#bc the élisabeth in the memoirs tells her mother everything

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

I passed a very agitated night; my mother, returning to the house, had spoken to my father of the conversation she had just had with M. Le Bas; I admit to my shame that, from a room next to theirs, I heard their conversation. My father seemed happy; but my mother still wanted to marry off my sisters before me. Finally, I heard my father call our good friend: he was so good that we loved him better than a brother. My father informed him of the subject of the conversation and told him: “My friend, it’s our Élisabeth, our scatterbrain, that M. Le Bas is asking us in marriage.” – “I congratulate you on it,” he replied, “so much the better. Élisabeth will be happy; my dear friend, don’t hesitate for a moment: Le Bas is the worthiest of men by all accounts; he is a good son, a good friend, a good citizen, a man of talent; he’s a distinguished lawyer.” That good Maximilien seemed happy to see me asked in marriage by his compatriot and pleaded in our favor with my parents; he added: “This union will, I believe, make for Élisabeth’s happiness; they are in love; they will be happy together.” He praised me and my good friend; my mother made a few more objections on my distractedness; but our friend assured her that I would be a good wife and a good housekeeper. It was almost one in the morning when he retired to his room, wishing my father and mother a good night. I then heard my father say: “There is no reason to hesitate after the way Robespierre has just praised his friend.” Our good mother loved her children equally; she feared, in marrying her youngest daughter first, to harm the eldest; my father thought otherwise and said: “If they are in love, must we delay their happiness! No, wife, we must put prejudice aside and consent to this union.” My good mother appeared disarmed then and said to my father: “Well then! My friend, until tomorrow; he will come to ask for your consent.” I heard no more speaking and went to bed, but quite sadly, for I feared that some difficulty would arise. I did not sleep much, and that night seemed very long to me; I awoke before daybreak. At nine o’clock precisely I saw my friend arrive. God! How my heart pounded! I was at that moment ironing in the dining room. He passed close to me and said, taking my hand and holding it tenderly: “Courage, my friend!” He entered the salon where my father awaited him. I heard only these words: “You know, citizen, what brings me the pleasure of seeing you. You will have been told of my wish to enter your family; you know that the one I love is the last of your daughters; if not for a long illness from which I have just recovered, I would have asked you sooner. Having had the occasion to meet your daughter several times, I believed from my observation that she understood and shared my sentiments; but, having fallen ill, I could no longer see her. Judge of what I must have suffered during almost two months of absence.” After a rather long conversation, the rest of which I did not hear, my father called me to him and said to me severely that because of my lack of confidence in my mother, he would never consent to my marriage; he gave me a long lecture until I was sobbing. At last, my beloved came to me and told me not to make myself ill, to console myself, that my good father would pardon me and that my dear parents had consented to our union. Judge my happiness! I could not believe it; my friend was so good, so sweet-tempered, so caressing, that my father told him: “Well then, I want to make for my daughter’s happiness; I give her to you with all my heart: she’s a good little girl; she will make you happy, I hope.” What joy for my friend! We ran to embrace my father and my good mother, who cried with tender feeling. The good Robespierre came to share our happiness; that good friend said to me: “Be happy, Babet, you deserve it; you are made for each other.” Then my father, Robespierre, Le Bas and my mother took chocolate together while I returned to my work; the conversation lasted until after eleven o’clock.

Memoirs of Élisabeth Le Bas (1843)

Wow, you’re a real jerk here, Maurice.