ich your wonderful
talent will be able to make a drama or a striking romance.

"A rich man, forty-five years old, married in Spain a young girl of
sixteen and took her to his chateau in France. He was a widower, and
had a son eight years old. This child, at the end of fifteen years,
became a young man of three and twenty. He is handsome, impetuous,
spoiled, but good and loyal. His stepmother is scarcely thirty-one,
and beautiful. They love each other.

"Pursued by remorse, she could no longer endure the presence of her
husband, who knew nothing. She planned that he should surprise her
with some one else. The husband fired at her, but missed his aim.

"She fled to a convent where the husband is going to pursue her,
wants to bring a lawsuit, take away her children--the oldest a girl
of fifteen. The story could be turned to excellent account.

"There was also an interview between the young man and the woman, in
which he sought to lead her into a reconciliation, showed her the
scandal which this rupture would bring upon her daughters. It ended
by a total separation, but if you wish you can kill off whichever
you like, except the son, who is very well.

"Answer me through the correspondence of the Figaro, if you think
there is anything in it, addressing the initials C.P.L."

"That is wicked and absurd," said my aunt.

"It is worse than wicked, worse than absurd, it is cowardly, but
what do you expect, doesn't everybody know the story?"

"Yes, but people don't talk about it, not on account of the old man,
who is a fool, whom everybody recognises as such, but for the sake
of the young one, who is beloved. It is only since the son's
appearance in society that his father has been let alone."

"Why does he look so fierce?" C----asked B---- one day.

"Because so many stones have been thrown at him."

Wednesday, November 24th, 1875.

I slept for twelve hours and, while trying on at L----'s I felt ill.
True, they kept me two hours with those wretched gowns.

We ordered from B---- a landau with eight springs, dark-blue, five
seats, everything the very best, at the price of 6,000 francs; also
a park phaeton of the same colour, the phaeton is for me. I already
see myself in that little carriage, driving and saying: "Knowst thou
the land--"

November 28th, 1875.

I am in Nice. From Paris to Lyon, we were in the midst of snow, but
it is strange that I am not so delighted as I was before on reaching
my villa.

At