Chateaubriand's memoirs, IV, 3

Berlin, 30th March 1821.

When I saw Julie again in Paris, she was in all the pomp of worldly vanity; she appeared covered with flowers, adorned with those necklaces, veiled with those scented fabrics that Saint Clement forbade the early Christians. Saint Basil wanted the middle of the night to be for the solitary what morning is for others, so they might benefit from nature’s silence. The middle of the night was the hour when Julie went to gatherings at which her verses, recited by herself with marvellous musicality, were the principle attraction.

Julie was infinitely lovelier than Lucile; she had tender blue eyes and dark hair which she wore coiled or in waves. Her hands and arms, models of whiteness and form, added by their graceful movements something even more charming to her charming appearance. She was radiant, lively, and laughed often and unaffectedly, showing pearly teeth as she laughed. A host of portraits from Louis XIV’s time resembled Julie, among others those of the three Mortemarts; but she was more elegant than Madame de Montespan.

Julie received me with that tenderness only a sister can show. I felt safe, enfolded by her arms, her ribbons, her lace and her bouquet of roses. Nothing can replace a woman’s loyalty, delicacy and devotion; one is neglected by brothers and friends; one is misjudged by one’s companions; but never by one’s mother, sister or wife. When Harold was killed at the Battle of Hastings, no one could recognise him among the piles of dead; it was necessary to call on a young girl, his beloved. She came, and the unfortunate prince was found by Edith, the swan-necked: ‘Editha swanes-hales, quod sonat collum cygni.’

My brother brought me back to my hotel; he ordered my dinner, and left me. I dined alone, I went sadly to bed. I spent my first night in Paris pining for my moors, and trembling at the uncertainty of my future.

At eight the next morning, my fat cousin arrived; he was already on his fifth or sixth errand. ‘Well, Chevalier! We will breakfast: we will dine with Pommereul, and this evening I will take you to Madame Chastenay’s. This seemed to be my fate, and I resigned myself. All happened according to my cousin’s wishes. After breakfast, he proposed to show me Paris, and dragged me through the dirtiest streets round the Palais-Royal, while telling me about the dangers to which a young man was exposed. We were punctual for our dinner at an eating-house. Everything served to us seemed bad to me. The conversation and the guests revealed a new world to me. The talk was about the Court, financial proposals, sittings of the Academy, the women and intrigues of the day, the latest play, and the successes of actors, actresses and authors.

There were several Bretons among the guests, including the Chevalier de Guer and Pommereul. The latter was a good talker, who has since written about a number of Bonaparte’s campaigns, and whom I was destined to meet again as the Director of Censorship.

Pommereul under the Empire enjoyed some sort of reputation for his hatred of the nobility. When a gentleman was made a chamberlain, he cried out joyfully: ‘Another chamber-pot at the head of these nobles!’ And yet Pommereul claimed, with reason, to be a gentleman. He signed himself Pommereux, being descended from the Pommereux family mentioned in the letters of Madame de Sévigne.

After dinner, my brother wished to take me to the theatre, but my cousin claimed me for Madame de Chastenay, and I went with him to meet my fate.

I saw a beautiful woman, no longer in her first youth, but still capable of inspiring love. She received me with kindness, tried to put me at my ease, and asked me about my province and my regiment. I was gauche and embarrassed; I signalled to my cousin to cut short the visit. But he, without a glance my way, never stopped talking about my merits, declaring that I had written poetry at my mother’s breast, and calling on me to celebrate Madame Chastenay in verse. She freed me from this painful situation, begged my pardon that she was obliged to go out, and invited me to return to see her the following morning, in so sweet a voice that I promised to obey without a thought.

I returned the following day alone: I found her in bed in an elegantly furnished room. She told me that she was a little indisposed, and had the bad habit of rising late. I found myself, for the first time in my life, at the bedside of a woman other than my mother or sister. She had noticed my shyness the previous evening; she overcame it so completely that I dared to express myself with a kind of abandon. I forget what I said to her; but I still seem to see her look of astonishment. She stretched out a half-naked arm to me and the most beautiful hand in the world, saying with a smile: ‘We will tame you.’ I did not even kiss that lovely hand; I withdrew quite confused. I left the next day for Cambrai. Who was that lady of Chastenay? I have no idea; she passed through my life like a charming shade.