Louis was to the full as much surprised as I.Does not this show how little,unless by his impatient wishes,the father counts for in this matter?Chance,my dear,is the sovereign deity in child-bearing.My doctor,while maintaining that this chance works in harmony with nature,does not deny that children who are the fruit of passionate love are bound to be richly endowed both physically and mentally,and that often the happiness which shone like a radiant star over their birth seems to watch over them through life.It may be then,Louise,that motherhood reserves joys for you which I shall never know.It may be that the feeling of a mother for the child of a man whom she adores,as you adore Felipe,is different from that with which she regards the offspring of reason,duty,and desperation!
Thoughts such as these,which I bury in my inmost heart,add to the preoccupation only natural to a woman soon to be a mother.And yet,as the family cannot exist without children,I long to speed the moment from which the joys of family,where alone I am to find my life,shall date their beginning.At present I live a life all expectation and mystery,except for a sickening physical discomfort,which no doubt serves to prepare a woman for suffering of a different kind.I watch my symptoms;and in spite of the attentions and thoughtful care with which Louis'anxiety surrounds me,I am conscious of a vague uneasiness,mingled with the nausea,the distaste for food,and abnormal longings common to my condition.If I am to speak candidly,Imust confess,at the risk of disgusting you with the whole business,to an incomprehensible craving for rotten fruit.My husband goes to Marseilles to fetch the finest oranges the world produces--from Malta,Portugal,Corsica--and these I don't touch.Then I hurry there myself,sometimes on foot,and in a little back street,running down to the harbor,close to the Town Hall,I find wretched,half-putrid oranges,two for a sou,which I devour eagerly.The bluish,greenish shades on the mouldy parts sparkle like diamonds in my eyes,they are flowers to me;I forget the putrid odor,and find them delicious,with a piquant flavor,and stimulating as wine.My dear,they are the first love of my life!Your passion for Felipe is nothing to this!Sometimes I can slip out secretly and fly to Marseilles,full of passionate longings,which grow more intense as I draw near the street.I tremble lest the woman should be sold out of rotten oranges;I pounce on them and devour them as I stand.It seems to me an ambrosial food,and yet Ihave seen Louis turn aside,unable to bear the smell.Then came to my mind the ghastly words of Obermann in his gloomy elegy,which I wish Ihad never read,"Roots slake their thirst in foulest streams."Since Itook to this diet,the sickness has ceased,and I feel much stronger.
This depravity of taste must have a meaning,for it seems to be part of a natural process and to be common to most women,sometimes going to most extravagant lengths.
When my situation is more marked,I shall not go beyond the grounds,for I should not like to be seen under these circumstances.I have the greatest curiosity to know at what precise moment the sense of motherhood begins.It cannot possibly be in the midst of frightful suffering,the very thought of which makes me shudder.
Farewell,favorite of fortune!Farewell,my friend,in whom I live again,and through whom I am able to picture to myself this brave love,this jealousy all on fire at a look,these whisperings in the ear,these joys which create for women,as it were,a new atmosphere,a new daylight,fresh life!Ah!pet,I too understand love.Don't weary of telling me everything.Keep faithful to our bond.I promise,in my turn,to spare you nothing.
Nay--to conclude in all seriousness--I will not conceal from you that,on reading your letter a second time,I was seized with a dread which I could not shake off.This superb love seems like a challenge to Providence.Will not the sovereign master of this earth,Calamity,take umbrage if no place be left for him at your feast?What mighty edifice of fortune has he not overthrown?Oh!Louise,forget not,in all this happiness,your prayers to God.Do good,be kind and merciful;let your moderation,if it may be,avert disaster.Religion has meant much more to me since I left the convent and since my marriage;but your Paris news contains no mention of it.In your glorification of Felipe it seems to me you reverse the saying,and invoke God less than His saint.
But,after all,this panic is only excess of affection.You go to church together,I do not doubt,and do good in secret.The close of this letter will seem to you very primitive,I expect,but think of the too eager friendship which prompts these fears--a friendship of the type of La Fontaine's,which takes alarms at dreams,at half-formed,misty ideas.You deserve to be happy,since,through it all,you still think of me,no less than I think of you,in my monotonous life,which,though it lacks color,is yet not empty,and,if uneventful,is not unfruitful.God bless you,then!
