelled. My mother was perfectly gracious: she expressed no false tenderness, but neither was she cold; she neither treated me as a stranger nor clasped me to her bosom like a beloved daughter. She greeted me as if we had seen each other only the day before, like the kindest, most sincere friend; she spoke to me woman to woman, and first of all gave me a kiss on the forehead.
“My dear girl,” she said, “if the convent can only be the death of you, then better you should live among us. You are going against your father’s plans and my own, but the age of blind obedience to one’s parents is long past. Monsieur de Chaulieu agrees with me that we must do all we can to make your life agreeable and to introduce you into society. At your age, I would have felt just as you do, and so I cannot fault you: you cannot understand what we were asking of you. You will not find me absurdly inflexible. If you ever doubted my love, you will soon see your mistake. Although I mean to offer you every freedom, I believe that for the moment you would do well to heed the advice of a mother who will be like a sister to you.”
The duchess spoke quietly, all the while straightening my convent-school cloak. She won me over at once. At thirty-eight, she is as beautiful as an angel. She has blue-black eyes with silken lashes, an unwrinkled brow, a natural white-and-pink complexion that might well be mistaken for powder and rouge, stunning shoulders and bosom, a lithe, slender waist like your own, milk-white hands of exceptional beauty: her highly polished nails catch the light, her little finger is always slightly apart from the others, her thumb is like ivory. And her feet match her hands, feet in the Spanish style, like Mademoiselle de Vandenesse. If this is how she is at forty, she will still be a beautiful woman at sixty.
My doe, I answered her in the manner of an obedient daughter. I was as amiable with her as she’d been with me, and even more: conquered by her beauty, I forgave her for abandoning me, I understood that such a woman should be caught up in her role as queen. I told her so openly, just as if I were speaking with you. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting to hear affectionate words from her daughter’s mouth? My sincere, admiring homages touched her beyond words; her manner changed, became kindlier still, and she no longer called me vous.
“You’re a good daughter,” she said, “and I do hope we shall remain friends.”
I found those words adorably naive, though I took care not to show it, for I realized at once that I must let her go on thinking herself far cleverer than her daughter. I played the wide-eyed innocent, and she was enchanted. Several times I kissed her hands, telling her I was overjoyed that she was treating me as she was, that I felt at home here; I even confided to her that I was secretly terrified. She smiled, tenderly put her hand on my neck to draw me to her and kiss my brow.
“Dear child,” she said, “we have guests for dinner today; perhaps you will feel as I do that we’d best delay your introduction to society until you have something to wear. Once you have seen your father and brother, you will go up to your rooms.”
To this I wholeheartedly acquiesced. My mother’s breathtaking gown was the first revelation of the fashionable world we used to glimpse in our dreams, but I felt not the slightest twinge of jealousy.
My father came in. “Monsieur, here is your daughter,” the duchess said to him. My father suddenly adopted the most loving demeanor, so perfectly playing the paternal role that I was convinced he had a true father’s heart.
“So there you are, you rebellious girl!” he said, taking my hands in his and kissing them in a manner more debonair than fatherly. And he pulled me to him, took me by the waist, held me close to kiss my cheeks and forehead. “You will heal the sorrow we feel at your change of vocation by our pleasure at your success in society. Do you know, madame, she will be a very pretty young woman, of whom you will one day be proud? But here is your brother Rhétoré.”
“Alphonse,” he said to a handsome young man who had come in, “here is your sister, the nun who would cast off her habit.”
Taking his time, my brother stepped forward, took my hand, and pressed it in his.
“Well, go on, kiss her,” said the duke, and he gave me a kiss on each cheek.
“I’m happy to see you, my sister,” he said, “and know that I am on your side, against my father.”
I thanked him, though I couldn’t help thinking he could easily have stopped by Blois sometime on the way to visit our brother the marquis at his garrison in Orléans. I withdrew, fearing that strangers might arrive at any moment. I did some tidying in my rooms, then laid out my pens and paper on the beautiful table’s red velvet, all the while thinking over my new place in life.
And there, my fine white doe, without exaggeration or omission, is how a girl of eighteen was greeted on her return to one of the most illustrious families of the realm after nine years away. I was tired from the journey and the emotions aroused by this return to the nest: I thus went to bed as we did in the convent, at eight o’clock, after supper. They’ve kept even a little Saxony porcelain plate my beloved grandmother used when the fancy took her to dine alone in her rooms.
2
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME
November 25
The next day I found my rooms straightened and made up by old Philippe, the vases now filled with flowers. I finally made myself at home. But it had occurred to no one that a recent boarder at the Carmelites would be hungry at a very early hour, and Rose had a terrible time with my breakfast.
“Mademoiselle went to bed as we were serving dinner, and she is rising when monseigneur is just coming home,” she told me.
I sat down at my table. Toward one o’clock my father knocked at the door of my little drawing room and asked if I would see him; I opened the door, and he came in to find me in the middle of writing to you.
“My dear,” he told me, “you will be needing new clothes, and you must get settled here. In this purse you will find twelve hundred francs: one year of the income I have set aside for your upkeep. If Miss Griffith is not to your liking, talk with your mother about engaging a more suitable governess, for during the day Madame de Chaulieu will be unable to stay with you. You will have a carriage at your disposal, and a servant.”
“I’d like Philippe,” I said.
“Very well,” he answered. “But have no fear: your fortune is sizable enough that you will be a burden neither to your mother nor to me.”
“Would it be indiscreet to ask the amount of that fortune?”
“Not at all, my child,” he said. “Your grandmother left you five hundred thousand francs, her life savings, for she wanted al
l her lands to remain in the family. That sum was invested in the public debt. Today the accumulated interest has produced an annual income of some forty thousand francs. My intention was to devote that sum to your second brother’s fortune. As you see, you are greatly upsetting my plans, but perhaps one day you will fulfill them; you may decide that for yourself. I find you more reasonable than I expected. I need not tell you how a Mademoiselle de Chaulieu conducts herself; the pride I see in your features is my trusted guarantee. The precautions that ordinary folk take for their daughters are in this house an insult. A malicious rumor concerning you might well cost its impertinent teller his life—or, if heaven is unjust, the life of one of your brothers. Of that I will say no more. Goodbye, my dear.”
He kissed my forehead and went off. I cannot understand why that plan was abandoned after nine years’ perseverance. My father was admirably to the point. There is no ambiguity in his words: my fortune is meant to go to his son the marquis. Who found it in their heart to take pity on me, then? Was it my mother, my father, could it have been my brother?
I sat there on my grandmother’s sofa, gazing on the purse my father had left on the mantelpiece, at once pleased and put out by that act of kindness, which kept my thoughts on money. To be sure, there was no use thinking of it any further; my uncertainties have been dispelled, and there is something noble about sparing me any painful discoveries on that subject.
Philippe spent the day making the rounds of the merchants and artisans who will be charged with my metamorphosis. In my rooms, I received a celebrated dressmaker, a certain Victorine, as well as a woman who will see to my linens and a man for my shoes. I am as impatient as a child to discover what I will look like when I abandon the sack the convent’s dress code draped over us, but these artisans will not be hurried: the corsetiere wants a week, so as to do justice to my figure. This is becoming serious—so I have a figure? Janssen, the shoemaker to the Opéra, positively assured me that I have my mother’s foot. I spent the entire morning on these weighty concerns. There was even a glover, come to measure my hand. The lingerie maker took my orders. At my lunchtime, which as it happened was their breakfast, my mother told me we would visit the hat shops together, so that I might develop my tastes and learn to order my own. I am dazed by this newfound independence, like a blind woman suddenly recovering her sight. I can now see what a Carmelite is to a young woman of the world: the difference is greater than we ever dreamt.
My father seemed distracted at breakfast, and we left him to his thoughts; he’s privy to all the king’s secrets. He had entirely forgotten me. He will remember when he has need of me, that I could plainly see. Even at fifty, my father is a most appealing man: his figure is youthful, he is pleasingly built, he is blond, his demeanor and manners are exquisite; he has the face of a diplomat, at once expressive and secretive; his nose is thin and long, his eyes are brown. What a handsome couple! How many curious notions bedeviled me when I realized that those two, equally noble, rich, and superior, do not live together, share only their name, and are united only in the eyes of the world! Yesterday the elite of the court and the diplomatic sphere were here. In a few days I shall go to a ball hosted by the Duchess de Maufrigneuse, where I will be introduced to the society I so long to know. A dancing master will come every morning: I must know how to dance within a month, or I may not go to the ball.
Before dinner, my mother came to see me on the subject of my governess. I chose to keep Miss Griffith, who was given to her by the British ambassador. That miss is a government minister’s daughter, impeccably bred; her mother was noble; she’s thirty-six years old; she’ll teach me English. My Griffith is beautiful enough to have aspirations; she is poor and proud, and Scottish, she’ll be my chaperone and sleep in Rose’s room. Rose will be at Miss Griffith’s disposal. I saw at once that I would govern my governess. Over the six days we’ve been together, she has clearly understood that I alone am allowed to take an interest in her, while I, despite her statue-like reserve, have understood that she will treat me with great indulgence. She seems a good-hearted creature but discreet. Of what was said between her and my mother I could learn nothing.
Another trifling little piece of news! This morning my father refused the ministerial position he had been offered. That explains why he was so preoccupied yesterday. He would prefer an ambassadorship, he said, to the tedium of public deliberations. He has his eye on Spain. I learned this at breakfast, the one time of day when my father, mother, and brother are together more or less in private, for the servants come only when rung for. The rest of the time my brother is away, like my father. My mother goes off to dress, then from two to four she can never be seen. At four she goes out for an hour’s walk; from six to seven she receives visitors, when she’s not dining in town, and finally the evening is taken up with amusements, the theater, balls, concerts, visits. Her life is so full that I don’t believe she has a quarter of an hour to herself. She must devote some considerable time to her toilette every morning, for she is divine at breakfast, which takes place between eleven and noon. I am beginning to understand the sounds I hear from her rooms. She takes an almost cold bath and a cup of cold coffee with cream, and then she dresses. Save in exceptional circumstances, she is never up before nine. In the summer she goes out for an early-morning ride. At two she receives a young man I have yet to catch sight of.
There you have our family life. We meet at breakfast and dinner, though for the latter I am often alone with my mother. Still more often, I suspect, I will be dining with Miss Griffith alone in my rooms, like my grandmother. My mother often dines in town. I am no longer surprised by the little interest my family takes in me. My dear, in Paris there is a certain heroism in loving the people around us, for we are rarely alone with ourselves. How quickly the absent are forgotten here! It’s true, of course, that I have yet to set foot outside and know nothing. I prefer to wait until I have lost a bit of my innocence, until my manner and dress are in harmony with the world of society, whose agitations fill me with wonder, though I hear its clamor only from afar. I have yet to venture any farther than the garden. In a few days they’ll be singing at the Théâtre des Italiens. My mother has a box there. I am half mad with impatience to hear Italian music and to see a French opera. Little by little, I am shedding the habits of the convent and adopting those of society. I write you in the evening until bedtime, now put back to ten o’clock, the hour when my mother goes out, if she’s not at one theater or another. There are twelve theaters in Paris. I am as ignorant as can be, and I read a good deal, but I read indiscriminately. One book leads me to the next. The cover of the book in my hands lists the titles of several more, but I have no one to guide me, and so many I come across bore me dreadfully.
What I have read of modern literature is centered on love, the subject that so occupied our minds, since our destiny is shaped wholly by men and for men, but those authors are so far below two little girls named the white doe and the darling, Renée and Louise! Ah, dear angel, what dull happenings, what peculiarities, and how palely that emotion is expressed! There are however two books that I have found strangely compelling: one is Corinne, the other Adolphe.[10] On that subject, I asked my father if I might meet Madame de Staël. My mother, my father, and Alphonse began to laugh. Alphonse said, “Where has this girl been?” My father answered, “Silly us, she’s been at the Carmelites.” “My daughter, Madame de Staël is dead,” the duchess gently informed me.
“How can a woman be deceived?” I asked Miss Griffith on finishing Adolphe.
“Why, when she’s in love,” Miss Griffith answered.
Tell me, Renée, will any man ever be able to deceive us?
Miss Griffith soon realized that I am only half innocent, that I’ve had a secret education, the one we gave each other with our endless cogitations and speculations. She saw that I am ignorant only of external matters. The poor creature opened her heart to me. The la-conic answer she gave me, seen against the backdrop of all the many sorrows one might imagine
, sent a small shiver down my spine. La Griffith told me once again that I must not be dazzled by anything I find in the world and must be wary of everything, especially what pleases me most. She knows nothing more and can tell me nothing more. Her lectures are too much of a piece. She has this in common with a bird that knows only one song.
3
FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME
December
My dear, I am ready to make my entrance into society; I have done my best to be very free before settling down for its sake. This morning, after countless fittings, I found myself well and properly corseted, shod, cinched, coiffed, dressed, adorned. I did as a duelist does before facing his foe: I practiced behind closed doors. I wanted to see how I looked fully armed, and I was gratified to find a triumphant, conquering air before which there will be no choice but surrender. I studied and judged my reflection. I reviewed my forces, putting into practice that great maxim of antiquity: Know thyself! I was infinitely pleased to make my acquaintance. Griffith alone was allowed to be present and watch me play doll—I was the doll and the child at once. You think you know me? You do not!
Here, Renée, is the portrait of your sister, once disguised as a Carmelite, now resuscitated as a blithe and worldly girl. I am one of the most beautiful young women of France, Provence excepted. There, I think, is an accurate summary of this whole pleasant chapter. I have flaws, but if I were a man I would love them, for they are the sign of a promise yet to be fulfilled. When for two weeks straight one has admired the exquisite curve of one’s mother’s arms, and when that mother is the Duchess de Chaulieu, my dear, one is none too pleased to discover that one’s own arms are skinny, but one consoles oneself with one’s dainty wrists, with the elegant lines sketched out by those hollows, soon to be full, plump, and shapely, with soft, satin flesh. The faint angularity of the arm can also be seen in the shoulders. In truth, I have no shoulders, only hard shoulder blades forming two jagged planes. My waist is equally unsupple, and there is no litheness in my hips.
The Memoirs of Two Young Wives Page 3