Ah! my sweetheart, how one craves for a real friend!  How precious to me are the love and devotion of Felipe, and how my heart goes out to you!  Joyfully indeed are we preparing for our move to Chantepleurs, where we can rest from the comedy of the Rue de Bac and of the Paris drawing-rooms.  Having just read your letter again, I feel that I cannot better describe this demoniac paradise than by saying that no woman of fashion in Paris can possibly be a good mother.

Good-bye, then, for a short time, dear one.  We shall stay at Chantepleurs only a week at most, and shall be with you about May 10th.  So we are actually to meet again after more than two years!  What changes since then!  Here we are, both matrons, both in our promised land—­I of love, you of motherhood.

If I have not written, my sweetest, it is not because I have forgotten you.  And what of the monkey godson?  Is he still pretty and a credit to me?  He must be more than nine months’ old now.  I should dearly like to be present when he makes his first steps upon this earth; but Macumer tells me that even precocious infants hardly walk at ten months.

We shall have some good gossips there, and “cut pinafores,” as the Blois folk say.  I shall see whether a child, as the saying goes, spoils the pattern.

P. S.—­If you deign to reply from your maternal heights, address to Chantepleurs.  I am just off.

XXXIII

MME. DE L’ESTORADE TO MME. DE MACUMER

My child,—­If ever you become a mother, you will find out that it is impossible to write letters during the first two months of your nursing.  Mary, my English nurse, and I are both quite knocked up.  It is true I had not told you that I was determined to do everything myself.  Before the event I had with my own fingers sewn the baby clothes and embroidered and edged with lace the little caps.  I am a slave, my pet, a slave day and night.

To begin with, Master Armand-Louis takes his meals when it pleases him, and that is always; then he has often to be changed, washed, and dressed.  His mother is so fond of watching him sleep, of singing songs to him, of walking him about in her arms on a fine day, that she has little time left to attend to herself.  In short, what society has been to you, my child—­our child—­has been to me!

I cannot tell you how full and rich my life has become, and I long for your coming that you may see for yourself.  The only thing is, I am afraid he will soon be teething, and that you will find a peevish, crying baby.  So far he has not cried much, for I am always at hand.  Babies only cry when their wants are not understood, and I am constantly on the lookout for his.  Oh! my sweet, my heart has opened up so wide, while you allow yours to shrink and shrivel at the bidding of society!  I look for your coming with all a hermit’s longing.  I want so much to know what you think of l’Estorade, just as you no doubt are curious for my opinion of Macumer.