and I feared to offend Madame d'Oilly, who has acted a mother's part
to my husband. Lent here is only an empty name. I sigh to myself:
'Will they never stop! Great heavens! will they never cease
amusing themselves?'

"I must confess to you, my darling mother, I amuse myself too much
to be happy. I depended on Lent for some time to myself, and see
how they efface the calendar!

"This dear Lent! What a sweet, honest, pious invention it is,
notwithstanding. How sensible is our religion! How well it
understands human weakness and folly! How far-seeing in its
regulations! How indulgent also! for to limit pleasure is to
pardon it.

"I also love pleasure--the beautiful toilets that make us resemble
flowers, the lighted salons, the music, the gay voices and the
dance. Yes, I love all these things; I experience their charming
confusion; I palpitate, I inhale their intoxication. But always--
always! at Paris in the winter--at the springs in summer--ever this
crowd, ever this whirl, this intoxication of pleasure! All become
like savages, like negroes, and--dare I say so?--bestial! Alas for
Lent!

"HE foresaw it. HE told us, as the priest told me this morning:
'Remember you have a soul: Remember you have duties!--a husband
--a child--a mother--a God!'

"Then, my mother, we should retire within ourselves; should pass the
time in grave thought between the church and our homes; should