july 7.—i wander about the house in a mood of unutterable sadness, for my dear sister caroline has left home to-day with my mother, and i shall not see them again for several weeks. they have accepted a long-standing invitation to visit some old friends of ours, the marlets, who live at versailles for cheapness—my mother thinking that it will be for the good of caroline to see a little of france and paris. but i don’t quite like her going. i fear she may lose some of that childlike simplicity and gentleness which so characterize her, and have been nourished by the seclusion of our life here. her solicitude about her pony before starting was quite touching, and she made me promise to visit it daily, and see that it came to no harm.
caroline gone abroad, and i left here! it is the reverse of an ordinary situation, for good or ill-luck has mostly ordained that i should be the absent one. mother will be quite tired out by the young enthusiasm of caroline. she will demand to be taken everywhere—to paris continually, of course; to all the stock shrines of history’s devotees; to palaces and prisons; to kings’ tombs and queens’ tombs; to cemeteries and picture-galleries, and royal hunting forests. my poor mother, having gone over most of this ground many times before, will perhaps not find the perambulation so exhilarating as will caroline herself. i wish i could have gone with them. i would not have minded having my legs walked off to please caroline. but this regret is absurd: i could not, of course, leave my father with not a soul in the house to attend to the calls of the parishioners or to pour out his tea.
july 15.—a letter from caroline to-day. it is very strange that she tells me nothing which i expected her to tell—only trivial details. she seems dazzled by the brilliancy of paris—which no doubt appears still more brilliant to her from the fact of her only being able to obtain occasional glimpses of it. she would see that paris, too, has a seamy side if you live there. i was not aware that the marlets knew so many people. if, as mother has said, they went to reside at versailles for reasons of economy, they will not effect much in that direction while they make a practice of entertaining all the acquaintances who happen to be in their neighbourhood. they do not confine their hospitalities to english people, either. i wonder who this m. de la feste is, in whom caroline says my mother is so much interested.
july 18.—another letter from caroline. i have learnt from this epistle, that m. charles de la feste is ‘only one of the many friends of the marlets’; that though a frenchman by birth, and now again temporarily at versailles, he has lived in england many many years; that he is a talented landscape and marine painter, and has exhibited at the salon, and i think in london. his style and subjects are considered somewhat peculiar in paris—rather english than continental. i have not as yet learnt his age, or his condition, married or single. from the tone and nature of her remarks about him he sometimes seems to be a middle-aged family man, sometimes quite the reverse. from his nomadic habits i should say the latter is the most likely. he has travelled and seen a great deal, she tells me, and knows more about english literature than she knows herself.
july 21.—letter from caroline. query: is ‘a friend of ours and the marlets,’ of whom she now anonymously and mysteriously speaks, the same personage as the ‘m. de la feste’ of her former letters? he must be the same, i think, from his pursuits. if so, whence this sudden change of tone? . . . i have been lost in thought for at least a quarter of an hour since writing the preceding sentence. suppose my dear sister is falling in love with this young man—there is no longer any doubt about his age; what a very awkward, risky thing for her! i do hope that my mother has an eye on these proceedings. but, then, poor mother never sees the drift of anything: she is in truth less of a mother to caroline than i am. if i were there, how jealously i would watch him, and ascertain his designs!
i am of a stronger nature than caroline. how i have supported her in the past through her little troubles and great griefs! is she agitated at the presence of this, to her, new and strange feeling? but i am assuming her to be desperately in love, when i have no proof of anything of the kind. he may be merely a casual friend, of whom i shall hear no more.
july 24.—then he is a bachelor, as i suspected. ‘if m. de la feste ever marries he will,’ etc. so she writes. they are getting into close quarters, obviously. also, ‘something to keep my hair smooth, which m. de la feste told me he had found useful for the tips of his moustache.’ very naively related this; and with how much unconsciousness of the intimacy between them that the remark reveals! but my mother—what can she be doing? does she know of this? and if so, why does she not allude to it in her letters to my father? . . . i have been to look at caroline’s pony, in obedience to her reiterated request that i would not miss a day in seeing that she was well cared for. anxious as caroline was about this pony of hers before starting, she now never mentioned the poor animal once in her letters. the image of her pet suffers from displacement.
august 3.—caroline’s forgetfulness of her pony has naturally enough extended to me, her sister. it is ten days since she last wrote, and but for a note from my mother i should not know if she were dead or alive.
