Berlin, March 30, 1821
WHEN I visited Julie in Paris, she was in all the pomp of worldly luxury; she appeared surrounded by those flowers, bedecked with those necklaces, and veiled in those perfumed fabrics that Saint Clement forbids the early Christians. Saint Basil wants midnight for the solitary hermit to be what morning is for others, so that he may take advantage of nature’s silence. Midnight was the hour when Julie used to go to gatherings where the principal attraction was her poetry, which she recited in a wonderful, mellifluous voice.
Julie was infinitely more beautiful than Lucile. She had warm, soft blue eyes and long dark hair that she wore in plaits or in large waves. Her hands and arms were models of whiteness and form, and their graceful gestures lent an added charm to her already charming figure. She was brilliant, lively, and laughed often and easily, and when she laughed she showed teeth as white as pearls. A host of portraits of women from the time of Louis XIV resembled Julie, among others those of the three Mortemarts; but she was more elegant than Madame de Montespan.
Julie welcomed me with that tenderness which belongs only to a sister. I felt myself protected in the clutch of her arms, her ribbons, her roses, and her lace. Nothing can take the place of the affection, the delicacy, and the devotion of a woman. A man may be forgotten by his brothers and his friends; he may be misjudged by his companions; but he is never forgotten or misjudged by his mother, his sister, or his wife. When Harold was killed in the battle of Hastings, no one could pick him out from the crowd of dead; they went to ask for the help of a young girl, Harold’s sweetheart. She came, and the doomed prince was found by swan-necked Edith: Editha swanes-hales, quod sonat collum cycni.[4]
My brother brought me back to my hotel. He made arrangements for my dinner and left me. I dined alone and went sadly to bed. I spent my first night in Paris longing for the moors of Combourg and trembling at the obscurity of my future.
At eight o’clock the next morning, my fat cousin arrived. He was already on his fifth or sixth visit of the day. “Eh bien! Chevalier,” he said, “we’ll go have breakfast, then we’ll dine with Pommereul, and this evening I’ll take you to meet Madame de Chastenay.”
This seemed to be my fate, and I resigned myself to it. Everything transpired as my cousin had planned. After breakfast, he claimed that he was going to show me Paris and proceeded to drag me through the dirtiest streets in the neighborhood of the Palais-Royal, lecturing me on the dangers to which a young man might be exposed. We were punctual to our dinner, at a restaurant. Everything that was served there tasted bad to me. The conversation and the company showed me an unfamiliar world. Talk turned on questions of the Court, finances, the sittings of the Academy, the women and the intrigues of the moment, the latest play, and the success of actors, actresses, and authors.
Several Bretons were around that table, among others the Chevalier de Guer and Pommereul. The latter was a good conversationalist, who has since chronicled some of Bonaparte’s campaigns and whom I was destined to meet again when he was in charge of the State Press.
Pommereul, under the Empire, enjoyed a sort of renown for his hatred of the nobility. When a gentleman was appointed court chamberlain, he cheerfully shouted: “Another chamberpot on the nobles’ heads!” And yet Pommereul claimed, and with reason, to be a gentleman. He signed his name “Pommereux,” which would make him a descendant of the Pommereux family mentioned in Madame de Sévigné’s letters.
After dinner, my brother wanted to take me to the theater, but my cousin insisted that I go with him to Madame Chastenay, and I went with him, to meet my fate.
I saw a beautiful woman no longer in the first flush of youth, but who could still inspire affection. She greeted me warmly, tried to put me at ease, and asked me about my province and my regiment. I was awkward and embarrassed; I signaled to my cousin to cut the visit short. But he, without looking at me, would not stop singing my praises, affirming that I had written poetry in my mother’s womb and even asking me to celebrate Madame Chastenay in rhyme. She released me from this painful situation by begging my pardon, she had to go out that evening, but would I like to come back tomorrow morning? Her voice was so sweet that I involuntarily promised to obey.
I returned the next day alone. I found her reclining in an elegantly furnished room. She told me that she was feeling a bit indisposed, and that anyhow she had the bad habit of rising late. I found myself for the first time at the bedside of a woman who was neither my mother nor my sister. She had noticed my timidity the previous night, and now she conquered it to the point that I dared express myself with a sort of abandon. I have forgotten what I said to her, but I can still see the look of astonishment on her face. She stretched out a half-naked arm to me, and the most beautiful hand in the world, and she said with a smile, “We shall tame you.”
I did not even kiss that beautiful hand; I retreated at a loss. The next day I left for Cambrai. Who was this Madame de Chastenay? I know nothing about her. She passed through my life like a charming shade.