should fail to satisfy my beloved's mind,
I have advised him to finish, in the quiet of this retreat, some plays
which were begun in his starvation days, and which are really very fine.
This is the only kind of literary work which can be done in odd moments,
for it requires long intervals of reflection, and does not demand
the elaborate pruning essential to a finished style. One can't make a
task-work of dialogue; there must be biting touches, summings-up, and
flashes of wit, which are the blossoms of the mind, and come rather by
inspiration than reflection. This sort of intellectual sport is very
much in my line. I assist Gaston in his work, and in this way manage to
accompany him even in the boldest flights of his imagination. Do you see
now how it is that my winter evenings never drag?

Our servants have such an easy time, that never once since we were
married have we had to reprimand any of them. When questioned about us,
they have had wit enough to draw on their imaginations, and have given
us out as the companion and secretary of a lady and gentleman supposed
to be traveling. They never go out without asking permission, which they
know will not be refused; they are contented too, and see plainly that
it will be their own fault if there is a change for the worse. The
gardeners are allowed to sell the surplus of our fruits and vegetables.
The dairymaid does the same with the milk, the cream, and the fresh
butter, on condition that the best of the produce is reserved for us.
They are well pleased with their profits, and we are delighted with an
abundance which no money and no ingenuity can procure in that terrible
Paris, where it costs a hundred francs to produce a single fine peach.

All this is not without its meaning, my dear. I wish to fill the place
of society to my husband; now society is amusing, and therefore his
solitude must not be allowed to pall on him. I believed myself jealous
in the old days, when I merely allowed myself to be loved; now I know
real jealousy, the jealousy of the lover. A single indifferent glance
unnerves me. From time to time I say to myself, "Suppose he ceased to
love me!" And a shudder goes through me. I tremble before him, as the
Christian before his God.

Alas! Renee, I am still without a child. The time will surely come--it
must come--when our hermitage will need a father's and a mother's care
to brighten it, when we shall both pine to see the little frocks and
pelisses, the b