LETTERS TO HER SON THE MARQUIS DE SÉVIGNÉ.[289]

LETTERS TO HER SON THE MARQUIS DE SÉVIGNÉ.[289]

LETTER I.

Paris, August 5, 1684.

While I am expecting your letters, I must relate to you a very amusing little history. You remember how much you regretted Mademoiselle de ***, and how unfortunate you thought yourself in having missed her for a wife: “Your best friends had all conspired against your happiness; Madame de Lavardin and Madame de la Fayette had done you irreparable injury! A young lady of noble birth, great beauty, and ample fortune, was lost to you; surely a man must be doomed never to marry, and to die like a beggar, to let such an opportunity escape him, when it was in his own power! The Marquis de *** was not such a fool; he has made his fortune, and is settled. You must certainly have been born under an unlucky planet to miss such a match! Only observe her conduct; she is a saint; an example to all married women.” You remember all this, I suppose, my dear son, and that till you married Mademoiselle de Mauron, you were ready to hang yourself; you could not have done better than you have done: but now for the sequel.

All those amiable qualities of her youth, which made Madame de la Fayette say she would not have her for a daughter-in-law if she could bring millions to her son, were happily directed to the service of religion: God was her lover, the only object of her affection, all her desires centered in this single passion; but as every thing was in extremes with her, her poor head could not bear the excess of zeal and fervent devotion with which it was filled; and, to satisfy the overflowings of her Magdalen heart, she resolved to profit by good examples, by reading the Lives of the Holy Fathers of the Desert, and of Female Penitents. She wished to become herself the heroine of such admirable histories, and, full of this idea, left her house and family about a fortnight ago, and, taking with her only five or six pistoles, and a little foot-boy, set out at four o’clock in the morning, and, taking a post-chaise at the skirts of the town, drove to Rouen, fatigued and covered with mud. When she got there, she bargained for a passage in a ship bound for the Indies: it was there, it seems, God had called her; it was there she was to lead a life of penitence and humiliation; it was there the map had pointed out to her an abode, which invited her to pass the rest of her days in sackcloth and ashes; it was there the Abbé Zosimus[290] was to visit her, and administer to her the last holy rites before she expired. Satisfied with this resolution, and convinced that Heaven inspired her with it, she discharged her foot-boy, and sent him home to his own country, while she waited with great impatience the departure of the ship: her good angel consoled her for the delay; she piously forgot husband, daughter, father, and relations, exclaiming:

And now the moment arrived in which her prayers are heard; the happy moment that was to separate her for ever from her native land; she follows the law of the Gospel; she leaves all to follow Christ.

In the mean time, however, her family missed her, and finding she did not return to dinner, sent to all the churches in the neighborhood; she was not there. They supposed she would return at night; no tidings were heard of her. They now begin to be uneasy, the servants are all questioned, they can give no account of her further than that she had taken her foot-boy with her. “She must certainly be at her country-house.” No. “Where can she possibly be?” A messenger is dispatched to the Curé of St. Jacques-du-Haut-Pas; the curé says he has not had the direction of her conscience for a considerable time; for, being a simple, honest man, and having observed her full of strange chimerical ideas of religion, he would have nothing to do with her. Every one was now at a loss what to think; two, three, four days, a week passed, still no news of her; at length her friends thought of sending to some of the sea-ports, and, by mere accident, found her at Rouen, on the point of setting out for Dieppe, and from thence to the other extremity of the globe. They secure her, and bring her back, a little disconcerted at being disappointed of her journey:

A lady to whom she had imparted her design, revealed the whole to her family, who, in despair at her folly, would fain have concealed it from her husband, who happened to be absent from Paris at that time, and who would have been better pleased at an exploit of gallantry in his amiable consort, than such a ridiculous expedition as this. The husband’s mother came to Madame de Lavardin, and, bathed in tears, related the whole story, while the latter could scarcely refrain from laughing in her face; and the next time she saw my daughter, asked her if she could forgive her for having been the instrument of preventing her brother from marrying this pretty creature. Madame de la Fayette was also, in her turn, informed of this tragical story, and repeated it to me with great glee. She desires me to ask you if you are still angry with her; she maintains that no one can ever repent he did not marry a mad woman.

We dare not mention a syllable of this to Mademoiselle de Grignan,[293] her friend, who for some time past, has been ruminating upon a pilgrimage, and, as a preparative, has lately observed a profound silence toward us all. What think you of this curious narration? Has it tired you? Are you satisfied now? Adieu, my son. Marshal de Schomberg is marching to Germany at the head of twenty-five thousand men, to hasten the emperor’s signing.[294] The gazette will inform you of the rest. Adieu.

LETTER II.

Grignan, September 20, 1695.

And so you are at our poor Rocks, my dear children, experiencing there the sweets of tranquillity, exempt from all duties and all fatigues, and our dear little marchioness can breathe again! Good heavens! how well you describe to me her situation, and her extreme delicacy! I am so affected at it, and I enter so affectionately into your ideas, that my heart is oppressed, and tears rush into my eyes. It is to be hoped that you will only have the merit of bearing your sorrows with resignation and submission; but if God should appoint otherwise, like all unforeseen events, it would turn out differently from your expectations; I will believe, however, that this dear being will last, with care, as long as any one; we have a thousand examples of recovery. Has not Mademoiselle de la Trousse suffered from almost every kind of disorder? In the mean time, my dear child, I enter into your feelings with infinite affection, and from the bottom of my heart. You do me justice when you say you are afraid of affecting me too much by relating to me the state of your mind; it does indeed affect me, be assured I feel for you keenly. I hope this letter will find you calmer and happier. Paris seems to be quite out of your thoughts, on account of our marchioness. You are thinking only of Bourbon and the spring. Continue to inform me of your plans, and do not leave me in ignorance of any thing that concerns you.

Give me some account of the letters of the 23d and 30th of August. There was also a note for Galois, which I desired M. Branjon to pay. Give me an answer upon this subject. The good Branjon is married; he has written me a very charming letter upon the occasion. Let me know whether the match is as good as he represents it to be. The lady is related to all the parliament, and to M. d’Arouys. Explain this to me, my child. I also addressed a letter to you for our Abbé Charrier. He will be sorry not to see you again; and M. de Toulon! you express yourself well respecting this ox; it is for him to tame him, and for you to stand firm where you are. Return the abbé’s letter to Quimperlé.

With regard to your poor sister’s health, it is not at all good. It is no longer her loss of blood that alarms us, for that is over; but she does not recover her strength; she is still so much altered that you would scarcely know her, because her stomach does not regain its tone, and no food seems to nourish her; this arises from the bad state of her liver, of which you know she has long complained. It is so serious an evil that I am really alarmed at it. Remedies might be used for her liver, but they are unfavorable to the loss of blood, which we are in continual apprehension may return, and which has produced a bad effect upon the afflicted part. These two maladies, which require opposite medicines, reduce her to a truly pitiable situation. Time, we hope, will repair this devastation; I sincerely wish it; and if we enjoy this blessing, we shall go to Paris with all expedition. This is the point to which we are arrived, and which must be cleared up; I will be very faithful in my communications.

This languor makes us say little yet of the return of the warriors. I do not doubt, however, that the business will be concluded; it is too far advanced: but it will be without any great joy; and even if we go to Paris, they would set out two days after, to avoid the air of a wedding, and visits, which they wish not to receive; a burnt child, etc.

As to M. de St. Amant’s grief, of which such a parade has been made at Paris, it was founded upon my daughter’s having really proved by memorandums, which she has showed to us all, that she had paid her son nine thousand francs out of ten she had promised him; and having in consequence sent him only a thousand, M. de St. Amant said he was cheated, that they wanted to take advantage of him, and that he would give no more, having already given the fifteen thousand francs of his daughter’s portion (which he laid out at Paris in stock, and for which he has the estates that were given up to him here,) and that the marquis must seek for assistance in that quarter. You may suppose that when that quarter has paid, it may occasion some little chagrin; but it is at an end. M. de St. Amant thought in himself that it would not be advisable to quarrel with my daughter; so he came here as gentle as a lamb, wishing for nothing but to please and to take his daughter back with him to Paris; which he has done, though, in good truth, she ought to have waited for us; but the advantage of being in the same house with her husband, in that beautiful mansion of M. de St. Amant; of being handsomely lodged, and living sumptuously at no expense; made my daughter consent without hesitation to accept all these comforts. But we did not see her depart without tears, for she is very amiable; and was so much affected at bidding us adieu, that it could scarcely have been supposed she was going to lead a life of pleasure in the midst of plenty. She had become very fond of our society. She set out with her father on the first of this month.

Be assured, my son, that no Grignan intends you harm; that you are beloved by all; and that if this trifle had been a serious thing, they would have felt that you would have taken as much interest in it as you have done.

M. de Grignan is still at Versailles; we expect him shortly, for the sea is clear, and Admiral Russel, who is no longer to be seen, will give him leave to come here.

I shall seek for the two little writings you mention. I rely much upon your taste. The letters to M. de la Trappe are books we can not send, though in manuscript. You shall read them at Paris, where I still hope to see you, for I love you in a much greater degree than you can love me. It is the order of nature, and I do not complain.

I inclose you a letter from Madame de Chaulnes, which I send to you entire, from confidence in your prudence. You will justify yourself in things to which you well know what answer to make, and will pay no attention to those that may offend you. I have said for myself all I had to say, waiting for your answer respecting what I did not know; and I added that I would inform you of what the duchess told me. Write to her, therefore, candidly, as having learned from me what she writes respecting you. After all, you should preserve this connection; they love you, and have rendered you service; you must not wound gratitude. I have said that you owed obligations to the intendant. But to you, my child, I say, is this friendship incompatible with your ancient leagues with the first president and the attorney-general? Is it necessary that you should break with your old friends for the sake of securing an intendant! M. de Pommereuil did not exact such conduct. I have also said that you ought to be heard, and that it was impossible you should have neglected to congratulate the attorney-general upon the marriage of his daughter. In short, my child, defend yourself, and tell me what you say, that I may second you.