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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Who wouldn't marry a man with such a corbeille?" "Was she?" "Don't grind your teeth at your dearest Annabel. She hadn't seen it, but it must have decided her. I am sure he intended to marry Madame de Ferrier, and he does most things he undertakes to do. That inconsiderate wretch of a Marquis de Ferrier to spoil such a corbeille as this! But Lazarre!" She patted her gloved hands.
On the eve, my mother had sent forty thousand livres' worth of precious stones to Mademoiselle de Lorges, and I six hundred Louis in a corbeille filled with all the knick-knacks that are given on these occasions. We slept in the grand apartment of the Hotel des Lorges.
"India muslin embroidered in silver lama, Turkish velvet, ball dresses for a bride, ribbons of all colors, white blond, Brussels point, Cashmere shawls, veils in English point, reticules, gloves, fans, essences, a bridal purse of gold links and worse than all, except this string of perfect pearls his portrait on a medallion of ivory, painted by Isabey!" "What is this collection?" "A corbeille!"
In the same way she preferred to know nothing, except by hearsay, of the corbeille, which also was waiting for her a superb gift from her betrothed, the wedding outfit of fine linen, embroidered with her cipher as marchioness, the full-dress costumes tastefully trimmed, the old family jewels valuable as the richest treasures of a cathedral, and the modern jewels in their marvellous yet delicate mountings, precious stones of every kind, and diamonds of the purest water.
I might have been alone in the world. Yet I like it. The country is lovely here in winter so different from what I remember of it at home. My lawn is still green, so is the corbeille d'argent in the garden border, which is still full of silvery bunches of bloom, and will be all winter. The violets are still in bloom.
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