dences?"

A thousand loves.

XXV. RENEE DE L'ESTORADE TO LOUISE DE CHAULIEU

Saucy girl! Why should I write? What could I say? Whilst your life is
varied by social festivities, as well as by the anguish, the tempers,
and the flowers of love--all of which you describe so graphically, that
I might be watching some first-rate acting at the theatre--mine is as
monotonous and regular as though it were passed in a convent.

We always go to bed at nine and get up with daybreak. Our meals are
served with a maddening punctuality. Nothing ever happens. I have
accustomed myself without much difficulty to this mapping out of the
day, which perhaps is, after all, in the nature of things. Where would
the life of the universe be but for that subjection to fixed laws which,
according to the astronomers, so Louis tells me, rule the spheres! It is
not order of which we weary.

Then I have laid upon myself certain rules of dress, and these occupy
my time in the mornings. I hold it part of my duty as a wife to look as
charming as possible. I feel a certain satisfaction in it, and it causes
lively pleasure to the good old man and to Louis. After lunch, we walk.
When the newspapers arrive, I disappear to look after my household
affairs or to read--for I read a great deal--or to write to you. I
come back to the others an hour before dinner; and after dinner we
play cards, or receive visits, or pay them. Thus my days pass between a
contented old man, who has done with passions, and the man who owes
his happiness to me. Louis' happiness is so radiant that it has at last
warmed my heart.

For women, happiness no doubt cannot consist in the mere satisfaction of
desire. Sometimes, in the evening, when I am not required to take a hand
in the game, and can sink back in my armchair, imagination bears me on
its strong wings into the very heart of your life. Then, its riches, its
changeful tints, its surging passions become my own, and I ask myself to
what end such a stormy preface can lead. May I not swallow up the book
itself? For you, my darling, the illusions of love are possible; for
me, only the facts of homely life remain. Yes, your love seems to me a
dream!

Therefore I find it hard to understand why you are determined to throw
so much romance over it. Your ideal man must have more soul than fire,
more nobility and self-command than passion. You persist in trying to
clothe in living form the dream ideal of a girl on the threshold