In the shadow, the white turns to gold. Ah! my mouth might be just a bit wide, but it’s so expressive, the color of my lips is so lovely, my teeth are so quick to laugh! And, my dear, all the rest is in harmony: there’s a walk, there’s a voice! One remembers the miraculous oscillations of one’s ancestor’s skirt, unaided by her hand; in brief, I am beautiful and full of grace. Depending on my mood, I can laugh as we so often laughed, and I will be respected: there will be something commanding in the dimples put into my white cheeks by Amusement’s deft fingers. I can lower my eyes and give myself a heart of ice beneath my snowy brow. I can display a swan’s melancholy neck as I strike a Madonnaesque pose, and the painters’ Virgins will be left far behind; I will be above them in the heavens. Any man who would speak to me will have to put music in his voice.

And so I am armed from head to toe, and I can play the full keyboard of coquetry, from the gravest tones to the most fluting. It’s an enormous advantage not to be uniform. My mother is neither frolic-some nor virginal: she is nothing other than dignified and grand. She cannot break out and turn leonine; when she wounds, she has no gift for healing. I will be able to wound and to heal both. I could not be less like my mother—and so no rivalry is possible between us, unless we were to quarrel over the relative perfections of our limbs, which are similar. I am far more like my quick-witted, astute father. I have my grandmother’s manners and charming voice, a head voice when it’s forced, a mellifluous chest voice in the medium of the tête-à-tête. I feel as if I had only today left the convent behind. I do not yet exist for society, I am an unknown. What a delicious moment! I still belong to myself, like a new-bloomed flower, as yet unseen. My angel, as I glided through my drawing room, looking at myself, seeing the ingenue defrock the convent-school girl, I can’t say what I felt in my heart: regrets of the past, concerns for the future, fears of the wide world, farewells to the pale daisies we so gaily gathered, so innocently plucked, there was all of that, but also a few of those wild fancies I force back down into the depths of my soul, where I do not dare go, and whence they come.

My Renée, I have a trousseau! Everything is very tidily put away and perfumed in the lacquer-fronted cedar drawers of my delicious dressing room. I have ribbons, shoes, gloves, everything in profusion. My father has generously given me a young lady’s most precious jewels: a makeup case, a toiletry kit, a vinaigrette, a fan, a parasol, a book of prayers, a golden chain, a cashmere shawl. He promised that I would learn to ride. And finally, I know how to dance! Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow evening, I will be introduced to society. I will be dressed in white chiffon. In my hair will be a garland of white roses in the Greek style. I will put on my Madonna look: I want to be quite un-worldly and have all the women on my side.

My mother knows nothing of what I write you here; she thinks me incapable of reflection. Were she to read my letter, she would be struck dumb with surprise. My brother honors me with a deep disregard and never fails to give me the gift of his indifference. He is a fine-looking young man, but gloomy and irascible. I know his secret, which neither the duke nor the duchess have guessed. Although young and a duke, he is jealous of his father, he has no place in the state, no duties at court, no call to say “I’m off to the chamber.” I alone in this house have sixteen hours a day to devote to reflection: my father is occupied with matters of state and his own pleasures, and my mother is busy as well. No one ever examines themselves in this house, everyone is always out and about, there is no time for life.