#i booked him a spa day at the savoy

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

I am the Most girlfriendcoded and it's terrible. Planning out the days M is going to be visiting me like I'm planning the last days of a beloved dog who is going to be euthanized.

[josefavomjaaga]

Letter from Laure Junot to her husband (1812)

This is for @impetuous-impulse and @snowv88: As promised, here’s the letter Laure Junot wrote to her husband in September 1812, when Junot was with the Grande Armée in Russia. It’s taken from the book "Lettres interceptées par les Russes", edited by Frédéric Masson (and of which I only own one of those Indian "reprints" that come down to a really bad scan and that I had rightfully be warned of before I bought it 😋. However, these pages are perfectly legible.)

For context: While the publication contains letters that normally did not reach their destination, as they were intercepted during the second half of the Russian campaign, this missive actually had been written during the first months of the invasion and had gotten to Junot safely. However, in his answer, Junot sent it back to Laure, and this answer then fell into the hands of the Russians. (I do not know what they were thinking. Because it’s rather private, and not pretty.)

Laure Junot, at the time when she wrote this letter, happened to be at a spa, at the same time as several other ladies of the court, off-duty empress Joséphine, Julie more-or-less-queen of Spain, Pauline Borghese and the crown princess of Sweden, Julie’s sister Désirée.

The Duchess L. of Abrantès to Junot, Duke of Abrantès. Aix [en Savoie], 7 September 1812 Your last letter caused me to feel both pain and pity. It comes from a fool, and from a fool all the more guilty for being so, as it depends on him to recover his reason and as he refuses to do so as stubbornly as if it meant his eternal misfortune. People dominated by an unfortunate passion are, in the beginning, like sick people who do not want to submit to the vigorous treatment that would cure them. And you want me to feel sorry for you! You want me to pity you! But do you deserve it? Yes, perhaps, but of this pity stripped of all esteem, for you are not the one to whom I promised to offer mine along with all my friendship as the prize for his noble efforts to deserve the name of man, by removing from his heart a feeling that he knows can never be happy. In this respect, you know my way of thinking. It is invariable, and nothing can change it. For many months I have spoken in the same terms to you, and I always will, because it is the language of both my heart and my reason. Perhaps it seems too harsh to you and you find me too frank. A more flirtatious person would no doubt be less so, but is it not better for me to refuse you a poison that would only aggravate your wound and to apply to it a balm that should, according to my desire, remove even the scar and only leave behind of its memory that which could, in the future, spread more charm over our friendship?

Whoa. Now that's a handfull. Please don't hold back, Madame! I have no clue (but would love to speculate!) what kind of "unfortunate passion" she refers to.

For a long time I had this ambition that almost all women have, this unbridled desire to attract attention and admiration, to inspire passionate feelings, to be a kind of divinity for everything around me. I paid for all these adulations with a look or a smile that often troubled the soul of the person to whom they were addressed, without stirring mine. Well, it is with bitterness that I remember this time in my life, and it would seem criminal to me now to encourage or give rise to a feeling that I could not share.

Is this a hint at her own wrongdoings, the affair with Metternich?

I am very happy to think that you are now close to your mother and your son. Give the latter all the time you can spare from your business and the duties you are obliged to fulfil. You have, you told me, great confidence in his tutor. But could strangers ever match a father's eye? Your abilities and your wit put you in a position to watch over his studies very closely yourself. May your loving attention also be focused on his young heart and his feelings. May he one day be able to return to you all the good things he possesses. Believe me, his virtues will be much dearer to him.

This passage confuses me deeply. How can she assume Junot is with his mother and his son in September 1812, when Junot is with the Grande Armée, and the Grande Armée in Russia since June? She must have known that, right? We'll see in the postscript that the ladies were informed of what was going on at the front. Also, the need she feels to interest Junot in his own child is so sad.

I'm leaving for Geneva the day after tomorrow, no matter how much the princesses insist that I stay. I haven't seen my children for three months now, and the need to be closer to them is becoming more pressing every day. I promised to go to Changrenon. I have to spend two days there, and from there I'll go straight to Paris, where I'll be very happy to see and embrace my children, the joy and glory of my life! Ah, when I look back on such moments, I no longer say that it is deprived of any happy future!

Which apparently otherwise she had said. - Also, as she says she will go to Paris to see her children, does that not imply that the son (who was five at the time, according to a footnote) was also there? Does that mean that in the passage above she supposed Junot to be in Paris as well? For that matter, was Junot's mother in Paris, or did she live elsewhere?

I hope that the first letter I receive from you will be good and reasonable, just as I want it to be. Many people take great pride in never changing their feelings. Do the opposite and put your pride in driving away from you those who now dominate you. It is only through weakness, believe me, that we retain an unreasonable inclination, and the word consistency is profaned when applied to madness. Farewell, believe in my sincere friendship; nothing can diminish it, and one thing can increase it greatly: the certainty of being able to give it to you without fear.

This sounds more like a mother trying to reign in an adolescent. The use of the word "crainte" is also interesting. What precisely does she fear?

You ask me about my health. In truth, I don't know what to tell you, as I am still too ill to go and distress my friends by telling them about my sufferings. I'm still coughing up blood, and in the last six days I've had three new bouts of vomiting. There you have my bulletin. P.S.: I am reopening my letter to tell you that I am no longer going to Geneva. Yesterday, after writing my letter, I received the bulletin of the 25th [August, of the Grande Armée in Russia, mentioning her husband]. You have probably read it, and you know me well enough to be convinced that this is not the moment I would choose for a pleasure trip. I'm also in a lot of pain; two hours ago, on my way back to the Empress's, I vomited so much blood that it could only be stopped by putting ice on my chest, so now I'm in so much pain that I can't breathe.

Does she try to imply that the army bulletin they received made her feel worse? I think it's the one mentioning Junot not quite being up to the job.

Also interesting: She adresses her husband by the formal "vous" throughout the letter. Which I believe was slowly going out of use but still not unusual in France, especially between spouses of high nobility. Still, this letter makes me feel as if Laure and her Andoche at this point already lived seperate lives. It sounds like one you would write to a husband you had recently divorced.