g out one of our pledges, which was, as you
know, to keep each other informed of the smallest details in our homes
and occupations. It makes such a difference to know where and how the
life of one we love is passed. Send me a faithful picture of the veriest
trifles around you, omitting nothing, not even the sunset lights among
the tall trees.

October 19th.

It was three in the afternoon when I arrived. About half-past five, Rose
came and told me that my mother had returned, so I went downstairs to
pay my respects to her.

My mother lives in a suite on the ground floor, exactly corresponding
to mine, and in the same block. I am just over her head, and the same
secret staircase serves for both. My father's rooms are in the block
opposite, but are larger by the whole of the space occupied by the grand
staircase on our side of the building. These ancestral mansions are so
spacious, that my father and mother continue to occupy the ground-floor
rooms, in spite of the social duties which have once more devolved on
them with the return of the Bourbons, and are even able to receive in
them.

I found my mother, dressed for the evening, in her drawing-room, where
nothing is changed. I came slowly down the stairs, speculating with
every step how I should be met by this mother who had shown herself so
little of a mother to me, and from whom, during eight years, I had heard
nothing beyond the two letters of which you know. Judging it unworthy to
simulate an affection I could not possibly feel, I put on the air of
a pious imbecile, and entered the room with many inward qualms, which
however soon disappeared. My mother's tack was equal to the occasion.
She made no pretence of emotion; she neither held me at arm's-length nor
hugged me to her bosom like a beloved daughter, but greeted me as though
we had parted the evening before. Her manner was that of the kindliest
and most sincere friend, as she addressed me like a grown person, first
kissing me on the forehead.

"My dear little one," she said, "if you were to die at the convent, it
is much better to live with your family. You frustrate your father's
plans and mine; but the age of blind obedience to parents is past. M. de
Chaulieu's intention, and in this I am quite at one with him, is to lose
no opportunity of making your life pleasant and of letting you see the
world. At your age I should have thought as you do, therefore I am not
vexed with you; it is impossible you should u