And one more point I must urge on you,suggested by my meditations on your retirement.Life,whether of the body or the heart,consists in certain balanced movements.Any excess introduced into the working of this routine gives rise either to pain or to pleasure,both of which are a mere fever of the soul,bound to be fugitive because nature is not so framed as to support it long.But to make of life one long excess is surely to choose sickness for one's portion.You are sick because you maintain at the temperature of passion a feeling which marriage ought to convert into a steadying,purifying influence.
Yes,my sweet,I see it clearly now;the glory of a home consists in this very calm,this intimacy,this sharing alike of good and evil,which the vulgar ridicule.How noble was the reply of the Duchesse de Sully,the wife of the great Sully,to some one who remarked that her husband,for all his grave exterior,did not scruple to keep a mistress."What of that?"she said."I represent the honor of the house,and should decline to play the part of a courtesan there."But you,Louise,who are naturally more passionate than tender,would be at once the wife and the mistress.With the soul of a Heloise and the passions of a Saint Theresa,you slip the leash on all your impulses,so long as they are sanctioned by law;in a word,you degrade the marriage rite.Surely the tables are turned.The reproaches you once heaped on me for immorally,as you said,seizing the means of happiness from the very outset of my wedded life,might be directed against yourself for grasping at everything which may serve your passion.What!must nature and society alike be in bondage to your caprice?You are the old Louise;you have never acquired the qualities which ought to be a woman's;self-willed and unreasonable as a girl,you introduce withal into your love the keenest and most mercenary of calculations!Are you sure that,after all,the price you ask for your toilets is not too high?All these precautions are to my mind very suggestive of mistrust.
Oh,dear Louise,if only you knew the sweetness of a mother's efforts to discipline herself in kindness and gentleness to all about her!My proud,self-sufficing temper gradually dissolved into a soft melancholy,which in turn has been swallowed up by those delights of motherhood which have been its reward.If the early hours were toilsome,the evening will be tranquil and clear.My dread is lest the day of your life should take the opposite course.
When I had read your letter to a close,I prayed God to send you among us for a day,that you might see what family life really is,and learn the nature of those joys,which are lasting and sweeter than tongue can tell,because they are genuine,simple,and natural.But,alas!
what chance have I with the best of arguments against a fallacy which makes you happy?As I write these words,my eyes fill with tears.Ihad felt so sure that some months of honeymoon would prove a surfeit and restore you to reason.But I see that there is no limit to your appetite,and that,having killed a man who loved you,you will not cease till you have killed love itself.Farewell,dear misguided friend.I am in despair that the letter which I hoped might reconcile you to society by its picture of my happiness should have brought forth only a paean of selfishness.Yes,your love is selfish;you love Gaston far less for himself than for what he is to you.
