Semanticate

src/epub/text/chapter-1.xhtml

@@ -17,7 +17,7 @@
 			<p>Don’t go running on like this, you will say, but tell me rather how you made your escape from the convent where you were to take your vows. Well, dear, I don’t know about the Carmelites, but the miracle of my own deliverance was, I can assure you, most humdrum. The cries of an alarmed conscience triumphed over the dictates of a stern policy⁠—there’s the whole mystery. The sombre melancholy which seized me after you left hastened the happy climax, my aunt did not want to see me die of a decline, and my mother, whose one unfailing cure for my malady was a novitiate, gave way before her.</p>
 			<p>So I am in Paris, thanks to you, my love! Dear Renée, could you have seen me the day I found myself parted from you, well might you have gloried in the deep impression you had made on so youthful a bosom. We had lived so constantly together, sharing our dreams and letting our fancy roam together, that I verily believe our souls had become welded together, like those two Hungarian girls, whose death we heard about from <abbr>M.</abbr> Beauvisage⁠—poor misnamed being! Never surely was man better cut out by nature for the post of convent physician!</p>
 			<p>Tell me, did you not droop and sicken with your darling?</p>
-			<p>In my gloomy depression, I could do nothing but count over the ties which bind us. But it seemed as though distance had loosened them; I wearied of life, like a turtledove widowed of her mate. Death smiled sweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly to die. To be at Blois, at the Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there, a <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de la Vallière, but without her prelude, and without my Renée! How could I not be sick⁠—sick unto death?</p>
+			<p>In my gloomy depression, I could do nothing but count over the ties which bind us. But it seemed as though distance had loosened them; I wearied of life, like a turtledove widowed of her mate. Death smiled sweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly to die. To be at Blois, at the Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there, a <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de la Vallière, but without her prelude, and without my Renée! How could I not be sick⁠—sick unto death?</p>
 			<p>How different it used to be! That monotonous existence, where every hour brings its duty, its prayer, its task, with such desperate regularity that you can tell what a Carmelite sister is doing in any place, at any hour of the night or day; that deadly dull routine, which crushes out all interest in one’s surroundings, had become for us two a world of life and movement. Imagination had thrown open her fairy realms, and in these our spirits ranged at will, each in turn serving as magic steed to the other, the more alert quickening the drowsy; the world from which our bodies were shut out became the playground of our fancy, which reveled there in frolicsome adventure. The very <i epub:type="se:name.publication.book">Lives of the Saints</i> helped us to understand what was so carefully left unsaid! But the day when I was reft of your sweet company, I became a true Carmelite, such as they appeared to us, a modern Danaïd, who, instead of trying to fill a bottomless barrel, draws every day, from Heaven knows what deep, an empty pitcher, thinking to find it full.</p>
 			<p>My aunt knew nothing of this inner life. How could she, who has made a paradise for herself within the two acres of her convent, understand my revolt against life? A religious life, if embraced by girls of our age, demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we, sweetheart, do not possess, or else an ardor for self-sacrifice like that which makes my aunt so noble a character. But she sacrificed herself for a brother to whom she was devoted; to do the same for an unknown person or an idea is surely more than can be asked of mortals.</p>
 			<p>For the last fortnight I have been gulping down so many reckless words, burying so many reflections in my bosom, and accumulating such a store of things to tell, fit for your ear alone, that I should certainly have been suffocated but for the resource of letter-writing as a sorry substitute for our beloved talks. How hungry one’s heart gets! I am beginning my journal this morning, and I picture to myself that yours is already started, and that, in a few days, I shall be at home in your beautiful Gémenos valley, which I know only through your descriptions, just as you will live that Paris life, revealed to you hitherto only in our dreams.</p>
@@ -55,14 +55,14 @@
 			<p>“Go and bid goodbye to your grandmother,” said my mother.</p>
 			<p>The Princess received me as usual, without any display of feeling, and expressed no surprise at my departure.</p>
 			<p>“You are going to the convent, dear,” she said, “and will see your aunt there, who is an excellent woman. I shall take care, though, that they don’t make a victim of you; you shall be independent, and able to marry whom you please.”</p>
-			<p>Six months later she died. Her will had been given into the keeping of the Prince de Talleyrand, the most devoted of all her old friends. He contrived, while paying a visit to <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de Chargeboeuf, to intimate to me, through her, that my grandmother forbade me to take the vows. I hope, sooner or later, to meet the Prince, and then I shall doubtless learn more from him.</p>
+			<p>Six months later she died. Her will had been given into the keeping of the Prince de Talleyrand, the most devoted of all her old friends. He contrived, while paying a visit to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de Chargeboeuf, to intimate to me, through her, that my grandmother forbade me to take the vows. I hope, sooner or later, to meet the Prince, and then I shall doubtless learn more from him.</p>
 			<p>Thus, sweetheart, if I have found no one in flesh and blood to meet me, I have comforted myself with the shade of the dear Princess, and have prepared myself for carrying out one of our pledges, which was, as you know, to keep each other informed of the smallest details in our homes and occupations. It makes such a difference to know where and how the life of one we love is passed. Send me a faithful picture of the veriest trifles around you, omitting nothing, not even the sunset lights among the tall trees.</p>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">October 19th.</p>
 			<p>It was three in the afternoon when I arrived. About half-past five, Rose came and told me that my mother had returned, so I went downstairs to pay my respects to her.</p>
 			<p>My mother lives in a suite on the ground floor, exactly corresponding to mine, and in the same block. I am just over her head, and the same secret staircase serves for both. My father’s rooms are in the block opposite, but are larger by the whole of the space occupied by the grand staircase on our side of the building. These ancestral mansions are so spacious, that my father and mother continue to occupy the ground-floor rooms, in spite of the social duties which have once more devolved on them with the return of the Bourbons, and are even able to receive in them.</p>
 			<p>I found my mother, dressed for the evening, in her drawing-room, where nothing is changed. I came slowly down the stairs, speculating with every step how I should be met by this mother who had shown herself so little of a mother to me, and from whom, during eight years, I had heard nothing beyond the two letters of which you know. Judging it unworthy to simulate an affection I could not possibly feel, I put on the air of a pious imbecile, and entered the room with many inward qualms, which however soon disappeared. My mother’s tack was equal to the occasion. She made no pretence of emotion; she neither held me at arm’s-length nor hugged me to her bosom like a beloved daughter, but greeted me as though we had parted the evening before. Her manner was that of the kindliest and most sincere friend, as she addressed me like a grown person, first kissing me on the forehead.</p>
 			<p>“My dear little one,” she said, “if you were to die at the convent, it is much better to live with your family. You frustrate your father’s plans and mine; but the age of blind obedience to parents is past. <abbr>M.</abbr> de Chaulieu’s intention, and in this I am quite at one with him, is to lose no opportunity of making your life pleasant and of letting you see the world. At your age I should have thought as you do, therefore I am not vexed with you; it is impossible you should understand what we expected from you. You will not find any absurd severity in me; and if you have ever thought me heartless, you will soon find out your mistake. Still, though I wish you to feel perfectly free, I think that, to begin with, you would do well to follow the counsels of a mother, who wishes to be a sister to you.”</p>
-			<p>I was quite charmed by the Duchess, who talked in a gentle voice, straightening my convent tippet as she spoke. At the age of thirty-eight she is still exquisitely beautiful. She has dark-blue eyes, with silken lashes, a smooth forehead, and a complexion so pink and white that you might think she paints. Her bust and shoulders are marvelous, and her waist is as slender as yours. Her hand is milk-white and extraordinarily beautiful; the nails catch the light in their perfect polish, the thumb is like ivory, the little finger stands just a little apart from the rest, and the foot matches the hand; it is the Spanish foot of <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de Vandenesse. If she is like this at forty, at sixty she will still be a beautiful woman.</p>
+			<p>I was quite charmed by the Duchess, who talked in a gentle voice, straightening my convent tippet as she spoke. At the age of thirty-eight she is still exquisitely beautiful. She has dark-blue eyes, with silken lashes, a smooth forehead, and a complexion so pink and white that you might think she paints. Her bust and shoulders are marvelous, and her waist is as slender as yours. Her hand is milk-white and extraordinarily beautiful; the nails catch the light in their perfect polish, the thumb is like ivory, the little finger stands just a little apart from the rest, and the foot matches the hand; it is the Spanish foot of <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de Vandenesse. If she is like this at forty, at sixty she will still be a beautiful woman.</p>
 			<p>I replied, sweetheart, like a good little girl. I was as nice to her as she to me, nay, nicer. Her beauty completely vanquished me; it seemed only natural that such a woman should be absorbed in her regal part. I told her this as simply as though I had been talking to you. I daresay it was a surprise to her to hear words of affection from her daughter’s mouth, and the unfeigned homage of my admiration evidently touched her deeply. Her manner changed and became even more engaging; she dropped all formality as she said:</p>
 			<p>“I am much pleased with you, and I hope we shall remain good friends.”</p>
 			<p>The words struck me as charmingly naive, but I did not let this appear, for I saw at once that the prudent course was to allow her to believe herself much deeper and cleverer than her daughter. So I only stared vacantly and she was delighted. I kissed her hands repeatedly, telling her how happy it made me to be so treated and to feel at my ease with her. I even confided to her my previous tremors. She smiled, put her arm round my neck, and drawing me towards her, kissed me on the forehead most affectionately.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-10.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-10" epub:type="chapter z3998:letter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">X</h3>
-				<p epub:type="title"><abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu to <abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade</p>
+				<p epub:type="title"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">January.</p>
 			<p>Oh! Renée, you have made me miserable for days! So that bewitching body, those beautiful proud features, that natural grace of manner, that soul full of priceless gifts, those eyes, where the soul can slake its thirst as at a fountain of love, that heart, with its exquisite delicacy, that breadth of mind, those rare powers⁠—fruit of nature and of our interchange of thought⁠—treasures whence should issue a unique satisfaction for passion and desire, hours of poetry to outweigh years, joys to make a man serve a lifetime for one gracious gesture⁠—all this is to be buried in the tedium of a tame, commonplace marriage, to vanish in the emptiness of an existence which you will come to loath! I hate your children before they are born. They will be monsters!</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-11.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-11" epub:type="chapter z3998:letter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XI</h3>
-				<p epub:type="title"><abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade to <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu</p>
+				<p epub:type="title"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">La Crampade.</p>
 			<p>Your Spaniard and you make me shudder, my darling. I write this line to beg of you to dismiss him. All that you say of him corresponds with the character of those dangerous adventurers who, having nothing to lose, will take any risk. This man cannot be your husband, and must not be your lover. I will write to you more fully about the inner history of my married life when my heart is free from the anxiety your last letter has roused in it.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-12.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-12" epub:type="chapter z3998:letter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XII</h3>
-				<p epub:type="title"><abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu to <abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade</p>
+				<p epub:type="title"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">February.</p>
 			<p>At nine o’clock this morning, sweetheart, my father was announced in my rooms. I was up and dressed. I found him solemnly seated beside the fire in the drawing-room, looking more thoughtful than usual. He pointed to the armchair opposite to him. Divining his meaning, I sank into it with a gravity, which so well aped his, that he could not refrain from smiling, though the smile was dashed with melancholy.</p>
@@ -93,7 +93,7 @@
 			<p>Pride kept my eyes fixed on the table.</p>
 			<p>“But,” said my mother, “Hénarez must have met the Spanish ambassador on the steps?”</p>
 			<p>“Yes,” replied my father, “the ambassador asked me if I was conspiring against the King, his master; but he greeted the ex-grandee of Spain with much deference, and placed his services at his disposal.”</p>
-			<p>All this, dear <abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade, happened a fortnight ago, and it is a fortnight now since I have seen the man who loves me, for that he loves me there is not a doubt. What is he about? If only I were a fly, or a mouse, or a sparrow! I want to see him alone, myself unseen, at his house. Only think, a man exists, to whom I can say, “Go and die for me!” And he is so made that he would go, at least I think so. Anyhow, there is in Paris a man who occupies my thoughts, and whose glance pours sunshine into my soul. Is not such a man an enemy, whom I ought to trample under foot? What? There is a man who has become necessary to me⁠—a man without whom I don’t know how to live! You married, and I⁠—in love! Four little months, and those two doves, whose wings erst bore them so high, have fluttered down upon the flat stretches of real life!</p>
+			<p>All this, dear <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade, happened a fortnight ago, and it is a fortnight now since I have seen the man who loves me, for that he loves me there is not a doubt. What is he about? If only I were a fly, or a mouse, or a sparrow! I want to see him alone, myself unseen, at his house. Only think, a man exists, to whom I can say, “Go and die for me!” And he is so made that he would go, at least I think so. Anyhow, there is in Paris a man who occupies my thoughts, and whose glance pours sunshine into my soul. Is not such a man an enemy, whom I ought to trample under foot? What? There is a man who has become necessary to me⁠—a man without whom I don’t know how to live! You married, and I⁠—in love! Four little months, and those two doves, whose wings erst bore them so high, have fluttered down upon the flat stretches of real life!</p>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">Sunday.</p>
 			<p>Yesterday, at the Italian Opera, I could feel someone was looking at me; my eyes were drawn, as by a magnet, to two wells of fire, gleaming like carbuncles in a dim corner of the orchestra. Hénarez never moved his eyes from me. The wretch had discovered the one spot from which he could see me⁠—and there he was. I don’t know what he may be as a politician, but for love he has a genius.</p>
 			<blockquote epub:type="z3998:verse">

src/epub/text/chapter-13.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-13" epub:type="chapter z3998:letter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XIII</h3>
-				<p epub:type="title"><abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade to <abbr>Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu</p>
+				<p epub:type="title"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mlle.</abbr> de Chaulieu</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline"><b>La Crampade</b>, February.</p>
 			<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">My dear Louise</span>⁠—I was bound to wait some time before writing to you; but now I know, or rather I have learned, many things which, for the sake of your future happiness, I must tell you. The difference between a girl and a married woman is so vast, that the girl can no more comprehend it than the married woman can go back to girlhood again.</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-15.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-15" epub:type="chapter z3998:letter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XV</h3>
-				<p epub:type="title">Louise de Chaulieu to <abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade</p>
+				<p epub:type="title">Louise de Chaulieu to <abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">March.</p>
 			<p>Ah! my love, marriage is making a philosopher of you! Your darling face must, indeed, have been jaundiced when you wrote me those terrible views of human life and the duty of women. Do you fancy you will convert me to matrimony by your programme of subterranean labors?</p>

src/epub/text/chapter-18.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<section data-parent="part-1" id="chapter-18" epub:type="chapter z3998:letter">
 			<hgroup>
 				<h3 epub:type="ordinal z3998:roman">XVIII</h3>
-				<p epub:type="title"><abbr>Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade to Louise de Chaulieu</p>
+				<p epub:type="title"><abbr epub:type="z3998:name-title">Mme.</abbr> de l’Estorade to Louise de Chaulieu</p>
 			</hgroup>
 			<p epub:type="se:letter.dateline">April.</p>
 			<p><span epub:type="z3998:salutation">My angel</span>⁠—or ought I not rather to say my imp of evil?⁠—you have, without meaning it, grieved me sorely. I would say wounded were we not one soul. And yet it is possible to wound oneself.</p>