"Sire,--Amid the numerous felicitations which you receive from every corner of Europe, can the feeble voice of a woman reach your ear, and will you deign to listen to her who has so often consoled your sorrows, and sweetened your pains, now that she speaks to you only of that happiness in which all your wishes are fulfilled? Having ceased to be your wife, dare I felicitate you on becoming a father? Yes, sire, without hesitation; for my soul renders justice to yours, as you know mine. Though separated, we are united by a sympathy which survives all events. I should have desired to learn the birth of the king of Rome from yourself, and not from the cannons of Evreux; but I know that your first attentions are due to the public authorities, to your own family, and especially to the fortunate princess who has realized your dearest hopes. She cannot be more devoted to you than I; but she has been enabled to contribute more towards your happiness, by securing that of France. Not till you have ceased to watch by her bed, not till you are weary of embracing your son, will you take the pen to converse with your best friend. I wait."
The next day, Eugene arrived, charged with a message from the emperor: "Tell your mother," said he, "that I am certain she will rejoice more than any one at my good fortune. I would have written to her already, had I not been completely absorbed in looking at my son. I tear myself from him only to attend to the most indispensable duties. This evening I will discharge the sweetest of all--I will write to Josephine."
Accordingly, about eleven o'clock the same evening, the folding-doors were opened in great form, and the announcement, "From the emperor,"
ushered in one of his own pages, bearer of a letter from Napoleon. The empress retired to read this ardently-desired epistle; and on her return it was easy to see that she had been weeping. The curiosity of her court was gratified by hearing various portions of the letter, which concluded in these words: "This infant, in concert with _our Eugene_, will constitute my happiness, and that of France." "Is it possible," said Josephine, "to be more amiable? or could any thing be better calculated to soothe whatever might be painful in my thoughts at this moment, did I not so ardently love the emperor? This uniting of my son with his own is worthy of him, who, when he wills, is the most delightful man in the world."
From their separation, the correspondence between Napoleon and Josephine continued undiminished in respect and affection. Notes from the emperor arrived weekly, and he never returned from any journey or long absence without seeing the "illustrious solitary." No sooner had he alighted, than a messenger, usually his own confidential attendant, was despatched to Malmaison: "Tell the empress I am well, and desire to hear that she is happy." In every thing Napoleon continued to evince for her the most confiding tenderness. All the private griefs in which Josephine had shared, and the sorrows to which she had ministered, were still disclosed to her. He gave a further proof of it by allowing her frequently to see his son--a communication which the jealous temper of Maria Louisa would have sought to prevent, had it not been secretly managed. Josephine had so far complied with the wishes of the emperor as to attempt an intercourse with her successor.
"But the latter," to use Josephine's own words, "rejected the proposal in a manner which prevented me from renewing it. I am sorry for it; her presence would have given me no uneasiness, and I might have bestowed good counsel as to the best means of pleasing the emperor."
The personal intercourse between Napoleon and Josephine was conducted with the most decorous attention to appearances. It ended in one hurried and distressful interview after the return of Napoleon from his disastrous Russian campaign. But in the midst of the tremendous struggle that followed, Napoleon found leisure to think of her. His letters to her were more frequent and more affectionate than ever, while hers, written by every opportunity, were perused, under all circumstances, with a promptitude which showed clearly the pleasure or the consolation that was expected: in fact, it was observed that letters from Malmaison or Navarre were always torn rather than broken open, and read, whatever else might be retarded.
On the approach of the allies to Paris, Josephine retired from Malmaison to Navarre. Her only pleasure, during the period of painful uncertainty which followed, was to shut herself up alone, and read the letters she had last received from the emperor. A letter from him at last put an end to all uncertainty; it announced his fall and his retirement to Elba. The perusal of it overwhelmed her with grief and consternation; but, recovering herself, she exclaimed, with impassioned energy, "I must not remain here: my presence is necessary to the emperor. The duty is, indeed, more Maria Louisa's than mine; but the emperor is alone, forsaken. I, at least, will not abandon him." Tears came to her relief. She became more composed, and added, "I may, however, interfere with his arrangements. I will remain here till I hear from the allied sovereigns. They will respect her who was the wife of Napoleon." Nor was she deceived. The Emperor Alexander sent assurances of his friendship, and the other allies united in a request that she would return to Malmaison. Here every thing was maintained on its former footing. Her court, elegant as ever, was frequented by the most distinguished personages of Europe. Among the earliest visitors was Alexander. Josephine received him with her wonted grace, and expressed how much she felt on the occasion.
"Madam," replied Alexander, "I burned with the desire of beholding you. Since I entered France, I have never heard your name pronounced but with benedictions. In the cottage and in the palace I have collected accounts of your goodness; and I do myself a pleasure in thus presenting to your majesty the universal homage of which I am the bearer." The king of Prussia also visited her, and she received attentions even from the Bourbons. Her children were protected, and Eugene was offered his rank as marshal of France; but he declined it.
The health of Josephine, which had been undermined by previous sufferings, sunk entirely under these new and agitating emotions. On the 4th of May, 1814, she became, for the first time, decidedly ill.
The Emperor Alexander was unremitting in his attentions to her, and to him her last words were addressed. "I shall die regretted. I have always desired the happiness of France; I did all in my power to contribute to it; I can say with truth, that the first wife of Napoleon never caused a single tear to flow." She then sunk into a gentle slumber, from which she never awoke.
The funeral procession, which was headed by representatives of the sovereigns of Russia and Prussia, and was composed of princes, marshals, and generals, the most celebrated in Europe, was closed by two thousand _poor_, who had voluntarily come to pay their last tribute to the memory of their benefactor and friend. The spot where her remains are buried is marked by a monument of white marble, bearing this simple, yet touching inscription:--
"EUGENE AND HORTENSE TO JOSEPHINE."
MARIE ANTOINETTE.
Jeanne Josephe Marie Antoinette, of Lorraine, archduchess of Austria, the unfortunate queen of Louis XVI. of France, was the daughter of Francis I. and Maria Theresa, and was born at Vienna, in 1755. She was educated with the utmost care, and nature had bestowed upon her the highest beauty of person. Her accomplishments, talents, grace, virtue, and uncommon loveliness, fitted her for the queen of a gallant nation; and as such she would have been honored in France, had she lived before oppression had roused the people to madness. Her mother, in a letter to her future husband, after alluding to the care with which she had formed her mind, says, "Your bride, dear dauphin, is separated from me. As she has ever been my delight, so she will be your happiness. For this purpose, I have enjoined upon her, as among her highest duties, the most tender attachment to your person, the greatest attention to every thing that can please or make you happy.
Above all things, I have recommended to her humility towards God, because I am convinced that it is impossible for us to secure the happiness of the subjects confided to us without love to Him who destroys the sceptres and the thrones of kings according to his will."
The marriage took place at Versailles, May 16th, 1770, and was celebrated with uncommon splendor; but, immediately after the ceremony, a thunder-storm of unparalleled violence broke over the palace of Versailles, darkened the surrounding scenery, and struck terror into the hearts of the people for miles around. On May 30th, the festivities at Paris were saddened by a most terrible accident; a number of citizens being crushed to death in the Rue Royale, by some mismanagement on the part of the proper authorities. Fifty-three persons were found dead, and three hundred more were dangerously injured.
[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE AT THE SCAFFOLD.]
The magnanimity of Marie Antoinette displayed itself soon after her elevation to the throne, on the death of Louis XV. An officer of the body-guard, who had given her offence on some former occasion, expressed his intention of resigning his commission; but the queen forbade him. "Remain," said she; "forget the past. Far be it from the queen of France to revenge the injuries of the dauphiness." She devoted herself to the interests of her people with an assiduity unparalleled in a sovereign of her age; yet, becoming obnoxious to the court party, her character was assailed in every shape and quarter; she was accused of setting on foot conspiracies which never existed, and of entertaining views which never entered her mind. She was termed the _Austrian_, and it was openly asserted, as well as privately insinuated, that her heart was estranged from the country of her husband, and her mind solely occupied with the interests of her native land.
In her conduct, there was matter for gentle reproof, but none for malevolent accusation. A gayety which sometimes degenerated into levity, a passion for fashionable novelties, and an undisguised contempt for court formalities, instead of being regarded as the foibles and imprudences of a young and innocent mind, were construed into evidences of the existence of loose principles, unbridled extravagance, and hatred for the nation. She was likewise charged with pettishness under reproof; and we can readily conceive how a female of so high a rank, conscious of the purity of her intentions, and perpetually assailed by reckless cavillers, assumed, in reply to the unworthy insinuations of her enemies, the tone which her virtue and her birth appeared to warrant. The affair of the diamond necklace created an extraordinary sensation. A jeweller at Paris demanded payment for a necklace so costly that the finances of a queen would hardly warrant its purchase. The result of an examination was the proof of the queen's integrity.
On the 6th October, 1789, the mob broke into the palace of Versailles, murdered some of the bodyguards, and threatened the queen in the most frightful language. At midnight, she received a letter from a friendly clergyman, advising her to seek safety in flight, as her life would be sacrificed early the next morning. She resolved to remain, and destroyed the warning letter. She heard the footsteps of the ruffian rabble; she thought her time had come, but her life was saved. The progress of the ruffians was arrested at the very door of her chamber, where her faithful guardsmen laid down their lives to secure for their queen a retreat to the chamber of the king. The king and queen showed themselves, with their children, in the balcony. The mass of heads beneath for a moment ceased to be agitated; but it was only for a moment. Silence was broken by a thousand tongues--"No children--no children! The queen! the queen alone!"
This was a trying moment; but Antoinette had firmness for the crisis.
Putting her son and daughter into her husband's arms, she advanced alone into the balcony. A spectacle like this filled the fierce people with admiration, and thundering sounds of "_Vive la Reine!_" succeeded to the imprecations of the preceding moment. Such is the fickleness of a mob! The march to Paris was a succession of terrors! The heads of the two faithful guardsmen, elevated on pikes, met the eyes of the poor queen as she looked from her carriage windows.
The fate of Antoinette darkened rapidly. With the king, she fled to Varennes--with him was brought back to Paris. Her courage did not fail in the scene of the Legislative Assembly, before which body she was present with her husband, heard his deposition pronounced, and then went into the Temple, where he was imprisoned. Here, where the light of heaven faintly fell through grated windows, surrounded by her family, she appeared to feel entire resignation to the will of Him on whom the happiness of the humblest individual depends. When she heard the condemnation of the king from the lips of the royal victim, she had the firmness to congratulate him on the speedy delivery from trouble that awaited him. Her eternal separation from her son did not shake her firmness, and, with a heart apparently unbroken, she was consigned to the loathsome depths of a dungeon, August 5th, 1793.
The accusations brought against the unhappy queen, on her trial, were all unfounded, and merely advanced because her enemies had still respect enough for justice to mimic its forms in their guilty court.
She was charged with having squandered the public money, and with leaguing in secret with the common enemies of France. The clearness of her innocence, the falsehood and frivolity of the witnesses, the eloquence of the defenders, and her own noble bearing, were of no avail: Marie Antoinette was doomed to die upon the scaffold.
The expression of her countenance, as she passed to the place of execution, awed the bloodthirsty populace; but the once matchless beauty of that noble countenance was gone forever. One unacquainted with the ravages of grief could not believe that the haggard and forsaken being whom they led to sacrifice, was the same young queen, who, a short time before, held in thrall the chivalry of France, by her exquisite loveliness, her winning grace, and sportive gayety.
Antoinette cast back a long, last look at the Tuileries--a look which told of sorrowful remembrance and of agonizing emotion; then, with an air of dignified resignation, she ascended the scaffold. "My God,"
cried she, as she kneeled on that fatal platform, "enlighten and affect my executioner! Adieu, my children, my beloved ones: I am going to your father!" Thus she perished, in her thirty-eighth year, October 16th, 1793.
In the gayety of youth and the sunshine of prosperity, Marie Antoinette had exhibited some foibles amid many virtues. In the beginning of her trials, she displayed, as well as those around her, serious mistakes of judgment; but in the dark hour of adversity, she exhibited a spectacle of truth, firmness, and dignity, hardly less than sublime. When confined with her family in the prison of the Temple, with only a glimmering ray of light stealing through the iron bars, she displayed the utmost calmness, cheered all around with her counsel and example, and taught them to disregard privation, sickness, and suffering.
When her husband told her that he was condemned to the scaffold, she congratulated him upon the speedy termination of an existence so painful, and the unperishing reward that should crown it. Before the Revolutionary Tribunal she was unabashed, and, when accused of a horrid crime, she put her traducers to shame by exclaiming, "I appeal to every mother here whether such an act be possible!" In solitude, and in the depths of a damp and loathsome dungeon, where she was confined for weeks, she was still serene and uncomplaining. In parting with her son; in taking a last adieu of the palace which had witnessed her triumphs; in facing the scaffold, and the wretches around it; and in bidding a final farewell to life,--Marie Antoinette evinced that patient, deep, and touching heroism which a woman and a Christian alone can display.
MADAME ROLAND.
When, in May, 1793, Robespierre and the Mountain effected the final overthrow of the Girondists--the moderate party of the French revolutionists--M. Roland, who had recently resigned his office in the ministry, was forced to flee, and his wife was thrown into prison. To solace the sad hours of her captivity, she began to write her own Memoirs. "I propose to myself," she says, "to employ the leisure hours of my captivity in relating the history of my life, from my infancy to the present time. Thus to retrace the steps of one's career is to live a second time; and what better can a prisoner do than, by a happy fiction, or by interesting recollections, to transport herself from her prison?"
Her Memoirs are dated at the "Prison of St. Pelagie, August 9th, 1793," and she thus commences: "Daughter of an artist, wife of a philosopher, who, when a minister of state, remained a man of virtue; now a prisoner, destined, perhaps, to a violent and unexpected death,--I have known happiness and adversity; I have learned what glory is, and have suffered injustice. Born in an humble condition, but of respectable parents, I passed my youth in the bosom of the arts, and amidst the delights of study; knowing no superiority but that of merit, no grandeur but that of virtue."
Her father, Gratien Philipon, was an engraver. During the early years of Manon's life, he was well off, employing many workmen under him.
His wife possessed little of what is called knowledge, but she had a discerning judgment and a gentle and affectionate disposition. By her example, as well as by the course of education which her disposition led her to pursue, she formed in her daughter the same gentle, feminine spirit which she herself possessed.
"The wisdom and kindness of my mother," says Madame Roland, "quickly acquired over my gentle and tender character an ascendency which was used only for my good. It was so great that, in those slight, inevitable differences between reason which governs and childhood which resists, she had need to resort to no other punishment than to call me, coldly, _Mademoiselle_, and to regard me with a severe countenance. I feel, even now, the impression made on me by her look, which at other times was so tender and caressing. I hear, almost with shivering, the word _mademoiselle_ substituted for the sweet name of _daughter_, or the tender appellation of _Manon_. Yes, Manon; it was thus they called me: I am sorry for the lovers of romances, the name is not noble; it suits not a dignified heroine; but, nevertheless, it was mine, and it is a history that I am writing. But the most fastidious would have been reconciled to the name, had they heard my mother pronounce it, or had they seen her who bore it. No expression wanted grace, when accompanied by the affectionate tone of my mother; when her touching voice penetrated my soul, did it teach me to resemble her? Lively without being ever rompish, and naturally retiring, I asked only to be occupied, and seized with quickness the ideas which were presented to me. This disposition was so well taken advantage of, that I do not remember learning to read: I have heard that I did so before I was four years old, and that, after that time, nothing more was required than to supply me with books."
Her passion for these was subjected to little guidance or control; she read whatever chance threw in her way; they were, for the most part, of a serious character--Locke, Pascal, Burlamaque, Montesquieu; relieved, however, by works on history, the poems of Voltaire, Don Quixote, and some of the popular romances; but, as these were few in number, she was compelled to read them often, and thus acquired a habit of thought. When she was nine years old, Plutarch's Lives fell in her way, and more delighted her than any romance or fairy tale. The book became her bosom companion; and from that moment, she says, "she dated the ideas and impressions which made her a republican without her knowing that she was becoming one."
"But this child, who was accustomed to read serious books, could explain the circles of the celestial sphere, could use the pencil and the graver, and at eight years old was the best dancer in a party of girls older than herself, assembled for a family festival. The same child was often called to the kitchen to prepare an omelette, wash herbs, or to skim the pot. This mixture of grave studies, agreeable exercise, and domestic cares, ordered and regulated by the wisdom of my mother, rendered me fit for all circumstances, seemed to anticipate the vicissitudes of my fortune, and has aided me in bearing them. I feel nowhere out of place; I can prepare my soup with as much ease as Philopemon cut wood, though no one seeing me would deem that such a task was fitted for me."
The study of Plutarch and the ancient historians was not, perhaps, favorable to the happiness of Mademoiselle Philipon. She regretted that her lot had not been cast in a free state, which she had persuaded herself was the only nursery of virtue, generosity, and wisdom. She contrasted the state of society, as she saw it around her, with the ideal state of its existence in ancient Greece and Rome. She had once paid a visit of eight days to Versailles, and witnessed the routine of the court. How different were the weak and dissolute actors upon that tinsel and tawdry stage from the heroes and philosophers with whom she was wont, in imagination, to associate! She "sorrowfully compared the Asiatic luxury, the insolent pomp, with the abject misery of the degraded people, who ran after the idols of their own creating, and stupidly applauded the brilliant shows for which they paid out of their own absolute necessaries." Sometimes she was taken to visit certain ladies who called themselves noble, and who, looking upon her as an inferior, sent her to dine with the servants. But their airs of condescending kindness were even yet more offensive, and made her bosom swell with indignant emotion. She acknowledges that this feeling made her hail the revolution with greater transport.
The daughter of a prosperous tradesman, she had many suitors of her own rank; but she had formed to herself a _beau ideal_ of wedded life which none but a man of education could satisfy; they were all rejected. A physician proposed; more refinement and knowledge was to be expected in the learned professions; she hesitated, but he also was rejected. In the mean time, her father's habits began to change; he became a speculator, fond of pleasure and careless of his business.
His speculations failed, and his customers left him. Her mother witnessed the approach of poverty with anxiety; she feared for her daughter alone, for her own health was so feeble, that she could look only for a short term of life. She wished to see her daughter's happiness made as secure as possible, and tried to persuade her to accept the addresses of a young jeweller who had health and a good character to recommend him; but Manon wished to find in her husband a companion and a guide.
Her mother died; and intense grief overwhelmed the daughter, both body and mind. It was long before she could be roused to any exertion from that melancholy "which made her a burden to herself and others." At this moment, the "Nouvelle Heloise" was placed in her hands; it excited her attention, and called her thoughts from her loss. "I was twenty-one," she says, "and Rousseau made the same impression on me as Plutarch had done when I was eight. Plutarch had disposed me to republicanism; he had awakened the energy and pride which are its characteristics; he inspired me with a true enthusiasm for public virtue and freedom. Rousseau showed me domestic happiness, and the ineffable felicity I was capable of tasting." She now returned to her studies. Her friends, among whom she numbered some literary men, finding that she committed her reflections to writing, predicted that she would become an author. But she was not ambitious of public distinction; she had adopted the sentiment of Rousseau, that the "dignity of woman is in being unknown; her glory, in the esteem of her husband; her pleasures, in the happiness of her family." "I saw," says Madame Roland, "that an authoress loses more than she gains. My chief object was my own happiness, and I never knew the public interfere with that for any one without spoiling it; there is nothing more delightful than to be appreciated by those with whom one lives, and nothing so empty as the admiration of those whom we are never to meet."
In her school-girl days, Manon had formed a friendship with a girl of her own age, named Sophia, and the intercourse was still kept up by letters. Sophia felt the highest admiration for her friend, and often spoke of it. Among those who, through her, became acquainted with Manon's character was M. Roland, a man whose great simplicity of character and strict integrity had gained for him universal esteem and confidence. His family was not of the ancient nobles, but of official dignity. He was fond of study, and laborious in the pursuit of knowledge. He had long sought for an introduction to Mademoiselle Philipon, and Sophia at length gave him a letter of introduction.
"This letter," she writes, "will be given you by the philosopher I have often mentioned, M. Roland, an enlightened and excellent man, who can only be reproached for his great admiration of the ancients at the expense of the moderns, whom he despises, and his weakness in liking to talk too much about himself."
M. Roland's appearance was not calculated to make a favorable impression upon a young woman; his manners were cold and stiff; he was careless in his dress, and he had passed the meridian of life. But Mademoiselle Philipon discerned and appreciated his excellence, and received him to her friendship and confidence. For five years, this intercourse between them continued, before he disclosed to her the sentiments of love which had been making a slow, but deeply-rooted, growth in his heart. His proposal of marriage was not distasteful to her; but she was proud, and did not like to encounter the opposition which the match with a girl of humble birth would meet with from his family. Roland persisted in his addresses, and she at length referred him to her father. Philipon did not like the terms of his letter, and returned a rude answer, rejecting the proffered alliance.
The result, though anticipated by Manon, was a great disappointment to her, and the manner in which her father had conducted, shocked her feelings. She had a great cause for anxiety in his general management; his affairs were fast approaching utter ruin; extreme poverty was before her; she resolved to secure her own independence, and purchased an annuity of about one hundred and twenty dollars. With this she hired a room in a convent, and lived upon the simplest food, which she prepared for herself: her wants were strictly limited by her means.
Six months elapsed, and M. Roland once more presented himself to her at the convent. He renewed his offer, and it was accepted. "I reflected deeply," says Madame Roland, "on what I ought to do. I could not conceal from myself that a younger man would not have delayed, for several months, entreating me to change my resolution, and I confess this circumstance had deprived my feelings of every illusion. I considered, on the other hand, that this deliberation was an assurance that I was appreciated; and that, if he had overcome his pride, which shrunk from the disagreeable circumstances that accompanied his marrying me, I was the more secure of an esteem I could not fail to preserve. In short, if marriage was, as I thought, an austere union, an association in which the woman usually burdens herself with the happiness of two individuals, it were better that I should exert my abilities and my courage in so honorable a task, than in the solitude in which I lived."
Such were the feelings with which she married. She was then twenty-six years old. She discharged with fidelity the duties she assumed. She was her husband's friend and companion, and soon became absolutely necessary to him. With him she visited England and Switzerland, and finally they took up their abode at the family mansion near Lyons. She had one child, a daughter; and to educate her, and make her husband and those about her happy, was apparently to be the whole scope of her life. At this period, she writes to a friend, "Seated in my chimney corner, at eleven before noon, after a peaceful night and my morning tasks,--my husband at his desk, and my little girl knitting,--I am conversing with the former, and overlooking the work of the letter; enjoying the happiness of being warmly sheltered in the bosom of my dear little family, and writing to a friend, while the snow is falling on so many poor wretches overwhelmed by sorrow and penury. I grieve over their fate. I repose on my own, and make no account of those family annoyances, which appeared formerly to tarnish my felicity."
The revolution came to disturb this peaceful existence. At first she hailed it with joy; but fears soon arose. "Is the question," she says, "to be whether we have one tyrant or a hundred?" She attached herself zealously to that party which advocated liberty without anarchy. The confusion of the times proved destructive to the manufacturing interests of Lyons; twenty thousand workmen were thrown out of employment, and were without means of support. M. Roland was selected to proceed to Paris to make known the distresses to the National Assembly, and to solicit relief.
The Girondists held opinions most in consonance with her own; her house at Paris soon became the rendezvous of that party; and her talents, beauty, and enthusiasm, insensibly procured for her a great influence in their councils. A late historian thus speaks of her: "Roland was known for his clever writings on manufactures and mechanics. This man, of austere life, inflexible principles, and cold, repulsive manners, yielded, without being aware, to the superior ascendency of his wife. She was young and beautiful. Nourished in seclusion by philosophical and republican sentiments, she had conceived ideas superior to her sex, and had erected a strict religion from the then reigning opinions. Living in intimate friendship with her husband, she wrote for him, communicated her vivacity and ardor, not only to him, but to all the Girondists, who, enthusiastic in the cause of liberty and philosophy, adored beauty and talent, and their own opinions in her." But she carefully guarded against appearing to exert influence. Present at the councils held at her own house, she sat apart, and, apparently engaged in needle-work or in writing, took no part in the public deliberations; but her opinions were freely expressed in private to the leaders of the party, who eagerly engaged with her in discussion.
The flight of the king filled her with alarm; his arrest and return to Paris excited new hopes; she looked for safety only in his dethronement, and in the establishment of a republican form of government; but for this she hardly dared hope. "It would be a folly, an absurdity, almost a horror," she writes to a friend at this time, "to replace the king on the throne. To bring Louis XVI. to trial, would doubtless be the greatest and most just of measures; but we are incapable of adopting it."
At the end of seven months, Roland's mission terminated, and he returned to Lyons. But Madame Roland could no longer be happy in the quiet, domestic circle; her discontent thus expresses itself in a letter to a friend, but, unwittingly perhaps, does not assign it to the true cause: "I see with regret that my husband is cast back on silence and obscurity. He is habituated to public life; his energy and activity injure his health when not exercised according to his inclinations; in addition, I had hoped for great advantages for my child in a residence at Paris. Occupied there by her education, I should have excited and developed some sort of talent. The recluse life I lead here makes me tremble for her. From the moment that my husband has no occupation but his desks, I must remain near to amuse him, according to a duty and a habit which may not be eluded. This existence is exactly opposite to that suitable for a child of ten. My heart is saddened by this opposition of duties. I find myself fallen into the nullity of a provincial life, where no exterior circumstances supply that which I cannot do myself. If I believed my husband were satisfied, hope would embellish the prospect. However, our destiny is fixed, and I must try to render it as happy as I can."