It is woman's destiny to be accused of not having written the works attributed to her. There is in men I know not what jealousy, what injustice, which makes them claim the right of being sole travellers along the path of talent and genius. The Countess of Salm spoke about this in her Epistle to Women:

In scholarship, in the arts, the field is open:
let us dare to enter it. Well! Who could grapple
the right of entry from those who feel the calling? …
But now a thousand voices berate our boldness.
They wonder, they whisper, they tyrannise, they fuss.
They wish to confiscate our pens and our brushes.
Everyone is aiming songs and sallies at us.
One, ignorant and witless, comes with irony
to quote Moliere at us, a quote he misquotes.
Another, vain by nature, jealous by intent,
says disdainfully: She has her toucher-upper!²¹

This stupid slander has often been repeated. Zayde and The Princess of Cleves, delightful novels by Madame de Lafayette, were attributed to Segrais, who was far from being able to write with such grace, elegance, and delicacy. Madame de Puisieux's glory was claimed by Destouches, Mademoiselle Barbier's by Fontenelle, Madame la Marquise du Chatelet's by Voltaire, and that of Madame Deshoulieres by Henaut. They said that Dorat composed the poems of Madame la Comtesse de Beauharnais. Dorat died, and Madame de Beauharnais went on publishing charming verses. The virile intelligence of Madame de Stael could not escape this vapid accusation, thrown also at a whole host of her fellow-sex, such as Riccoboni, Du Boccage, the Countess of Beaufort, Pipelet, Balard. Even Madame de Genlis was not spared, who must have had a very dogged, faithful journeyman, since she wrote and composed books until the end of her days, publishing more than a hundred volumes.

Madame de Labouïsse did not escape this vexation. It has been said that her husband sought to gain celebrity by publishing his own writings under her name, an imputation which has no foundation whatsoever. People who knew Madame de Labouïsse are certain that the productions bearing her name were not above her talents and indeed were her own work. At this moment I have before my eyes all her papers, all her manuscripts, incontestable proof of this truth. All the poems that appeared in various compendia are written in this lovely woman's own hand. We see her erasures, her corrections, revisions which she deemed necessary. If her husband had composed these same poems, she would not have had to go to such trouble. Yet more evidence in favour of Eleonore: if one compares her verses with those of Monsieur de Labouïsse, one finds a striking difference. Those of the latter are more poetic, more polished, more correct; they bear the mark of a practised writer, familiar with all the resources of his art: those of Eleonore are simpler, more natural, more graceful. It is evident that she sought less to create perfection than to follow the promptings of her heart...

It was my duty to refute this iniquity, about which women are right to complain, and which men should now denounce. It is not the only injustice inflicted on Monsieur de Labouïsse. A more infamous, hateful, shocking imputation, invented by gossip, and received and propagated by the envious and perverse, has come to torment him in his grief: the outrageous claim that he never loved Eleonore, that the romance existed only in his writings! Even as this adored woman's grave was soaked in the tears of her husband and children, desperate at their crushing loss, such an atrocity was published! .... Have the perpetrators considered the consequences? Did they not realise it would excite the contempt and indignation of all good people, and that Monsieur de Labouïsse's many friends would rise up as one to justify and avenge him! .... The fragments of letters I have already cited would alone suffice to confound his cowardly enemies, but I feel the need to present more. The wicked, the envious, the slanderous are so bitter, so tenacious, that one cannot wield too many defensive weapons when one wants to unmask and confound them.

Monsieur de Labouïsse was in Paris, where he frequently met with the wife of Anacreon's fine translator. She showered him with attention, generosity and kindness and Eleonore wrote to him about it:

“So you enjoyed the party at Madame Anson's? I love this sweet woman for her attachment to you! Her endearments to you made me happy. Could I be jealous of sentiments of pure friendship? I do, however, feel sad at being absent, and am a little envious of others' enjoyment of your company, etc., etc...”

— After that she said to him:

“I enclose the letter I am writing to Madame Anson. You will judge if the style is suitable. It seems to me a bit familiar, but you have told me so many times of her goodness that I counted on her indulgence and surrendered to the pleasure of writing to her as if I were talking to an old friend. She won't be cross with me, will she? I know your answer. You assured me that she delights in simplicity and feeling. I am happy to have these two qualities that she loves, because you love them too. .. .. ”

I could not resist the pleasure of transcribing these charming passages. Here is how she ends her letter:

“Farewell, Auguste; I am falling asleep. Off to bed I go; which is simply to change the way I am thinking about you.”

—Is there anything more lively, tender or delicate? This masterly, yet completely natural, sentence seems to me worthy of Madame de Sevigne. As we read these precious fragments, let us not forget that they lose half their value from the mutilations to which I subject them. The Girdle of Grace does not carry the same authority when styled upon vestments, as when simply encircling the divine waist.

But let us leave aside the beauties of style that make this correspondence so remarkable. That is not what should most occupy us. These letters will serve in rebutting the detractors of Monsieur de Labouïsse. Eleonore herself speaks of the union between them, of all the happiness she owes to her dear Auguste. .... Could there be any bond between husband and wife, where there is no love? Would Eleonore have felt happy if she had thought her husband did not love her? .... And why would he not have loved her? Because he had chosen her? Because she was young? Because she was lovely? Because she was bright? Because she had quality, talent, virtue? Or could it be that, having lauded conjugal love, he concocted a scheme of secretly contradicting himself and silently thinking the opposite of what he was saying out loud? In other words, Monsieur de Labouïsse, an open, honest man, should have been pleased to become two-faced, traitorous, perfidious, a monster! ... How could anyone want to deny what deeds and words proclaimed so clearly? Why should such a perfect union not be real? Is it so impossible? Are there not happy marriages, and among these happy marriages is there not one that must undoubtedly be the happiest, just as somewhere there is the strongest man, the richest, the most skilful, the most learned, the luckiest? So who would prevent this exemplar from manifesting before our eyes? And seeing him, would it not be more natural and just to applaud than to deride him? .... These reflections come naturally to mind, but my readers' conviction would be even firmer if they could peruse all the letters before me. So many expressions of tenderness and passion! What touching solicitude for the health of her dear Auguste! What intimacy! What abandon! What delicious descriptions! No, one does not write like this to a person one does not love, or by whom one does not believe oneself beloved ...

If one reads the numerous works of Monsieur de Labouisse, where the name of his wife is found on practically every page, in every line, one can have not the slightest doubt as to the sincerity of the passion that Eleonore herself inspired!

Take this ingenious, tender piece of evidence, discerned and praised by the critics. His volume Pensées had appeared in 1801. The 2nd edition, published in 1809, contains a fine portrait of Celimene, which, in the third edition, 1810, he changed to the name of Sophronie, because Tasso had written “Eleonore of the East” under that name in an episode of Jerusalem Delivered. And these are the notions, the gestures of one who is not in love with the woman to whom his thoughts constantly turn! .... Here is the passage, worthy of Labruyère, which was quoted by all the journals who reviewed the work, notably by the Mercure de France and the Magasin ençyclopédique.

“Celimène is gentle, shy, modest, reserved. If her lively imagination had not betrayed her, no one would know she could write like Sévigné, Deshoulières, Lambert. She never parades her talent; her graces reveal themselves without ever being put on display. The lovely works she composes are hidden away. She does not risk criticism or envy; or, to put it another way, she herself so mistrusts her own capacity, that no idea of fame ever enters her head. She is sensitive, kind, generous. Her companions never argue with her, because she never asserts anything. She does not realise how pleasing are her writings and conversation. She does indeed possess the asset of great beauty, but that is the least of her merits in the eyes of her husband, whose existence she enriches, and who would rather value the gifts of the mind and the virtues of the heart than the boon of beauty.”

Would a person not in love write lines like those of My Forty Years, a poem composed in 1818 after sixteen years of marriage? Our most witty compatriot, Count Charles de Milhau, dubbed the author The French Petrarch of Wedlock and in Paris they called him the Tibullus of Matrimony:

Eleonore! Oh you, whom my everlasting love
delighted to praise in the days of my springtime!
Ah you! affectionate wife and ardent mistress,
how many bright moments I owe your tenderness,
since the blessed day when love and matrimony
crowned all my wishes by giving your hand to me!
With what pure pleasure did I follow at your heels
in pursuit at once of both Muses and Graces!
If your steady soul had paid less heed to custom
and sanctioned broader paths that could have set you free
you might have followed the career of Apollo,
become a modern Sappho, equal of the first!
Alas that cruel Fate with its bitter trials,
devouring sorrows and nullifying despair,
turned your tread away from the groves of Aonie.
Your clavier is mute: the god of harmony,
who once triumphantly called forth your lyre and voice,
and your youthful paintings so much celebrated,
pines for those beautiful days of early marriage,
days when every hour flew by brilliant and blessed,
when your enchanting voice intoned the sweetest notes,
when your music incited resurgent transports,
when your pencil, tracing Adolphe as its model,
disclosed his likeness, to the life, for us to keep ...
Oh days stolen by too soon! How fleeting were those
moments of happiness to my attentive eyes.

The soul of this inconsolable husband was so wounded by the calumnies to which he had been subjected that private contempt did not feel a sufficient requital. He took up his pen, and in a pamphlet just published, in Postscript—full of pain, fire, eloquence, and love—he has floored those cowardly enemies who attacked him so brutally.

After such a righteous and comprehensive defense, I will describe what I have witnessed in this family, which has rightly been called patriarchal, and whose memory will never fade from my mind.

When, with characteristic kindness, Monsieur de Labouisse invited me to visit him at Castelnaudary to strengthen our relationship, which had until then only existed through correspondence, I accepted, and was immediately enchanted by the harmony and unity that held sway around me. Monsieur de Labouisse was always very attentive towards his wife, demonstrating with his manners and gestures his respect and fondness for her; and his wife, eager to divine his wishes, to spare him the slightest annoyance, respectfully and lovingly rendered him all the tenderness for which she felt indebted to him. How many times did she not extol to me the excellent qualities of her dear Auguste! She was proud that he had taken her as the subject of his poetry, because, she told me, these songs were faithful expressions of the truth. Discoursing thus frankly and openly, her eyes would brighten, her voice would deepen, her words would become more expressive, more elegant, lending themselves with admirable facility to the depiction of those feelings which overwhelmed her; you could see that she was happy, perfectly happy, and that she wanted me to read it from her heart.

The too short visit I enjoyed at Monsieur de Labouisse's, surrounded by all the happiness which erudition, art and friendship can procure, will never be erased from my memory. This worthy and respectable friend introduced me, with the greatest particularity, to all the treasures of his library. Especially gratified I was to leaf through a magnificent album, begun in Paris in 1825, and destined for his dear Eleonore, for whom he was always seeking agreeable surprises. The most renowned men of letters, the most distinguished artists, had embellished this album with inscriptions, drawings, paintings and fragments of music, all of which render it quite remarkable.²² I obtained permission to take a copy of my favourites, but was only a gleaner in the midst of an abundant harvest, and contented myself with transcribing into my pocket-book the shortest pieces, which I have carefully preserved since. Eleonore had inscribed in this album the following distich, its most precious ornament:

To express all the wishes that fill up the heart
of your faithful and loving wife,
may I over and over again, dear Auguste,
pay all that I owe you of love and happiness!

There are other testimonials too, on behalf of an excellent friend, a friend bereft. Since Eleonore's death, he lives so withdrawn, so absorbed by his heartbreak, that the people who love him cannot help but be afflicted too. The room he used to occupy, which had been arranged and decorated for the wife who made it pleasant to him, is now uninhabited. Each time he arrives at the corridor which leads to it, he is overcome. He has confined himself to a small, cold apartment with no chimney, at the top of the house, not thinking that his already weakened health could be seriously compromised. In the excess of his affliction, he feels guilty at the thought of taking care of himself. If he has held on to life, it is only for the sake of religion and for love of his children, the living images of their mother. He only leaves the house to go to church. He spends all his time surrounded by his books, grieving, distracted, melancholy and even a little wild. However, his sadness and regrets have not altered his character, still upright, still amenable. He welcomes visitors gently and affably; he replies, in as much as he is able, to those who write to him, and in doing so satisfies his own inclinations and relieves his heart, while rendering homage to the one who was all her life an example of goodness and virtue.

This is a testimony that all his compatriots give of him; I was happy to be able to record it. He himself wrote me these touching words in his last letter:

“Perhaps you will find that my pen wanders and gets lost … I know it. I feel it. But could it be otherwise in my despair, when I have to write in the presence of the most frightful slander and the most bitter pain? My mind is so troubled and my heart so anguished that I can hardly get my thoughts together. It is such a huge loss! So cruel, the affliction with which Heaven has stricken me! ... I will never get over it. There used to be constant attentiveness, tenderness and care abounding at each moment. Now I am alone, even when beset by infirmity. My daughters remain, it is true, and I feel all their value; but whatever love they have for their unfortunate father, they cannot do, they cannot anticipate, they cannot dare all that a loving wife can. It is quite another thing, it is completely different, and that difference is everything ...”

I shall transcribe from a more recent letter this fragment, which Monsieur de Labouisse will forgive me for publishing:

“I rarely leave my study. Isolation and solitude suit me perfectly. I just find myself too distracted by idle visitors (true friends exempted) who think they are doing me a great service by tearing me away from melancholy reveries. One's deepest inclinations are completely altered by one's situation: I was never so eager to flee from all society before! I did not linger miserably among memories and regrets. My official mourning will end in a few days, on the 3rd of June, but the other will end only with my life. I have suffered an immense loss! so immense that my heart feels empty, despite the filial and paternal love that is still there in all its strength ... In such a state and with such persistent thoughts I had to resume my reading and my work. I felt the need for continual occupation, not to console myself, that is impossible, but at least to distract and prevent myself from falling into despair ...”

I remember reading, a long time ago, in Madame Necker's Mélanges, a line which did not then seem very clear to me. She says, Most of the time our passing is lamented by all, but grieved by one alone. I think today I finally understand what she means. Monsieur de Labouisse-Rochefort's plight explains it perfectly.

And it is this husband whom Eleonore idolised, the husband by whom she was worshipped, that they have had the barbarity to afflict with the most odious and insensitive slander. If Madame de Labouïsse were still alive, imagine her pain and outrage! Perhaps, in Heaven, she laments the injustice and malice of men. ... Console yourself, dear shade; the Zoïles²³ have unleashed themselves in vain upon the righteous being you so loved. Against your beautiful union their freaks are impotent: you will pass without stain to posterity, and your names, cited as exemplars to lovers and spouses, will be forever inseparable, as will your writings.

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