This is the same ennui Colette's mother feels to the point of tears after the first marriage her brothers imposed on her: So she left the cosy Belgian house, the cellar kitchen that smelled of gas, warm bread and coffee; she left her piano, her violin, the big Salvator Rosa she had inherited from her father, the tobacco jar and the fine long stemmed clay pipes, the coke braziers, the books that lay open and the crumpled newspapers, and as a new bride entered the house with its flight of steps, isolated by the harsh winter of the forest lands all around Here