My mother lives on the ground floor, in rooms laid out like mine, in the same wing. I am above her, and we share a hidden staircase. My father’s rooms are in the facing wing, but since on the courtyard side he has the additional space taken up on our side by the great staircase, his rooms are far larger than ours. In spite of the duties of the rank they regained with the return of the Bourbons, my mother and father still live and receive guests on the ground floor alone, so vast are the houses of our forefathers. I found my mother in her drawing room, where nothing has changed. She was dressed as if for company. As I made my way down the stairs, I wondered what to expect from that woman, so little a mother to me that in eight years I received from her only the two letters I showed you. Thinking it unworthy of me to feign an affection I could not feel, I adopted the air of a simpleminded nun and entered the room with some trepidation.

My concerns were soon dispelled. My mother was perfectly gracious: she expressed no false tenderness, but neither was she cold; she neither treated me as a stranger nor clasped me to her bosom like a beloved daughter. She greeted me as if we had seen each other only the day before, like the kindest, most sincere friend; she spoke to me woman to woman, and first of all gave me a kiss on the forehead.

“My dear girl,” she said, “if the convent can only be the death of you, then better you should live among us. You are going against your father’s plans and my own, but the age of blind obedience to one’s parents is long past. Monsieur de Chaulieu agrees with me that we must do all we can to make your life agreeable and to introduce you into society. At your age, I would have felt just as you do, and so I cannot fault you: you cannot understand what we were asking of you. You will not find me absurdly inflexible. If you ever doubted my love, you will soon see your mistake. Although I mean to offer you every freedom, I believe that for the moment you would do well to heed the advice of a mother who will be like a sister to you.”

The duchess spoke quietly, all the while straightening my convent-school cloak. She won me over at once. At thirty-eight, she is as beautiful as an angel. She has blue-black eyes with silken lashes, an unwrinkled brow, a natural white-and-pink complexion that might well be mistaken for powder and rouge, stunning shoulders and bosom, a lithe, slender waist like your own, milk-white hands of exceptional beauty: her highly polished nails catch the light, her little finger is always slightly apart from the others, her thumb is like ivory. And her feet match her hands, feet in the Spanish style, like Mademoiselle de Vandenesse. If this is how she is at forty, she will still be a beautiful woman at sixty.

My doe, I answered her in the manner of an obedient daughter. I was as amiable with her as she’d been with me, and even more: conquered by her beauty, I forgave her for abandoning me, I understood that such a woman should be caught up in her role as queen. I told her so openly, just as if I were speaking with you. Perhaps she wasn’t expecting to hear affectionate words from her daughter’s mouth? My sincere, admiring homages touched her beyond words; her manner changed, became kindlier still, and she no longer called me vous.

“You’re a good daughter,” she said, “and I do hope we shall remain friends.”

I found those words adorably naive, though I took care not to show it, for I realized at once that I must let her go on thinking herself far cleverer than her daughter. I played the wide-eyed innocent, and she was enchanted. Several times I kissed her hands, telling her I was overjoyed that she was treating me as she was, that I felt at home here; I even confided to her that I was secretly terrified. She smiled, tenderly put her hand on my neck to draw me to her and kiss my brow.

“Dear child,” she said, “we have guests for dinner today; perhaps you will feel as I do that we’d best delay your introduction to society until you have something to wear. Once you have seen your father and brother, you will go up to your rooms.”

To this I wholeheartedly acquiesced. My mother’s breathtaking gown was the first revelation of the fashionable world we used to glimpse in our dreams, but I felt not the slightest twinge of jealousy.

My father came in. “Monsieur, here is your daughter,” the duchess said to him.