LETTERS TO M. DE COULANGES.[308] FROM 1676 TO 1696.

LETTERS TO M. DE COULANGES.[308] FROM 1676 TO 1696.

LETTER I.

Paris, Monday, Dec. 15, 1670.

I am going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most magnificent, the most confounding, the most unheard of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unforeseen, the greatest, the least, the rarest, the most common, the most public, the most private till to-day, the most brilliant, the most enviable; in short, a thing of which there is but one example in past ages, and that not an exact one either; a thing that we can not believe at Paris; how then will it gain credit at Lyons? a thing which makes everybody cry, “Lord have mercy upon us!” a thing which causes the greatest joy to Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive; a thing, in fine, which is to happen on Sunday next, when those who are present will doubt the evidence of their senses; a thing which, though it is to be done on Sunday, yet perhaps will not be finished on Monday. I can not bring myself to tell it you; guess what it is. I give you three times to do it in. What, not a word to throw at a dog? Well then, I find I must tell you. Monsieur de Lauzun[309] is to be married next Sunday at the Louvre, to —— pray guess to whom! I give you four times to do it in, I give you six, I give you a hundred. Says Madame de Coulanges, “It is really very hard to guess; perhaps it is Madame de la Vallière.” Indeed, madam, it is not. “It is Mademoiselle de Retz, then.” No, nor she neither; you are extremely provincial. “Lord bless me,” say you, “what stupid wretches we are! it is Mademoiselle de Colbert all the while.” Nay, now you are still further from the mark. “Why then it must certainly be Mademoiselle de Crequy.” You have it not yet. Well, I find I must tell you at last. He is to be married next Sunday, at the Louvre, with the king’s leave, to Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de —— Mademoiselle—guess, pray guess her name; he is to be married to Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle, daughter to the late Monsieur;[310] Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of Henry the IVth; Mademoiselle d’Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d’Orleans, Mademoiselle, the king’s cousin-german, Mademoiselle, destined to the throne, Mademoiselle, the only match in France that was worthy of Monsieur. What glorious matter for talk! If you should burst forth like a bedlamite, say we have told you a lie, that it is false, that we are making a jest of you, and that a pretty jest it is, without wit or invention; in short, if you abuse us, we shall think you quite in the right; for we have done just the same things ourselves. Farewell, you will find by the letters you receive this post, whether we tell you truth or not.

LETTER II.

Paris, Friday, Dec. 19, 1670.

What is called “falling from the clouds,” happened last night at the Tuileries; but I must go further back. You have already shared in the joy, the transport, the ecstacies of the princess and her happy lover. It was just as I told you, the affair was made public on Monday. Tuesday was passed in talking, astonishment, and compliments. Wednesday, mademoiselle made a deed of gift to Monsieur de Lauzun, investing him with certain titles, names, and dignities, necessary to be inserted in the marriage-contract, which was drawn up that day. She gave him then, till she could give him something better, four duchies; the first was that of Count d’Eu, which entitles him to rank as first peer of France; the Dukedom of Montpensier, which title he bore all that day; the Dukedom de Saint Fargeau; and the Dukedom de Chatellerault, the whole valued at twenty-two millions of livres. The contract was then drawn up, and he took the name of Montpensier. Thursday morning, which was yesterday, mademoiselle was in expectation of the king’s signing the contract, as he had said that he would do; but, about seven o’clock in the evening, the queen, monsieur, and several old dotards that were about him, had so persuaded his majesty that his reputation would suffer in this affair, that, sending for mademoiselle and Monsieur de Lauzun, he announced to them, before the prince, that he forbade them to think any further of this marriage. Monsieur de Lauzun received the prohibition with all the respect, submission, firmness, and, at the same time, despair, that could be expected in so great a reverse of fortune. As for mademoiselle, she gave a loose to her feelings, and burst into tears, cries, lamentations, and the most violent expressions of grief; she keeps her bed all day long, and takes nothing within her lips but a little broth. What a fine dream is here! what a glorious subject for a tragedy or romance, but especially talking and reasoning eternally! This is what we do day and night, morning and evening, without end, and without intermission; we hope you do the same, E fra tanto vi bacio le mani: “and with this I kiss your hand.”

LETTER III.

Paris, Wednesday, Dec. 24, 1670.

You are now perfectly acquainted with the romantic story of mademoiselle and of Monsieur de Lauzun. It is a story well adapted for a tragedy, and in all the rules of the theater; we laid out the acts and scenes the other day. We took four days instead of four and twenty hours, and the piece was complete. Never was such a change seen in so short a time; never was there known so general an emotion. You certainly never received so extraordinary a piece of intelligence before. M. de Lauzun behaved admirably; he supported his misfortune with such courage and intrepidity, and at the same time showed so deep a sorrow, mixed with such profound respect, that he has gained the admiration of every body. His loss is doubtless great, but then the king’s favor, which he has by this means preserved, is likewise great; so that, upon the whole, his condition does not seem so very deplorable. Mademoiselle, too, has behaved extremely well on her side. She has wept much and bitterly; but yesterday, for the first time, she returned to pay her duty at the Louvre, after having received the visits of every one there; so the affair is all over. Adieu.

LETTER IV.

Paris, Wednesday, Dec. 31, 1670.

I have received your answers to my letters. I can easily conceive the astonishment you were in at what passed between the 15th and 20th of this month; the subject called for it all. I admire likewise your penetration and judgment, in imagining so great a machine could never support itself from Monday to Sunday. Modesty prevents my launching out in your praise on this head, because I said and thought exactly as you did. I told my daughter on Monday, “This will never go on as it should do till Sunday; I will wager, notwithstanding this wedding seems to be sure, that it will never come to a conclusion.” In effect the sky was overcast on Thursday morning, and about ten o’clock, as I told you, the cloud burst. That very day I went about nine in the morning to pay my respects to mademoiselle, having been informed that she was to go out of town to be married, and that the coadjutor of Rheims[311] was to perform the ceremony. These were the resolves on Wednesday night, but matters had been determined otherwise at the Louvre ever since Tuesday. Mademoiselle was writing; she made me place myself on my knees at her bed-side; she told me to whom she was writing, and upon what subject, and also of the fine presents she had made the night before, and the titles she had conferred; and as there was no match in any of the courts of Europe for her, she was resolved, she said, to provide for herself. She related to me, word for word, a conversation she had had with the king, and appeared overcome with joy, to think how happy she should make a man of merit. She mentioned, with a great deal of tenderness, the worth and gratitude of M. de Lauzun. To all which I made her this answer: “Upon my word, mademoiselle, your highness seems quite happy! but why was not this affair finished at once last Monday? Do not you perceive that the delay will give time and opportunity to the whole kingdom to talk, and that it is absolutely tempting God, and the king, to protract an affair of so extraordinary a nature as this is to so distant a period?” She allowed me to be in the right, but was so sure of success, that what I said made little or no impression on her at the time. She repeated the many amiable qualities of Monsieur de Lauzun, and the noble house he was descended from. To which I replied in these lines of Corneille’s Polyeuctus:

Upon which she embraced me tenderly. Our conversation lasted above an hour. It is impossible to repeat all that passed between us, but I may without vanity say that my company was agreeable to her, for her heart was so full that she was glad of any one to unburden it to. At ten o’clock she devoted her time to the nobility, who crowded to pay their compliments to her. She waited all the morning for news from court, but none came. All the afternoon she amused herself with putting M. de Montpensier’s apartment in order, which she did with her own hands. You know what happened at night. The next morning, which was Friday, I waited upon her, and found her in bed; her grief redoubled at seeing me; she called me to her, embraced me, and whelmed me with tears.

“Ah!” said she, “you remember what you said to me yesterday? What foresight! what cruel foresight!” In short, she made me weep to see her weep so violently. I have seen her twice since; she still continues in great affliction, but behaves to me as to a person that sympathizes with her in her distress; in which she is not mistaken, for I really feel sentiments for her that are seldom felt for persons of such superior rank. This, however, between us two and Madame de Coulanges; for you are sensible that this chit-chat would appear ridiculous to others.

LETTER V.

The Rocks, January 8, 1690.

What a melancholy date, my amiable cousin, compared with yours! It suits a recluse like me, and that of Rome suits one whose fate is to wander uncontrolled, and “who stalks his idleness from one end of the world to the other.” What a happy life! and how mildly has Fortune treated you, as you say, notwithstanding her quarrel with you! Always beloved, always esteemed, always carrying joy and pleasure along with you, always the favorite of, and fascinated with, some friend of consequence—a duke, a prince, or a pope (for I will add the holy father by way of novelty); always in good health, never at the charge of any one, no business, no ambition; but, above all, the advantage of not growing old! This is the height of felicity. You doubt, sometimes, whether you are not advancing, by certain calculations of time and years; but old age is still at a distance. You do not approach it with horror, as some persons I could name. This is reserved for your neighbor, and you have not even the fears that are usually felt at seeing a fire in your neighborhood. In short, after mature reflection, I pronounce you the happiest man in the world. This last journey to Rome is, in my opinion, the most delightful adventure that could have happened to you, with an adorable embassador (the Duke de Chaulnes), on a noble and grand occasion, and a visit to the beautiful mistress of the world, whom, having once seen, we are always longing to see again. I very much like the verses you have made on her. She can not be too highly celebrated. I am sure my daughter will approve them. They are well written and poetical; we sing them. I am delighted with what you tell me of Paulina, whom you saw at Grignan in your way. I have judged most favorably of her from your praises, and the unaffected letter you wrote to Madame de Chaulnes, which she has sent to me. Oh, how much I should like to take a journey to Rome, as you propose! but then it must be with the face and air I had many years ago, and not with those I now have. A woman, particularly, should not move her old bones except to be embassadress. I believe that Madame de Coulanges, though still young, is of the same opinion; but in my youth I should have been in raptures with such an adventure. It is not the same with you. Every thing becomes you. Enjoy, then, your privilege, and the jealousy you excite to know who shall be favored with you. I will not waste my time in arguing with you on the present state of affairs. All the duke’s prosperities have given me real joy. You fear precisely what all his friends apprehend, that, being the only one who can fill the place he holds with equal success and reputation, he will be kept in it too long. This apartment in your new palace creates new alarms; but let us do better. Let us not anticipate evils; rather let us hope that every thing will happen as we wish, and that we shall all meet again at Paris. I was delighted with your remembrance, your letter, and your songs. Write to me whenever it is agreeable and convenient. I take the liberty of sending this by the embassadress; and I do more, my dear cousin, for under her protection I take the liberty of embracing my dear governor of Brittany, and his excellency the embassador, with real affection, and without offense to respect. These high dignities do not intimidate me. I am sure he still loves me. God bless him and bring him back again. These are my wishes for the new year. Adieu, my dear cousin; I embrace you. Continue to love me. I wish it—it is my whim, and to love you more than you love me. But you are very amiable, and I must not place myself on a par with you.

LETTER VI.

Grignan, April 10, 1691.

We have received a letter dated the 31st of March from our dear embassador. It came in less than a week. This expedition is delightful, but what he tells us is still more so. It is impossible to write in better spirits. My daughter takes upon herself to answer him, and as I desire her to send the Holy Ghost with all diligence, not only to create a pope,[312] but to put a speedy termination to business, that he may be able to pay us a visit. She assures me that she will send him word of the conquest of Nice in five days after opening the trenches by M. de Catinet, and that this intelligence will produce the same effect for our bulls. Tell us, my dear cousin, if we judge rightly. We have received M. de Nevers’ epistle to the little Le Clerc of the academy. It is accompanied by one of your letters; they always give us great pleasure. The packet came very slowly; we know not why. There is neither rhyme nor reason in the conduct of the post. We think the epistle of M. de Nevers very pretty and very entertaining. In short, all his productions have so peculiar and so excellent a character that after them we can relish no others. The two last verses of the song he made for you, charmed my daughter as a Cartesian. Speaking of the fine wines of Italy, he says:

In short, it all deserves praise. For instance, can any thing be more humorous, in his epistle, than the smallest human string wound up to the highest pitch; and the other extreme, of a hundred crotchets rolling in bass to the very depth of the abyss? This picture is complete, and the opera of which he speaks is deservedly ridiculed; but we can not comprehend why he has given his son’s name to this epistle: cui bono? and where is the wit of it? for the style resembles his own as much as one drop of water resembles another. It would be impossible to be deceived, and the subject can give offense to none. If you do not explain this to us, we shall be ill.

But let us talk of your grief at having lost this delightful family,[314] which has so well celebrated your merit in verse and prose, while you at the same time were so much alive to the charms of its society. It is easy to conceive the painfulness of this separation. M. de Chaulnes will not suffer us to believe that he shares it with you. An embassador must be occupied only with the business of the king, his master, who on his side has taken Mons, with a hundred thousand men, in a manner truly heroic, going every where, visiting every place, and indeed, exposing himself too much. The policy of the Prince of Orange, who was taking his measures very quietly with the confederate princes for the beginning of May, has found itself a little disconcerted by this promptitude. He threatens to come to the assistance of this great place. A prisoner told this to the king, who replied, coolly, “We came here to wait for him.” I defy your imagination to frame a more perfect and more precise answer. I therefore, suppose, my dear cousin, that by sending you the news of this other conquest,[315] in four days, your Rome will not be sorry to live paternally with her elder son. God knows whether our embassador will ably support the identity of the greatest king in the world, as M. de Nevers said.

Let us return to our own country. Our little Marquis de Grignan went to the siege of Nice like an adventurer, vago di fama (eager for fame). M. de Catinet gave him the command of the cavalry for several days, that he might not be a volunteer. This did not prevent him from going every where, from exposing himself to the fire, which was at first very brisk, or from bearing fascines, for this is the fashion; but what sort of fascines, my dear cousin? All from orange-trees, laurels, and pomegranates! They feared nothing but too great a profusion of perfumes. Never was there so beautiful or so delightful a country seen. You can conceive what it must be from your knowledge of Italy. This is the country M. de Savoie has taken pleasure in losing and destroying. Can we call this good policy? We expect the little colonel (the Marquis de Grignan), who is preparing to set out for Piedmont; for this expedition to Nice is only throwing the bait in expectation of the game. He will not be here when you pass; but do you know who will find you here? My son, who is coming to spend the summer with us, and to meet his governor, by following the footsteps of his mother.

By the by, speaking of mother and son, do you know, my dear cousin, that I have been for these ten days or more in a sorrow of heart from which you alone have had the power of relieving me, while I have been employed in writing to you. This has been occasioned by the illness of the dowager Madame de Lavardin, my most intimate and oldest friend; this woman, of such excellent and sound understanding; this illustrious widow, who gathered us all under her wing; this person of such exalted merit, has fallen suddenly into a sort of apoplexy; she is drowsy, paralytic, and feverish; when she is roused, she talks rationally, but she soon relapses; in short, my child, my friendship could not sustain a greater loss; I should feel it keenly. The Duchess de Chaulnes writes to me respecting her, and is very much grieved at her illness; Madame de la Fayette still more so. Indeed, her merit is so well known, that every one is interested as in a public loss; judge, then, what her friends must feel. I am informed that M. de Lavardin is very much affected; I hope it is true; it is an honor to him to grieve for a mother to whom he is in a manner indebted for whatever he is. Adieu, my dear cousin; my heart is full, I can write no more. If I had begun with this melancholy subject I should not have had the courage to chat with you as I have done.

I shall say no more respecting the Temple, I have given my opinion of it already; but I shall never like or approve it. Not so with regard to you, for I love you, and shall love and approve you always.

LETTER VII.

Grignan, July 24, 1691.

“Short reckonings make long friends:” I have received all your letters, my dear neighbor; that of May 20, that of June 4, about which you were uneasy, and the last of July 4; with the epistle M. de Nevers sent you from Genoa, and, in short, all the works of this duke, who is the true son of Apollo and the Muses. You ask me if I do not treasure all his productions: indeed I do; I have not lost a single one; they have highly amused us, as well as every one who has passed this way whom we have deemed worthy of them. The last epistle is rather above Paulina’s capacity; but we have had the pleasure of finding ourselves capable of explaining to her what she did not understand. With respect to the description of the dinner, it is suited to the taste of the best guests; and it made M. de Grignan’s, the Chevalier de St. André’s, my son’s, and all our mouths water. I never saw so excellent a repast. I have just placed it among the other wonders of this duke. To conclude the article of letters: when you have received that of the 25th of June, and this, you will have received all.

Let us now come to yours, the beginning of which had nearly brought me to tears. How can I fancy you confined to your bed, afflicted in every limb and every joint of your poor little body; and your nerves so affected that you can neither stir hand nor foot? This is enough to drive us to despair; but to see that all this produces a song upon your melancholy situation, accompanied by another, the most humorous in the world, on a thing which you see daily; you may suppose, my poor cousin, this is a real comfort to our hearts, as it proves that the vital principle is not attacked. This fit of the gout has only given you the blue devils, and made you look forward to futurity under the most melancholy aspect in which it can present itself to you; but this situation, so violent, and so contrary to your disposition, has not had leisure to make any impression on you.

In spite of St. Peter, which is past, and of the predictions of the physicians, a pope is made, and the cardinals will leave the conclave without the event having cost them their lives; on the contrary, they will recover their health and their liberty. It is not the first time that gentlemen of the faculty have erred in judgment. The Duke de Chaulnes has written us a letter by the courier, dated the 15th, which brings the news of the exaltation: he thinks of nothing now but of coming to see us; he will be with us a fortnight; and though the pope[316] be a Neapolitan, he maintains that the affair of the bulls is so well disposed of, that it will be the signal gun for saddling horses and setting out for Grignan; this hope gives us great pleasure, and very much abridges the share I wished to take in all your melancholy calendars; it is at an end, however, my dear cousin; you are cured, you are set out, you are on the point of arriving here. I embrace you a thousand times. Let us talk a little of the table in the embassador’s closet, of the chaos of letters, of the deep abyss of bags, of the confusion of papers, from which, like the infernal regions, when once a poor letter is thrown into it, it never comes out again. It was a miracle, indeed, that mine was found; but it was my daughter’s letter, in which I had written; she had a great inclination to be offended at being thus lost and confounded with the rest; but I appeased her in the best way I could, by assuring her that the embassador read what she wrote to him with the deepest attention, and that it was upon my lines he had not condescended to throw a single glance: and it is the fact; for he said I had not written to him. She replied, “But as it was my letter, why consign it to this chaos?” To this I knew not what to answer; the embassador will think of it, if he pleases. It is true that my poor letters have only the value you give to them, by reading them as you do; for they have their tones, and are unbearable when they are brayed out, or spelled word by word: be this as it may, my dear cousin, you give them a thousand times more honor than they deserve.

LETTER VIII.

Grignan, July 26, 1691.

I am so astonished at the news of the sudden death of M. de Louvois,[317] that I know not how or where to begin the subject to you. This great minister then, this man of consequence, who held so exalted a situation, whose le moi (I), as M. Nicole says, was so extensive; who was the center of so many things, is dead: how many affairs, designs, projects, secrets, interests to unravel, wars begun, intrigues, and noble moves at chess, had he not to make and to conduct! “O God, grant me a little time; I want to give check to the Duke of Savoy, check-mate to the Prince of Orange.” No, no, not a moment, a single moment. Can we reason upon this strange event? indeed we can not; it is in our closet we must reflect upon it. This is the second minister[318] you have seen expire since you have been at Rome: nothing is more different than the manner of their death; but nothing more similar than their fortunes, and the hundred thousand chains which attached them both to the world.

With regard to the great objects which ought to lead you to God, you say you find your religious sentiments shaken by what is passing at Rome and in the conclave. My poor cousin, you are deceived; I have heard that a man of very excellent understanding drew quite a contrary inference from what he saw in that great city; he concluded that the Christian religion must necessarily be all holy and all miraculous to subsist thus, of itself, in the midst of so many disorders and so much profanation. Do then as he did, draw the same inferences, and believe that this very city was formerly washed with the blood of an infinite number of martyrs; that in the first centuries, all the intrigues of the conclave ended in choosing from among the priests him who appeared to have the greatest zeal and strength to endure martyrdom; that there were thirty-seven popes who suffered, one after the other; and that the certainty of their fate had no influence over them to make them fly from or refuse a situation to which death was attached, and a death of the most horrible nature. You have only to read this history to be convinced that a religion, subsisting by a continual miracle, both in its establishment and its duration, can not be an invention of men. Men do not think thus: read St. Augustin in his Vérité de la Religion (Truth of Religion); read Abbadie,[319] very different indeed from that great saint, but not unworthy of being compared with him when he speaks of the Christian religion. Ask the Abbé de Polignac what he thinks of this book. Collect all these ideas and do not judge so hastily: believe that whatever intrigues may take place in the conclave, it is the Holy Ghost that always makes the pope. God works all, he is the sovereign of all, and this is what we ought to think: I have read this sentiment in a good book: “What evil can happen to a man who knows that God does all things, and who loves whatever God does?” And with this, my dear cousin, I take my leave.

LETTER IX.

Grignan, August 14, 1691.

Come hither, that I may embrace you, caress you, and tell you that my daughter, whose approbation you so highly value, is delighted with your two little couplets on the holy father. Nothing, in my opinion, could be better imagined, or better executed: we have all been in raptures. But, my dear cousin, the Duke de Chaulnes, in his letter of July 20, says not a word respecting M. de Louvois;[320] his death seems to me to demand an exclamation or two. His hopes are very sanguine as to the new pope, though not the work of his hands; all our interest is that he will give us our bulls, and that you will come and pay us a visit; that day seems to me to be at our finger’s end, so swiftly does time pass. You will find my son at Marseilles, who will be there to meet you; this is an attention he owes to our governor, by way of amends for not having gone to Rome.

I long to know what you thought of the return of M. de Pomponne to the ministry: it was to us a subject of real joy; M. and Madame de Grignan had no doubt of this event from a truly prophetic spirit; but I wished it too much even to listen to them; and when Madame de Vins sent the news to my daughter, I was so surprised and so transported that I knew not what I heard: at length I comprehended that it was a very agreeable truth, not only to me but to the rest of the world, for you can not form an idea how generally his return is approved. I have paid my compliments to Madame de Chaulnes and our embassador, on the choice of M. de Beauvilliers; this is another strange man with whom the king augments his council; which is now perfect, like every thing his majesty does. He is the cleverest man in his kingdom, he is never idle, and provides for every thing; nothing remains but to pray to God that he may be preserved to us. The dauphin enters into all the councils; do you not also approve this? it is truly associating him with the empire. We have subjects for admiration every where. If your good pope would make peace, it would be an act worthy of himself, and would place us in a situation to praise, with a more tranquil mind, all the wonders we see. Adieu, my dear cousin, you know how I am disposed toward you. M. de Barillon and M. de Jannin are dead; we shall die too.

LETTER X.

Paris, February 3, 1695.

Madame de Chaulnes sends me word that I am fortunate in being here in the sunshine; she thinks all our days are woven with silk and gold. Alas! my dear cousin, it is a hundred times colder here than at Paris; we are exposed to every wind; it is the south wind, the north-east wind, it is the devil; it is who shall insult us; they fight among themselves which shall have the honor of confining us to our apartments. All our rivers are taken; the Rhône, the furious Rhône, can not resist them. Our writing-desks are frozen, our benumbed fingers can no longer guide our pens. We breathe nothing but snow; our mountains are charming in their excess of horror. I wish every day for a painter who could take a good representation of these frightful beauties; such is our situation. Relate it to our good Duchess de Chaulnes, who fancies us to be in meadows with parasols, walking under the shadow of orange-trees. You have formed an excellent idea of the rural magnificence of our wedding;[321] every one has shared in the praises you bestow, but we know not what you mean by the wedding-night. Alas, how coarse you are! I was charmed with the manner and modesty of the evening; I informed Madame de Coulanges so: the bride was conducted to her apartment; her toilet, her linen, her night-clothes, were brought; she took off her head-ornaments, was undressed, and went to bed. We knew nothing of who came in or went out of her room; every one retired to his own apartment. We arose the next morning without going to the bride-folks. They also arose, dressed themselves. No foolish questions were asked them: Are you my son-in-law? are you my daughter-in-law? They are what they are. No gay breakfast was prepared; every one ate and did as he pleased; every thing was conducted in silence and with modesty; there were no uncomfortable looks, no confusion, no improper jests; this is what I had never seen before, and what struck me as being the most becoming and the pleasantest thing in the world. The cold freezes me, and makes the pen fall from my hands. Where are you? at St. Martin’s, at Meudon, or at Baville? What happy spot contains the youthful and amiable Coulanges? I have just been railing against avarice to Madame de Coulanges. It gives me great joy, from the riches Madame de Meckelbourg has left, to think I shall die without any ready money, but at the same time without debts; this is all I ask of God, and is enough for a Christian.

LETTER XI.

Grignan, May 28, 1695.

I have received your two letters from Chaulnes, my dear cousin! we found some verses in them that delighted us; we have sung them with extreme pleasure, and more than one person will tell you so, for you must not be ignorant of the good taste we preserve here for every thing you do. With respect to the gayety and charms of your mind, you certainly advance, and go back with respect to your register; this is all that can be wished, and is what naturally lays the foundation of the desire every one has for your society. To whom are you not welcome? with whom do you not accommodate yourself? and then, which is best of all, your conduct in not obtruding yourself, and in allowing room to the wish of seeing you, gives the true relish to your vanity. The proverb must be forcible indeed, if it be true, that you are not a prophet in your own country. I often receive news from Madame de Coulanges; her correspondence is very entertaining, and her health ought no longer to create alarm, especially having the resource which we must have, that when she is tired of medicine, and undeceived with respect to it, the most salutary remedy will be to take no more.

But to return to Chaulnes. I know its beauty, and can discern from hence how dull our good governor is there. It is in vain for you to give the best reasons in the world; he will constantly answer, “I do not know:” and if you go on, he will silence you by saying, “I shall die.” This is what will happen, no doubt, till he has acquired a taste for repose, and for the charms of a quiet life. Habits are too strong, and the agitation attached to command and to a high station has made too deep an impression to be easily effaced. I wrote to this duke upon the deputation of my son, and I jested with him, saying things I did not believe respecting his solitude at Chaulnes; I treated him like a true hermit, holding conversations with the beautiful fountain called the solitary. I supposed his repasts suited to his situation, and that dates and wild fruits would compose all his banquets; I pitied his house-steward, and in saying all these trifles, I found that I stood in great need of you; and that the braying[322] I know him to possess, would make strange work with my poor letter. You came to my assistance, as I supposed you would; and you are now in another country, where you feel all the delight of paternal love; what say you? you could not have believed it to be so strong if you had not experienced it; it would have been a great pity if all the good instructions you have given to little children had not been followed by some child of your imagination. The little Count de Nicei is a master-piece,[323] and the singularity of being invisible makes him superior to the rest. You make so good a use of this story that I scarcely dare recall you; you have immortalized it; nothing can be prettier than these couplets; we sing them with pleasure. We have had a delightful introduction of spring; but, for two days past, the rain, which we do not like here, has been as violent as in Brittany and Paris, so that we have been accused of having brought it into fashion; it interrupts our walks, but it does not silence our nightingales; in short, my dear cousin, our days pass too quickly. We dispense with great bustle, and with the great world; our society, however, would not displease you; and if ever a puff of wind should blow you to this royal château—. But this is a chimera, we must hope to see you again elsewhere in a more natural and probable situation; we have yet a summer before us for writing to each other.

LETTER XII.

Grignan, August 6, 1695.

I shall write you only a very short and poor letter, my dear friend, to thank you for yours, which has given us great pleasure. I shall never change my opinion with respect to long and circumstantial details, while I read yours. We are charmed with Navarre;[324] the situation, the building, like that of Marly, which I have never seen, the excellent society—all this convinces me that the house ought to rank with yours; as for Choisy, it is made on purpose for you. Your couplets inform all who pass, of the nobility of its origin and its fate; but you deserve to be exalted to the skies by the couplet, in which you humble yourself to the foot of the mount with the coachman of Verthamont;[325] any man who will place himself up to the ears in this mud, and will croak such pretty couplets, deserves the situation M. Tambonneau gives him. The couplet ranks with the best you have ever made; the countess, whose approbation you always ask, entreats you to believe it; it is charming, it surprises; in short, croak on, and communicate your croakings to us.

But, good God, what an effusion of blood at Namur! how many tears! how many widows! and how many afflicted mothers! And they are cruel enough to think this is not sufficient, and they wish that Marshal de Villeroi had also beaten, killed and massacred poor M. de Vaudemont?[326] what madness! I am uneasy respecting your nephew de Sanzei; I pity his mother; it is said that she is coming nearer to wait the event of the siege, which appears to us to be worthy of the fury of the marshal (de Boufflers) who defends it; no opportunity of fighting is lost. Our Germany is very quiet; our principal anxiety is for her.[327] Adieu, my dear cousin; did I not promise you that my letter would be dull? We have sometimes sorrows, and we know why; I speak of them to Madame de Coulanges. My daughter sends you her remembrances; you have highly amused her by your songs and your chat, for your letter is a true conversation. I have scattered your remembrances in every apartment; they have been received, and are returned with zeal. I embrace you, my amiable cousin, and exhort you still to spend your time delightfully in honor of polygamy,[328] which, instead of being a hanging-case to you, constitutes all the pleasure and happiness of your life.

LETTER XIII.

Grignan, October 15, 1695.

I have just been writing to our Duke and Duchess de Chaulnes; but I excuse you from reading my letters; they are not worth reading. I defy all your emphasis, all your points and commas to produce any good effect, therefore leave them as they are; besides, I have spoken of several little things to our duchess, which are not very entertaining. The best thing you could do for me, my good cousin, would be to send us, by some subtle magic, all the blood, all the vigor, all the health, and all the mirth which you have to spare, to transfuse it into my child’s frame. For these three months she has been afflicted with a species of disorder which is said to be not dangerous, and which I think the most distressing and the most alarming of any. I own to you, my dear cousin, that it destroys me, and that I have not fortitude enough to endure all the bad nights she makes me pass; in short, her last state has been so violent that it was necessary to have recourse to bleeding in the arm; strange remedy, which makes blood to be shed when too much has been shed already; it is burning the taper at both ends; she has told me so, for, in the midst of her weakness and change, nothing can exceed her courage and patience. If we could regain strength, we should soon take the road to Paris; it is what we wish, and then we would present the Marchioness of Grignan to you, with whom you must already begin to be acquainted on the word of the Duke de Chaulnes, who has very gallantly forced open her door, and has drawn a very pleasing likeness of her. Preserve your friendship for us, my dear cousin, however unworthy of it our sorrow may make us; we must love our friends with all their faults; it is a great one to be ill: God grant, my dear friend, that you may escape it. I write to Madame de Coulanges in the same plaintive tone, which will not quit me; for how is it possible not to be as ill in mind as this countess, whom I see daily before my eyes, is in body? Madame de Coulanges is very fortunate in being out of the scrape. It seems to me as if mothers ought not to live long enough to see their daughters in such situations; I respectfully complain of it to Providence.

LETTER XIV.

Grignan, March, 1696.

I know not how the affairs of England go on; the Countess de Fiesque is the only one who has a good opinion of them, and is still certain that they will end well. I have taken three meals at the Marsans’, which agree very well with me; I shall put their whole family into my basket. M. de Marsan always reminds his wife that she is no longer Madame de Seignelai; and that, being only Madame de Marsan, she must accommodate herself to all his friends, of whatever form or rank, and let every one live after his own way. I am to go on Saturday to Saint Martin’s, and to-morrow I shall go to Versailles, to condole with my friend, and pass the day with Mesdames de Villeroi and Mademoiselle de Bouillon, whom I shall find there. Madame de Guise has ordered her funeral to be conducted without ceremony, and has preferred the burial-ground of the Carmelites of the great convent, to all the pomp of Saint Denis, with the kings her ancestors. She was only forty-nine years of age. Father de la Ferté will preach again on Wednesday; and on Friday, without saying a word, he will set off for Canada. If he were not to take his departure in this way, it would cause a tumult, he is so much liked by the populace; the Church of the Jesuits was too small for the multitude which crowded to his sermons.

I have just been dining at the Hôtel de Chaulnes, where I met the Marquis de Grignan; he can tell you that I was not in a very ill humor. Madame (La maréchale) de Villeroi yesterday announced to Madame de Saint-Géran the death of her husband; and the duke has taken upon himself the charge of the funeral this evening. He will probably be the privileged creditor on the inheritance, for he will advance, no doubt, what is necessary for the ceremony. This is all I know, madam; I, therefore, conclude, and take leave of you till my return from Saint Martin’s, which will be when it pleases God. Madame de Coulanges is free from the colic; she only complains that she has sometimes the little colic, which does not prevent her from eating and drinking, and associating with the young. She is very partial to the Chevalier de Bouillon and Count d’Albret, and she was delighted to meet M. de Marsan again, with whom she has renewed a snuff acquaintance. Winter is come back within these two days: it has snowed and frozen in such a manner, that we must expect no apricots; I fear the peaches also will suffer. Madame de Frontenac has a violent cold and fever; the fashion of dying alarms us for her. Our poor D’Enclos has also a slow fever, which returns slightly every evening, with a sore throat, that makes her friends uneasy; in short, I very much fear that the work of death is not at an end.

LETTER XV.[329]

Grignan, March 29, 1696.

When I have no other employment I weep and bewail aloud the death of Blanchefort, that amiable, that excellent youth, who was held up to all our young people as a model for imitation. A reputation completely established, valor acknowledged and worthy of his name, a disposition happy for himself (for a bad disposition is a torment to its possessor), for his friends, and for his family; alive to the affection of his mother and his grandmother, loving them, honoring them, appreciating their merit, taking pleasure in proving to them his gratitude, and thereby repaying them for their extreme affection; uniting good sense with a fine person; not vain of his youth, as most young people are, who seem to think themselves paragons of perfection—and this dear boy, with all his perfections, gone in a moment, like a blossom borne away by the wind, without being in battle, without having an opportunity to fight, and without breathing even an unhealthy air! Where, my dear cousin, can we find words to express our ideas of the grief of these two mothers, and to convey to them an adequate sense of what we feel here? We do not think of writing to them, but if at any time you should have an opportunity of mentioning my daughter, and me, and the Grignans, make known our regret at this irreparable misfortune. Madame de Vins has lost every thing, I own;[330] for when the heart has chosen between two sons, one only is seen. I can talk of nothing else. I bow in reverence to the holy and modest tomb of Madame de Guise, whose renunciation of that of the kings her ancestors, merits an eternal crown. I think M. de Saint-Géran happy indeed, and so I think you, for having to comfort his wife; say to her for us every thing you think proper. And as for Madame de Miramion, that mother of the church, she will be a public loss. Adieu, my dear cousin, I can not change my tone. You have finished your jubilee. The delightful trip to Saint Martin’s has closely followed the sackcloth and ashes you mentioned to me. The happiness M. and Madame de Marsan are now enjoying well deserves that you should sometimes see them, and put them into your basket; and I deserve a place in that in which you put those who love you; but I fear that for them you have no basket.