My father has been elected to the Chamber,my father-in-law is dead,and I am on the point of my second confinement;these are the chief events marking the end of the year for us.I mention them at once,lest the sight of the black seal should frighten you.
My dear,your letter from Rome made my flesh creep.You are nothing but a pair of children.Felipe is either a dissembling diplomat or else his love for you is the love a man might have for a courtesan,on whom he squanders his all,knowing all the time that she is false to him.Enough of this.You say I rave,so I had better hold my tongue.
Only this would I say,from the comparison of our two very different destinies I draw this harsh moral--Love not if you would be loved.
My dear,when Louis was elected to the provincial Council,he received the cross of the Legion of Honor.That is now nearly three years ago;and as my father--whom you will no doubt see in Paris during the course of the session--has asked the rank of Officer of the Legion for his son-in-law,I want to know if you will do me the kindness to take in hand the bigwig,whoever he may be,to whom this patronage belongs,and to keep an eye upon the little affair.But,whatever you do,don't get entangled in the concerns of my honored father.The Comte de Maucombe is fishing for the title of Marquis for himself;but keep your good services for me,please.When Louis is a deputy--next winter that is--we shall come to Paris,and then we will move heaven and earth to get some Government appointment for him,so that we may be able to save our income by living on his salary.My father sits between the centre and the right;a title will content him.Our family was distinguished even in the days of King Rene,and Charles X.will hardly say no to a Maucombe;but what I fear is that my father may take it into his head to ask some favor for my younger brother.Now,if the marquisate is dangled out of his reach,he will have no thoughts to spare from himself.
January 15th.
Ah!Louise,I have been in hell.If I can bear to tell you of my anguish,it is because you are another self;even so,I don't know whether I shall ever be able to live again in thought those five ghastly days.The mere word "convulsions"makes my very heart sick.
Five days!to me they were five centuries of torture.A mother who has not been through this martyrdom does not know what suffering is.So frenzied was I that I even envied you,who never had a child!
The evening before that terrible day the weather was close,almost hot,and I thought my little Armand was affected by it.Generally so sweet and caressing,he was peevish,cried for nothing,wanted to play,and then broke his toys.Perhaps this sort of fractiousness is the usual sign of approaching illness with children.While I was wondering about it,I noticed Armand's cheeks flush,but this I set down to teething,for he is cutting four large teeth at once.So I put him to bed beside me,and kept constantly waking through the night.He was a little feverish,but not enough to make me uneasy,my mind being still full of the teething.Towards morning he cried "Mamma!"and asked by signs for something to drink;but the cry was spasmodic,and there were convulsive twitchings in the limbs,which turned me to ice.
I jumped out of bed to fetch him a drink.Imagine my horror when,on my handing him the cup,he remained motionless,only repeating "Mamma!"in that strange,unfamiliar voice,which was indeed by this time hardly a voice at all.I took his hand,but it did not respond to my pressure;it was quite stiff.I put the cup to his lips;the poor little fellow gulped down three or four mouthfuls in a convulsive manner that was terrible to see,and the water made a strange sound in his throat.He clung to me desperately,and I saw his eyes roll,as though some hidden force within were pulling at them,till only the whites were visible;his limbs were turning rigid.I screamed aloud,and Louis came.
"A doctor!quick!...he is dying,"I cried.
Louis vanished,and my poor Armand again gasped,"Mamma!Mamma!"The next moment he lost all consciousness of his mother's existence.The pretty veins on his forehead swelled,and the convulsions began.For a whole hour before the doctors came,I held in my arms that merry baby,all lilies and roses,the blossom of my life,my pride,and my joy,lifeless as a piece of wood;and his eyes!I cannot think of them without horror.My pretty Armand was a mere mummy--black,shriveled,misshapen.
