"This expression, so far as I can judge of it, will have caused you some surprise; but this is what I wish to say: I was only fourteen years old when I quitted you—at that age one knows one's self, so to speak, only by sight—my reason was not sufficiently developed, nor capable of an examination sufficiently serious to lay hold upon the traits of your character. I do not believe that you were any more able well to know me, because I was too young to have a decided character. But how many changes have four years brought? What revulsions in this poor heart. People generally believe that I am light, frolicsome, playful, or, at least, such was the opinion that they had of me when I quitted the country; but my character has taken a turn quite different. I am able to say even that it is completely changed, and that there remains for me nothing of my childhood.
"But as the development of a character demands details which could not be given in this letter, I will make my following letters the subject of it. I will trace for you the history of my heart since the age when one begins to reflect to the present; I will make known to you my sensations, my reflections, and what habitually occupies my thoughts. I dare believe that these details will not be without interest for you; and I invite you to make me share also all that passes within you, if that does not weary you. For myself, it seems to me that we should be able to have a most interesting correspondence; for I believe that, in order to love one another, it is necessary perfectly to know each other; and I conceive no greater charm in life than that converse of two hearts who pour continually into each other all their secrets, all their feelings. We will converse also of literature, for it is the only thing, after friendship, which can make an agreeable diversion from the bustle and from the weariness of life; it is the only thing which can console us in our misfortunes and give vigour to our dejected soul. Give me books and plunge me in a dungeon, provided that I can there see clearly enough to read them, I should know how to console myself for the loss of my liberty. You will think, perhaps, that that is pushing the thing a little too far; but it is to make you feel that books can take the place of many things for him who knows how to love them."
Eugénie's fervent response to this appeal was such as to give entire satisfaction to the heart-yearning for her confidence and advice. She expresses a desire for arms long enough to embrace her brother wherever he might be, and he in turn assures her how much the inspiration of Nature, and her happy and facile genius, have endowed her, that she knows much more than he, with all his classical attainments.
In 1829 Mdlle. de Guérin was plunged into profound sorrow by the death of her most dear friend, her Cousin Victor. She grieved for him passionately for a long period. So lasting was the impression produced by this loss, that being reminded of the event by another death ten years later, she refers to it in her journal, in which she speaks of her cousin as a friend tenderly loved—the charm of her childhood.
Maurice finished his course at Stanislas without having formed any definite plan for his future life, and made a prolonged visit to Le Cayla in 1831. This was a happy interlude in their intense lives. Maurice was then about twenty-one, a child of much love and hope, and his home-coming was a time of rejoicing to all who had known him in his childhood.
It was now, however, necessary for him, as the younger son, to decide upon a profession as a means of livelihood, the somewhat impoverished acres at Le Cayla being considered only sufficient for his elder brother. The future of Maurice, became, therefore a matter of some anxiety in the Le Cayla circle; for although of decided genius and brilliant attainments, he showed a disposition to be desultory in his pursuits and tastes, and to lack the inclination and continuous application necessary for the regular study of the law, which his father desired him to follow. Meanwhile he enjoyed to the full the society of his sister, going to and fro among the old walks, confiding to her his aspirations and difficulties. With her he visited the cultured home of Mons. de Bayne, where he speedily became a great favourite, discussing with the father matters literary, social, and political, and forming a still more tender friendship with the charming daughter Louise.
But these days of sunshine could not last. Maurice was obliged to bid farewell to Rayssac, and to the sister to whom, during a few months, he had been drawn so much closer by this brief personal contact.
So in November, 1831, Maurice returned to Paris for the study of the law, this time taking up his abode with his cousin, M. Auguste Reynaud, and his wife, Félicité, in the Rue d'Anjou. How his sister's love followed him, and how she endeavoured to stimulate him in the studies and the perseverance necessary for his career, and to console him under his disappointments, we find from her letters. These letters, at the same time, give glimpses of life in the old home at Cayla, and also of the outer and inner life of Eugénie herself.
"Cayla, November 9th, 1831.
"How long is time when one is weary! Is it three years or three days since you went away, my dear Maurice? For me, I know nothing of it, for all that I know is that I am tired to death. Really, this is the only moment in which I have had any pleasure since you went; yet it will be very short. Jules is in haste to leave us for Paris. Thus, my dear, these few words will follow you without your having any expectation of them, as I have followed you sometimes quite softly to play you a trick. But, my God, how far away from us you are now! You ramble, are always rambling, further, and I follow you hardly knowing where I am going. I am afraid you will be upset, and I recommend you to the petite croix. I have great confidence that it will preserve you from all evil chance. Be devoted to it, as you have promised me, and I shall be tranquil. I am over head and ears in household affairs; but I have left them all to come to say a word to you in your little room, where I find strong reminders of you, without counting your vest and shoes. If you were dead these would be relics for me; but God preserve me from such a devotion.