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Oh! how I slept in the little pink bed beside Caroline! I wished to write to you, dear papa, before going to bed, but they would not let me, and they said too that the mail would not go out before this morning, so that you would get the letter no sooner. I should have written to you at each relay if it had been possible, for I said to myself: “Now papa and Euphrasie, Mimi and Eran, are thinking of the traveller.” How I thought of you all! you followed me the whole way.
At last I am here, out of the way of dust, diligences and the annoyances of travelling, and welcomed and cosseted enough to compensate a thousand times over for the four long days of fatigue.
I should like to tell you everything, but there are so many, many things;–how I left you, and bowled away towards Paris, and met them all and fell into a dozen arms. Why weren’t you on the Place Notre Dame des Victoires when, just as I was driving off in a carriage with Charles, I saw Maurice and Caro and Aunt running and calling me, and kissing me, one through one window and another through the other? Oh! it was so nice!
No one ever entered Paris more pleasantly. We went as fast as we could to Rue du Cherche-Midi, talking, laughing and questioning.
“How is papa? and his leg? is he as well as he was last year?”
Maurice, poor fellow, cried as he looked at me, and talked of you all, Mimi, Eran, everybody, they all love you and ask after you.
When I came down stairs, I distributed your letters, and then came breakfast, which was very welcome to me. Half through breakfast, Auguste entered, a little surprised that I had arrived so early, and full of kind inquiries for you all …
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I thought I should reach Paris ground to powder, and here I am as fresh as if I had just stepped out of a bandbox. The dust was suffocating during the thirty leagues of that tiresome Sologne, and the rumbling was like thunder on the paved road from Orleans to Paris. It was impossible to sleep that night, but during the others I took naps, and even slept several hours–but oh! the difference of sleeping in a rose-colored bed, and in a diligence, tossed and jerked about! It was dreadful in the Sologne, where we went at a snail’s pace, but fortunately it did not rain–then the pa.s.sengers have to get out sometimes and push the wheels.
After breakfast I went to ma.s.s at St. Sulpice, and then to the Tuileries when the king was absent. It was very grand and regal; the throne is superb, and with “my mind’s eye” I saw Louis XIV. and Napoleon. There were a great many visitors, English people, and some brothers from the Christian schools. A friend of Maurice’s had got us entrance tickets for yesterday, and as I don’t often have a chance to see palaces, I was glad to get the opportunity.
Good-by, dear papa; to-day I say only two words of greeting. Maurice embraces you all as he embraced me yesterday. This is for Mimi and Eran. I send much love to Euphrasie from myself and from Maurice, who is delighted to know she is at Le Cayla. All sorts of kind messages to the parsonage and above all to the gimblette maker,–they were very welcome and every one liked them. They asked me if Augustine had grown tall and if she was mischievous, and I said yes and no;–yes for the height, you understand,–she is all virtue since her first communion.
M. Angler came to bid me welcome, and we are already acquainted; he looks good and is good. M. d’A. is coming this evening. I must leave you, dear papa. Keep well,–take care of yourself; and don’t be uneasy you your traveller, who has but one trial, that she cannot see you, and knows you are two hundred leagues away. Two hundred leagues! but my thoughts ran every instant to Le Cayla. We are in such a quiet place that I think myself in the country, and I slept without waking once until six o’clock. Tell Jeanne-Marie and Miou that everyone asks after them. My compliments to the whole household and to all who are interested in me.
But this charming picture had its _wrong side_, only revealed by Eugenie to Mlle. Louise de Bayne, and to the cousin with whom she lived during part of her stay at Paris, Professor Auguste Raynaud.
There was a worm at the heart of the bud, and she knew too well that it must wither without blooming. At the very meeting in the Place Notre Dame des Victoires, which she described so gaily in the letter to Le Cayla, the sight of Maurice’s pallor aroused her anxiety, an anxiety that increased daily and marred the pleasure to which she had looked forward for months with ardent longing. “At the time of his marriage,” says M. Barbey d’Aurevilly, an intimate friend of both brother and sister, “Maurice was already attacked with the disease of which he died a short time after. He already felt its first sufferings, its first illusions and early symptoms, which made his style of beauty more than ever touching; for among imaginary heads he had that beauty which we may attribute to the last of the Abencerrages. Now what others did not see in the joy and excitement of that day, she saw, with those sad, prophetic eyes that see everything when they love!”
“I want for nothing, my friend,” she wrote to Louise de Bayne; “they love me and treat me most cordially at my future sister-in-law’s, and here my kind cousin and his wife vie with each other in friendly attention. My sister-in-law gets my dresses, gives me a pink bed, and a jewel of an oratory next my room, where one would pray for mere pleasure. Oh! there is enough to make me happy, and yet I am beginning to weary of it, and to say that happiness is nowhere.
Write to me; tell me what you are doing in the mountains. I am waiting impatiently for news from Le Cayla. I long to hear about them all, and to see them in thought. Write to Marie sometime, it will please her, and papa too, who loves you, you know, but do not speak of Maurice’s health, for I say nothing to them on the subject, thinking it useless to alarm them when the trouble may pa.s.s off.”
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This was the one uneasiness that disturbed her enjoyment in Paris, “the drop of wormwood with which G.o.d wets the lips of his elect, that they be robust in virtue and suffering,” as d’Aurevilly said.
TO MME. DE MAISTRE.
Oct. 23.
I have seen many churches, new and old, and I prefer the old. Notre Dame, Saint Eustache, Saint Roch, and others whose names I forget, please me more than the Madeline with its pagan form, without belfry or confessionals, expressive of an unbelieving age; and Notre Dame de Lorette, pretty as a boudoir. I like churches that make one think of G.o.d, with _vaulted roofs leading to contemplation_, where one neither sees nor hears people. I am perfectly contented in l’Abbaye-aux-Bois, a simple little church that reminds me of the one at Andillac. I go there because it is in our parish, and then, too, I’ve found an excellent priest there, gentle, devout, and enlightened, a disciple of M. Dupanloup. I should have liked to go to him, but they told me that he lived at a distance, and I must have everything within my reach, for I am still like a bird just let out of a cage, hardly daring to stir; I should have lost myself a hundred times in one quarter if I had not always had a companion.
However, I have scoured Paris thoroughly in every direction; first mounting the towers of Notre Dame, whence the eye reaches over the immense city and takes in its general plan, after which they took me to the Invalides, the Louvre, and the Bois de Boulogne. The dome of the Invalides, Notre Dame, and the picture galleries, struck me most. You ask for my impressions of Paris–it is all admirable, but nothing astonishes me. At every step the eye and mind are arrested, but in the country, too, I paused over flowers, gra.s.s, and wonderful little creatures. Every place has its wonders–here those of man, there those of G.o.d, which are very beautiful, and will not pa.s.s away. Kings may see their palaces decay, but the ants will always have their dwelling places. Having made these reflections I will leave you, and work on a dress… .
TO MLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
All Saints’ Day, 1838.
… . I do not send you news. I ought to write to you of what goes on within and around me, that you might know my life, and it would be charming to write so, but time flies like a bird and carries me off on its wings. In the morning: church, breakfast, a little work; in the afternoon: a walk or drive, dinner at five o’clock, conversation, music–the day is gone, and nine and ten o’clock come to make us wonder where it went. We go to bed at ten, just like good country folk. In that and many other things I follow my usual habits, and live in Paris as if I were not there. Good by, the bell is ringing.
Seven o’clock. Here I am, pen in hand, sitting by the fire, with the piano sounding, people reading, Pitt (our Criquet) asleep, and memories of you mingling with all these things in this Paris _salon_. . . . It is not apropos, but I take my recollections of things as they come, and I must not fail to tell you what pleasure you gave me at the Spanish museum of painting where I met you. It was you, Louise: a head full of life, oval face, arch expression, and your eyes looking at me, your cheeks that I longed to kiss. I was so charmed with the likeness that I pa.s.sed by again to see my dear Spanish maiden. Certainly there must be something Spanish about you, for I see you in St. Theresa, and in this n.o.ble and beautiful unknown.
The museum amused, or rather interested me extremely, for one does not get amus.e.m.e.nt from beautiful things, or among wonderful works with ascetic faces such as compose this museum of painting. And what shall I tell you of the mummies, the thousand fantastic and grotesque Egyptian G.o.ds–cats and crocodiles–a paradise of idolatry that no one would care to enter? I looked long at some cloth four or five thousand years old, and at a piece of muslin and a little skein of thread, all framed under gla.s.s–how many ages have they been in existence? I should never end if I were learned and could describe these curiosities and antiquities by the thousand–Etruscan vases, exquisite in form and color, that look as if they were made yesterday. The ancients certainly possessed the secret of eternal works.
This is my life, seeing and admiring, and then entering into myself, or going in search of those I love to tell them all that I see and feel. If I could I would write to you forever, which means very often, and what should I not scribble? what do I not scribble? Know that I am writing in the midst of musicians, under Maurice’s eye as he sits laughing over my journal, and adds for its embellishment the expression of his homage to the ladies of Rayssac. It was he who noticed that picture first and pointed it out to me. He knows what gives me pleasure and leads me to it.
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We always go out together when the weather is good, sometimes to the Tuileries, sometimes to the Luxembourg; but I like the Tuileries best with its pretty things-sculpture, flowers, children playing about, swans in a basin, and looking down on it all the royal chateau illuminated by the setting sun. I begin to know my way about a little in the streets and gardens, and I look upon it as a great triumph to be able to go to l’Abbaye-aux-Bois alone, which is a great convenience, for I can go to week-day ma.s.s without troubling any one, which was a restraint upon me. One can go about here as safely as in Albi or Gaillac. They had frightened me about the dangers of Paris, when there are really none except for imprudent or crazy people. No one speaks to any person going about his own business. In the evening it is different. I would not go out alone then for the world, especially on the boulevards, where they say the devil leads the dance. We pa.s.s through sometimes returning from Mme.
Raynaud’s, and nothing has ever struck me except the illumination of gas in the cafes, running along the streets like a thread of fire. I annoyed a Parisian by saying that the glow-worms in our hedges were quite as effective. “Mademoiselle, what an insult to Paris!” It made us laugh, as one does laugh sometimes at nothing. Now I am going to the concert; I want to know what music is, and tell you my impressions.
TO M. DE GUeRIN.
PARIS, NOV. 6, 1838.
Never was a day more charming, for it began with Grembert’s arrival, and it ends with a letter to you, my dear papa… The wedding day is fixed for the 15th. Last Sunday the bans were published for the last time at l’Abbaye-aux-Bois…
You ask if I have everything I need, and if I am satisfied in every respect with my Parisian life. Yes, dear papa, in every sense, and especially for this reason, that I admire the care and a.s.sistance that Providence bestows upon us in all places. I have never been struck so forcibly with the abundant aids to piety anywhere as in Paris; every day there are sermons in one place or another, a.s.sociations and benedictions. If the devil reigns in Paris, perhaps G.o.d is served there better than in other places. Good and evil find here their utmost expression; it is Babylon and Jerusalem in one. In the midst of all this, I lead my customary life, and find in my Abbey everything I need. M. Legrand is a friend of l’Abbe de Rivieres, holy and zealous like him, and full of kindness. He provides me with books and with kind and gentle advice; it will not be his fault if I don’t improve very much. One can save one’s soul anywhere…
Our quarter of Cherche Midi is charming. M. d’Aurevilly calls it _Trouve Bonheur_, an appropriate name so far Maurice is concerned.
He will be happy, as happy as he can be–at least everything looks hopeful. He could not be allied to better souls. Caroline is an angel; her pure, tender soul is full of piety. You will be pleased with her, and with Maurice too, who only does things slowly, as his fashion is; but there is much to thank G.o.d for in such conduct, which is very rare among young Parisians. M. Buquet speaks very highly of him; he will bless the marriage, much to our gratification. The great day, which is to open a new life to our Maurice, engrosses us in a thousand ways. He is the most peaceful person concerned, and regards his future and all these affairs with admirable _sang-froid_. M. Buquet says the fellowship is worth nothing to him, and that he will find something else for him; so you see he is established in the good nest Providence has provided for him, without troubling yon.
Have I told you everything, and made you see thoughts, words, and actions, just as you like? Eran is reading the paper and warming himself. Everybody sends you kisses, and Caro her filial affection.
Yon would do well not to go to Rayseac when it is cold or rainy.
Advice given, and bulletin finished, I throw my arms around your neck, and pa.s.s on to Mimi.
You dear Mimi, I thank you more than I can express for your night letter, written in defiance of sleep. Poor Mimi, plagued and busy, while I play the princess in Paris! This thought comes to me often in the day, disturbing my repose a little, my _gentle quietude_. I say to myself that our time is differently employed, but I help you in my heart. We are as well as possible here and at Auguste’s. Don’t let Euphrasie leave you, I beg and beseech; you would be too lonely without her gaiety and kindness. I put both my arms around her to keep her. M. le Cure is very good to come and amuse papa: it is an act of friendly charity that I shall not forget Remember me to him and to Mariette. Also to Augustine, Jeanne-Marie, the shepherd, Paul, and Gilles, and thank them all for their compliments. Good-by, with a kiss from Maurice, Caro and myself.
TO THE SAME.
Nov. 7, 1838
I shall write to you every day until I receive letters from home, that you may see that I do not forget you, dear inhabitants of Le Cayla. The whirlwind of Paris will not blow me away yet awhile. That remark of papa’s made me laugh, and showed me that he does not know me yet. I am very sure that you, Mimi, had no such idea. I have told you that I lead the same life here as at Le Cayla, and with this {478} advantage, that there is nothing to worry me, for I have a church within reach, and entire liberty. We are all busy with spiritual matters now–our ladies with theirs and I with mine.
Maurice is consigned to Sunday, M. Buquet’s only free day. All is going on well in this respect, and Caroline is so edifying that she seems to be following in Mimi’s footsteps. In this too I admire the workings of Providence in using this marriage as an occasion of salvation.
It is beautiful to-day, one of those fine days so rare in Paris, where the sky is almost always pale and cloudless. This struck me at first, but now I am used to it as to other things that I see. I am used to carriages, and am no more afraid of there running over me than of Gilles’ cart. We shall go in the sunshine to see Mme.
Lamarliere Auguste, and I don’t know whom besides, for there is no end to visits when one is once in train. In going to see our cousin at M. Laville’s, Erembert and Maurice met M. Lastic, who is living in Paris. It is astonishing how many acquaintances one meets in the great world where one thinks one’s self unknown.
Indians visit here, Indians without end. A friend of Maurice’s, H.
Le Fevre came to spend the evening; a nice little young man, who looks very gentle and refined. He asked me when I was going to see my good friend De Maistre; he is a friend of M. Adrien’s, who is at present wandering amid the snows of Norway, so that he can not come to the wedding. We shall muster pretty strong, though only the _indispensable_ will be there.
… 13th. We have just come from the Pantheon, a church pa.s.sed over from G.o.d to the Devil, from St. Genevieve to the heroes of July, and to Voltaire and Rousseau. It is an admirable work of art, however; the interior, the dome, and the crypts, gloomy, secluded, buried beneath vaults and only lighted here and there with lamps, are quite effective. The imagination would easily take fright in this darkness of death, or of glory if you choose, for all the dead are ill.u.s.trious there, as in the Elysium of which Voltaire and Rousseau are the G.o.ds. In the depths of the crypt stands the statue of Voltaire, smiling apparently at the glory of his tomb, which is decorated with magnificent emblems. That of Rousseau is more severe–a sarcophagus, from which a hand is thrust forth, bearing a torch, “that illumines and ever shall illumine the world,” according to our guide, who was a cicerone as brilliant as the lantern he carried. The summit of the dome is at a prodigious elevation, twice the height of the steeple of Ste. Cecile. Paris is seen beautifully from there, but the picture needed sunlight and there was none.
Good-by; to-morrow at this time Maurice will be married at the Mayoralty, and day after tomorrow in church.
16th. Yesterday was the grand and solemn day, the beautiful day for Maurice, Caro and all of us. We only needed you, papa, and Mimi, to complete our happiness, as we all said with sincere regret. You would have been delighted to see this family festival, the most beautiful I ever witnessed. Everything went smoothly, the weather was soft and pleasant, and G.o.d seemed to smile on the marriage, so suitably it was conducted, and in such a Christian manner. How pretty Caro was in her bridal dress, and wreath of orange flowers under her veil a la Bengali! and Maurice looked well too. H. Angler was so charmed that he wanted to paint them in church, kneeling on their crimson Prie-Dieu. The church displayed all its grandeur, and the organ playing during ma.s.s was very good. M. Buquet blessed the marriage, and said ma.s.s, a.s.sisted by M. Legrand. Many of the _beau monde_ were present, and a dozen carriages stood before the church doors. Soeur d’Yversen was to be there. M. Laurichais, confessor to our ladies, in short all the friends and relations united their prayers and good wishes during the ceremony. I send M. Buquet’s discourse, which every one thought perfect. Why can’t I add to it his kindly voice, and the look of joy and emotion with which he spoke to Maurice, whom he loves sincerely.
You will like to know, papa, how everything pa.s.sed off on the memorable day, and I like very much to describe it, for it seems as if you would be able to share our pleasure, and see your children in church, at dinner and at the evening party. The dinner was charming, like every thing else, each course served elegantly; fish, meats, dessert and wines. The turkey, dressed with our truffles was king of the feast. We drank freely and merrily of Madeira and Constance, and it all seemed like the marriage of Cana. I sat between Auguste and M. d’Aurevilly, very charming neighbors, and we talked and laughed very pleasantly, though Auguste scolded me for having no poetry, which he felt disposed to read, and we had never thought of writing; there’s something bettor for Caro, which comes from the heart and will be unfailingly hers every day. How modest she was in church, and how pretty she looked in the evening! She was quite the queen of the occasion. A dozen ladies came, all very elegant, and I don’t know how many men, friends of Maurice’s. They were very gracious, and asked me to dance; yes–_dance!_ _M. le Cure_ had better take holy water and exorcise me. I danced with my groomsman, Charles; it was _de rigueur_, and I could not decline without being conspicuous, and playing {479} the not very amusing part of wall-flower. Auguste performed his paternal duties admirably. He begs me to say a word of commendation for him, and I might well say a hundred in praise of his friendship and devotion to us.
The friend referred to in the following letter, and with whom Mlle. de Guerin left Paris early in the December of 1838, was the _Marie_ to whom she wrote the two delightful letters, introduced into the sixth and seventh books of her journal. Mme. la Baronne Henriette Marie de Maistre was the sister of M. Adrien de Sainte Marie, a friend of Guerin’s, and her intimacy with Eugenie had its first foundation in ceremonious notes written about Maurice when he was ill with a fever at Le Cayla in 1837. Mme. de Maistre soon became endeared to Eugenie by her fascinating powers of attraction, and also by her mental and physical sufferings, for sufferers belonged to the “dove of Le Cayla”
by natural right.
TO MLLE. LOUISE DE BAYNE.
Paris, Dec. 1, 1838.