A great reason urged against Barbara accompanying
her youthful husband was that his attentions to her would naturally
be such as to prevent his zealously applying every hour of his time
to learning and seeing--an argument of wise prescience, and
unanswerable. Regular days for letter-writing were fixed, Barbara
and her Edmond exchanged their last kisses at the door, and the
chaise swept under the archway into the drive.
He wrote to her from Le Havre, as soon as he reached that port,
which was not for seven days, on account of adverse winds; he wrote
from Rouen, and from Paris; described to her his sight of the King
and Court at Versailles, and the wonderful marble-work and mirrors
in that palace; wrote next from Lyons; then, after a comparatively
long interval, from Turin, narrating his fearful adventures in
crossing Mont Cenis on mules, and how he was overtaken with a
terrific snowstorm, which had well-nigh been the end of him, and his
tutor, and his guides. Then he wrote glowingly of Italy; and
Barbara could see the development of her husband's mind reflected in
his letters month by month; and she much admired the forethought of
her father in suggesting this education for Edmond. Yet she sighed
sometimes--her husband being no longer in evidence to fortify her in
her choice of him--and timidly dreaded what mortifications might be
in store for her by reason of this mesalliance. She went out very
little; for on the one or two occasions on which she had shown
herself to former friends she noticed a distinct difference in their
manner, as though they should say, 'Ah, my happy swain's wife;
you're caught!'
Edmond's letters were as affectionate as ever; even more
affectionate, after a while, than hers were to him.
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