First Part Chapter 30

We are leading a gay, yet far from empty life, as is the way with
happy people. The days are never long enough for us. Society, seeing
me in the trappings of a married woman, pronounces the Baronne de
Macumer much prettier than Louise de Chaulieu: a happy love is a most
becoming cosmetic. When Felipe and I drive along the Champs-Elysees in
the bright sunshine of a crisp January day, beneath the trees, frosted
with clusters of white stars, and face all Paris on the spot where
last year we met with a gulf between us, the contrast calls up a
thousand fancies. Suppose, after all, your last letter should be right
in its forecast, and we are too presumptuous!

If I am ignorant of a mother's joys, you shall tell me about them; I
will learn by sympathy. But my imagination can picture nothing to
equal the rapture of love. You will laugh at my extravagance; but, I
assure you, that a dozen times in as many months the longing has
seized me to die at thirty, while life was still untarnished, amidst
the roses of love, in the embrace of passion. To bid farewell to the
feast at its brightest, before disappointment has come, having lived
in this sunshine and celestial air, and well-nigh spent myself in
love, not a leaf dropped from my crown, not an illusion perished in my
heart, what a dream is there! Think what it would be to bear about a
young heart in an aged body, to see only cold, dumb faces around me,
where even strangers used to smile; to be a worthy matron! Can Hell
have a worse torture?