My dear, you must pardon Princess Catherine. She knew me so little that she thought I was worthy of you. The princess knew that you were very pious; I myself, before knowing you, had had a timorous sort of infantile piety. To be sure, I was Catholic and you were Protestant, but that mattered so little. The princess assumed that a very old name was enough to compensate for my poverty, and your family also took that attitude. With a certain exaggeration perhaps, Catherine de Mainau lamented my solitary, often difficult life. She was afraid of the vulgar suitors you might have. She considered herself obliged, in some way, to replace your mother and mine. And then, too, she was a relative of mine; in this fashion she wanted to please my family. The Princess de Mainau was sentimental; she liked living in the somewhat mawkish atmosphere of German betrothals; for her, marriage was a drawing-room comedy, sprinkled with emotions and smiles, where happiness arrives in the fifth act. Happiness did not arrive, but perhaps, Monique, you and I are incapable of it; and that is not the fault of Princess Catherine.

I believe I told you that the Prince de Mainau had recounted your history to me. I should say, rather, the history of your parents, because that of young women is wholly interior: their life is a poem before it becomes a drama. I had listened to this story with indifference, like one of those interminable accounts of hunts and travels into which the prince would ramble in the evening after a long dinner. It actually was a tale of travel, since the prince had known your father during an expedition in the French Antilles long ago. Dr. Thiébaut was a celebrated explorer. He had married when he was no longer young; you were born in that part of the world. Subsequently, your father, as a widower, left the islands; you lived with relatives on your father’s side in a French province. You grew up in a severe environment, which was nonetheless very affectionate; you had the childhood of a happy little girl. But there is certainly no need, my dear, for me to tell you your own history; you know that much better than I. Day after day, verse by verse, it unfolded for you like a psalm. It is not even necessary for you to recall it. It made you what you are, and your gestures, your voice, your entire self bear witness to this tranquil past.