VII
Letter from Jeanne Méry to her cousin Jean.
My dear Jean,—It is almost three years now since your departure, and I am always expecting you to talk to me about your return; I myself have faith in you, you see, and I know that you would never deceive me. But that does not prevent the time from seeming very long. There are nights when I feel very unhappy, and all kinds of ideas come into my head. Besides this, my parents say that if you had really wanted to do so, you could have taken leave and paid us a visit. I am pretty sure, too, that there are people here in the village who stir them up, but it is true, all the same, that our cousin Pierre came home twice while he was doing his term of soldiering.
There are people who spread a report that I am going to marry that big gaby Suirot. What an idea! How odd it would be to marry that great booby who plays the gentleman. I let them talk, because I know that no one in the world can be the same to me as my dear Jean.
You can be quite easy; there is no fear of their persuading me to go to balls; I do not mind their saying that I give myself airs. To dance with Suirot or that great blockhead Toinon or others like him—no, thank you. In the evening I sit very quietly on the bench in front of Rose’s door, and there I think and think of my dear Jean, who is worth all the others put together, and you may be sure I am never weary of thinking of him.
Thank you for your portrait; it is just like you, although they say here that you are greatly changed. I myself think that your face is still exactly the same—only you do not look at people in quite the same way. I have put it on the big mantelpiece and arranged my branch of palms all round it, so that when I enter the room it is the first thing I see.
My dear Jean, I have not yet ventured to wear that beautiful bracelet made by the negroes which you sent me, for fear of Olivette and Rose. They think already that I play at being a lady, and that would make it worse. When you are here and we are married, it will be different, and then I shall also wear Aunt Tounelle’s beautiful necklace of little links, and her chain for scissors.
If only you would come! For you see I am wearying for the sight of you. I seem gay sometimes when I am with the others, but afterwards my sorrow grows heavier and heavier, and I hide myself and weep.
Good-bye, my dear Jean. I embrace you with all my heart.
Jeanne Méry.