You complain of my silence;have you forgotten,then,those two little brown heads,at once my subjects and my tyrants?And as to staying at home,you have yourself hit upon several of my reasons.Apart from the condition of our dear uncle,I didn't want to drag with me to Paris a boy of four and a little girl who will soon be three,when I am again expecting my confinement.I had no intention of troubling you and upsetting your husband with such a party.I did not care to appear,looking my worst,in the brilliant circle over which you preside,and I detest life in hotels and lodgings.
When I come to spend the session in Paris,it will be in my own house.
Louis'uncle,when he heard of the rank his grand-nephew had received,made me a present of two hundred thousand francs (the half of his savings)with which to buy a house in Paris,and I have charged Louis to find one in your neighborhood.My mother has given me thirty thousand francs for the furnishing,and I shall do my best not to disgrace the dear sister of my election--no pun intended.
I am grateful to you for having already done so much at Court for Louis.But though M.de Bourmont and M.de Polignac have paid him the compliment of asking him to join their ministry,I do not wish so conspicuous a place for him.It would commit him too much;and Iprefer the Audit Office because it is permanent.Our affairs here are in very good hands;so you need not fear;as soon as the steward has mastered the details,I will come and support Louis.
As for writing long letters nowadays,how can I.This one,in which Iwant to describe to you the daily routine of my life,will be a week on the stocks.Who can tell but Armand may lay hold of it to make caps for his regiments drawn up on my carpet,or vessels for the fleets which sail his bath!A single day will serve as a sample of the rest,for they are all exactly alike,and their characteristics reduce themselves to two--either the children are well,or they are not.For me,in this solitary grange,it is no exaggeration to say that hours become minutes,or minutes hours,according to the children's health.
If I have some delightful hours,it is when they are asleep and I am no longer needed to rock the one or soothe the other with stories.
When I have them sleeping by my side,I say to myself,"Nothing can go wrong now."The fact is,my sweet,every mother spends her time,so soon as her children are out of her sight,in imagining dangers for them.Perhaps it is Armand seizing the razors to play with,or his coat taking fire,or a snake biting him,or he might tumble in running and start an abscess on his head,or he might drown himself in a pond.
A mother's life,you see,is one long succession of dramas,now soft and tender,now terrible.Not an hour but has its joys and fears.
But at night,in my room,comes the hour for waking dreams,when Iplan out their future,which shines brightly in the smile of the guardian angel,watching over their beds.Sometimes Armand calls me in his sleep;I kiss his forehead (without rousing him),then his sister's feet,and watch them both lying in their beauty.These are my merry-makings!Yesterday,it must have been our guardian angel who roused me in the middle of the night and summoned me in fear to Athenais'cradle.Her head was too low,and I found Armand all uncovered,his feet purple with cold.
"Darling mother!"he cried,rousing up and flinging his arms round me.
There,dear,is one of our night scenes for you.
How important it is for a mother to have her children by her side at night!It is not for a nurse,however careful she may be,to take them up,comfort them,and hush them to sleep again,when some horrid nightmare has disturbed them.For they have their dreams,and the task of explaining away one of those dread visions of the night is the more arduous because the child is scared,stupid,and only half awake.It is a mere interlude in the unconsciousness of slumber.In this way Ihave come to sleep so lightly,that I can see my little pair and see them stirring,through the veil of my eyelids.A sigh or a rustle wakens me.For me,the demon of convulsions is ever crouching by their beds.
So much for the nights;with the first twitter of the birds my babies begin to stir.Through the mists of dispersing sleep,their chatter blends with the warblings that fill the morning air,or with the swallows'noisy debates--little cries of joy or woe,which make their way to my heart rather than my ears.While Nais struggles to get at me,making the passage from her cradle to my bed on all fours or with staggering steps,Armand climbs up with the agility of a monkey,and has his arms round me.Then the merry couple turn my bed into a playground,where mother lies at their mercy.The baby-girl pulls my hair,and would take to sucking again,while Armand stands guard over my breast,as though defending his property.Their funny ways,their peals of laughter,are too much for me,and put sleep fairly to flight.
Then we play the ogress game;mother ogress eats up the white,soft flesh with hugs,and rains kisses on those rosy shoulders and eyes brimming over with saucy mischief;we have little jealous tiffs too,so pretty to see.It has happened to me,dear,to take up my stockings at eight o'clock and be still bare-footed at nine!
