LETTERS TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN[11] FROM 1671 TO 1690. (continued 2)

LETTER XXIII.

Paris, Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1672.

For Heaven’s sake, my dear child, what do you mean? What pleasure can you take in thus abusing your person and understanding, vilifying your conduct, and saying, that one must have great good-nature to think of you sometimes? Though I am certain you can not believe all you say, yet it hurts me to hear it; you really make me angry with you; and though, perhaps, I ought not to answer seriously things that are only said in jest, yet I can not help scolding you before I go any further. You are excellent again, when you say you are afraid of wits. Alas! if you knew how insignificant they are when you are by, and how encumbered they are with their own dear persons, you would not value them at all. Do you remember how you used to be deceived in them sometimes? Do not let distance magnify objects too much; but it is one of its common effects.

We sup every evening at Madame Scarron’s; she has a most engaging wit, and an understanding surprisingly just and clear. It is a pleasure to hear her sometimes reason upon the horrid confusion and distractions of a country with which she is very well acquainted. The vexations that Heudicourt undergoes in a place that appears so dazzling and glorious; the continual rage of Lauzun; the gloomy chagrin and cares of the court ladies, from which the most envied are not always exempt; are things which she describes in the most agreeable and entertaining manner. Such conversations as these lead us insensibly from one moral reflection to another, sometimes of a religious, sometimes of a political kind. You are frequently one of our subjects; she admires your wit and manners; and, whenever you return hither, you are sure of being highly in favor.

But let me give you an instance of the king’s goodness and generosity, to show you what a pleasure it is to serve so amiable a master: He sent for Marshal Bellefond into his closet the other day, and thus accosted him: “Monsieur le maréchal, I insist upon knowing your reasons for quitting my service. Is it through a principle of devotion? Is it from an inclination to retire? Or is it on account of your debts? If it be the latter, I myself will take charge of them, and inform myself of the state of your affairs.” The marshal was sensibly affected with this goodness: “Sire,” said he, “it is my debts; I am overwhelmed with them, and can not bear to see some of my friends, who assisted me with their fortunes, likely to suffer on my account, without having it in my power to satisfy them.” “Well, then,” said the king, “they shall have security for what is owing to them: I now give you a hundred thousand francs on your house at Versailles, and a grant of four hundred thousand more, as a security in case of your death. The hundred thousand francs will enable you to pay off the arrears, and so now you remain in my service.” That heart must be insensible indeed, that could refuse the most implicit obedience to such a master, who enters with so much goodness and condescension into the interest of his servants. Accordingly the marshal made no further resistance; he is now reinstated in his place, and loaded with favors. This is all strictly true.

Not a night passes at St. Germain without balls, plays, or masquerades. The king shows an assiduity to divert this madame that he never did for the other. Racine has brought out a new piece called Bajazet, which they say carries every thing before it: indeed it does not go in emperando, as the others did. Monsieur de Tallard says, that it as much exceeds the best piece of Corneille’s, as Corneille’s does one of Boyer’s; this now is what you may call praising by the lump; there is nothing like telling truth; however, our eyes and ears will inform us more fully; for

obliges me to go immediately to the play; we shall see what it is.

I have been at Livri. Ah, my dear child, how well did I keep my word with you, and how many tender thoughts of you filled my breast! It was delightful weather, though very cold; but the sun shone finely, and every tree was hung with pearls and crystals, that formed a pleasing diversity of colors. I walked a great deal. The next day I dined at Pomponne. It would not be an easy matter to recount all that passed during a stay of five hours; however, I was not at all tired with my visit. Monsieur de Pomponne will be here in three or four days. I should be very much vexed if I was obliged to apply to him about your Provence affairs; I am persuaded he will not hear me. You see I give myself airs of knowledge. But really nothing comes up to M. d’Uzès; I never saw a man of better understanding, nor one more capable of giving sound advice. I wait to see him, that I may inform you of what he has done at St. Germain.

You desire me to write you long letters; I think you have now sufficient reason to be contented; I am sometimes frightened at the length of them myself; and were it not for your agreeable flattery, I should never think of venturing them out of my hands. Madame de Brissac is excellently provided for the winter, in M. de Longueville and the Count de Guiche; but nothing is meant but what is fair and honorable, only she takes a pleasure in being adored. La Marans is never seen now, either at Madame de la Fayette’s or at M. de la Rochefoucault’s; we can not find out what she is doing; we are apt to judge a little rashly now and then; she took it into her head this summer, that she should be ravished, as if she wished it; but I am of opinion that she is in no great danger. Good Heavens, what a mad creature she is, and how long have I looked on her in the same light as you do now! But now let me tell you, my dear, it is not my fault that I do not see Madame de la Valavoire.[56] I am sure there is no occasion to bid me go and see her, it is enough that she has seen you, for me to run after her; but then she is running after somebody else; for I might forever desire her to wait at home for me; I can not get her to do me that favor. Your jest applies admirably to M. le Grand, and a very good one it is. Poor Châtillon is every day teasing us with the most wretched ones imaginable.

LETTER XXIV.

Paris, Wednesday, June 20, 1672.

I send you M. de Rochefoucault’s Maxims, revised and corrected, with additions; it is a present to you from himself. Some of them I can make shift to guess the meaning of; but there are others that, to my shame be it spoken, I can not understand at all. God knows how it will be with you. There is a dispute between the archbishop of Paris and the archbishop of Rheims about a point of ceremony: Paris will have Rheims ask leave of him, as his superior, to officiate, which Rheims will not consent to. It is said that these two right reverends will never agree till they are thirty or forty leagues asunder; if that is the case, they are both of them likely to continue as they are. The ceremony it relates to is the canonization of one Borgia, a Jesuit. The whole opera band is to exert itself on the occasion; the streets will be illuminated, even to the Rue St. Antoine; the people are all mad about it: old Mérinville, however, has died without having seen it.

Do not deceive yourself, my child, by entertaining too good an opinion of my letters. The other day an impertinent fellow, seeing the monstrous length of a letter I was writing to you, asked me very seriously, if I thought any body could possibly read it all: I trembled at the thought of it, but without any intention of amendment; for the correspondence I have with you is my existence, the sole pleasure of my life; and every other consideration is but mean, when put in competition with it. I am uneasy about your brother; poor fellow! The weather is very cold: he lies in camp, and is still on the march to Cologne, for the Lord knows how long! I was in hopes of seeing him this winter, and see where he is now! After all, I find little Mademoiselle Adhémar must be the comfort of my old age: I wish you could but see how fond she is of me; how she cries after me, and hangs about me. She is not a beauty, but she is very pleasing—has a delightful voice, and a skin as clear and white ... In short, I doat on her. You, it seems, doat on your boy; I am very glad of it; we can not have too many things to amuse us; real or imaginary, it does not signify.

To-morrow there is to be a ball at Madame’s. I saw a heap of jewels tossing about at mademoiselle’s, which put me in mind of past troubles: and yet, would to Heaven we were at the same work again! For how can I be unhappy while you are with me? Alas! my whole life is one continued scene of sorrow and disappointment. Dear Monsieur Nicole! have pity on me; and teach me to bear, with patience, the dispensations of Providence. Farewell, my dearest child, I dare not say I adore you; but I can not conceive any degree of love superior to mine: the kind and pleasing assurances you give me of yours, at once lighten and increase my sorrows.

LETTER XXV.

Paris, Wednesday, March 16, 1672.

You talk to me of my departure: alas! my dear, I languish in the pleasing hope of it; nothing now stops me, but my poor aunt,[57] who is dying with violent pain and dropsy: it breaks my heart to see her sufferings, and to hear the tender and affecting manner in which she talks to me: her courage, patience, and resignation, are all together admirable. M. d’Hacqueville and I observe her distemper from day to day; he sees my inmost heart, and knows what grief it is to me not to be at liberty at present: I am entirely guided by him, and we shall see, between this and Easter, whether her disorder increases as much as it has done since I came hither; if it does, she will die in our arms; but if she receives any relief, and is likely to languish for any length of time, I shall then set out as soon as M. de Coulanges comes back. Our poor abbé is as vexed at this as myself; but we shall be able to judge how it will turn out by next month. I can think of nothing else: you can not wish to see me so much as I do to embrace you; so put some bounds to your ambition, and do not hope ever to equal me in that respect.

My son tells me, they lead a wretched life in Germany, and are working all in the dark. He was greatly concerned at the death of the poor chevalier. You ask me if I am as fond of life as ever: I must own to you that I experience mortifications, and severe ones too; but I am still unhappy at the thoughts of death: I consider it so great a misfortune to see the termination of all my pursuits, that I should desire nothing better, if it were practicable, than to begin life again. I find myself engaged in a scene of confusion and trouble: I was embarked in life without my own consent, and know I must leave it again: that distracts me; for how shall I leave it? in what manner? by what door? at what time? in what disposition? Am I to suffer a thousand pains and torments that will make me die in a state of despair? Shall I lose my senses? Am I to die by some sudden accident? How shall I stand with God? What shall I have to offer to him? Will fear and necessity make my peace with him? Shall I have no other sentiment, but that of fear? What have I to hope? Am I worthy of heaven? or have I deserved the torments of hell? Dreadful alternative! Alarming uncertainty! Can there be greater madness than to place our eternal salvation in uncertainty? Yet what is more natural, or can be more easily accounted for, than the foolish manner in which I have spent my life? I am frequently buried in thoughts of this nature, and then death appears so dreadful to me that I hate life more for leading me to it, than I do for all the thorns that are strewed in its way. You will ask me then, if I would wish to live forever? Far from it; but if I had been consulted, I would very gladly have died in my nurse’s arms; it would have spared me many vexations, and would have insured heaven to me at a very easy rate: but let us talk of something else.

I am quite provoked that you have received Bajazet from any hand but mine; that fellow Barbin[58] has served me this trick, out of spite, because I do not write Princesses of Clèves and Montpensier.[59] You form a very just and true judgment of Bajazet, and you will find that I am of your opinion: I wish I could send you Champmêlée to enliven it a little. The character of Bajazet wants life, and the manners of the Turks are ill preserved: their marriages have less ceremony; the plot is badly managed; and we are at a loss to account for so much slaughter: the piece has doubtless its beauties; but there is nothing superlative; nothing perfect; none of those fine strokes, that, like Corneille’s, make one tremble. Let us be cautious how we compare Racine with him; the difference between them is great: the pieces of the latter are in many places cold and feeble; nor will he ever be able to surpass his Alexander and Andromache. Many persons consider Bajazet as inferior to both these, and it is my opinion also, if I may be allowed to give it. Racine’s plays are written for Champmêlée, and not for posterity;[60] whenever he grows old and ceases to be in love, it will be seen whether I am mistaken or not. Long live then our old friend Corneille; let us forgive the bad lines we occasionally meet with for the sake of those divine sallies that so often transport us, those masterly strokes that bid defiance to imitation. Despréaux has said as much before me; and it is in general the opinion of every one of good taste; let us therefore maintain it.

I send you a witticism of Madame de Cornuel’s, which has highly diverted the crowd. Young M. Tombonneau has quitted the long robe, and taken to the jacket and trowsers: in short, he is resolved to go to sea; I do not know in what way the land has offended him; however, somebody told Madame de Cornuel that he was going to sea. “Lord bless the man!” said she, “has he been bitten by a mad dog?” As this was said off hand, it raised a great laugh.

LETTER XXVI.

Paris, Wednesday, May 4, 1672.

It is impossible, my dear child, to tell you how much I pity, how much I praise, and how much I admire you: thus I divide my discourse into three heads. First, I pity you in being so subject to the vapors and low spirits, as they will certainly do you much harm. Secondly, I praise you for subduing them when there is occasion, especially on M. de Grignan’s account, whom they must make very uneasy; it is a pleasing proof of the regard and consideration you have for him. Thirdly and lastly, I admire you for suppressing your natural inclination, to appear what you are not: this is really heroic, and the fruit of your philosophy: you have ample matter in yourself to call it into exercise. We were saying the other day that there is no real evil in life, except great pain; all the rest is merely imaginary, and depends on the light in which we view things. All other evils are curable either by time, moderation in our wishes, or strength of mind; and may be lightened by reflection, religion, or philosophy. But pain tyrannizes over both soul and body. Confidence in God may indeed enable us to bear it with patience, and turn it to our advantage, but it will not diminish it.

This seems to savor of the Fauxbourg Saint Germain,[61] but it comes from my poor aunt’s apartment, where I was the leader of the conversation. The subject arose naturally from her extreme sufferings, which, she maintains, are infinitely superior to every evil that life is subject to. M. de la Rochefoucault is of the same opinion: he is still tormented with the gout; he has lost his true mother,[62] and he lamented her death so tenderly and affectionately that I almost adored him: she was a woman of extraordinary merit, and was the only person in the world, he said, who was unchangeable in her love to him. Fail not to write to him; both you and M. de Grignan. M. de Rochefoucault’s affection for his family is unparalleled: he maintains that it is one of the chains that attach us to one another. We have discovered, and related, and reconciled many things relative to his foolish mother (Madame de Marans), which explain to us clearly what you once said, that it was not what we thought, but quite another thing; yes truly it was quite another thing, or perhaps better still, it was this and that too; one was without prejudice to the other; she wedded the lute to the voice, and spiritual things to coarseness and indelicacy. My child, we have found a good vein, and one which explains the mystery of a quarrel you once had in the council-chamber of Madame de la Fayette. I will tell you the rest in Provence.

My aunt is in a state which does not seem likely to terminate. Your journey is exceedingly well-timed, perhaps ours may tally with it. We have a great desire to pass some part of our Whitsuntide on the road, either at Moulins or at Lyons. The abbé wishes it no less than myself. There is not a man of quality (of the sword I mean) in Paris. I went on Sunday to hear mass at the Minims. “We shall find our poor Minims quite deserted,” said I to Mademoiselle de la Trousse, “we shall not find a creature there, except the Marquis d’Alluye.”[63] Well, we went into the church, where the first and only creature we saw was the Marquis d’Alluye: I could not help laughing till I fairly cried at the oddity of the thing; in short he is left behind, and is going to his government on the sea-coast. The coast must be guarded, you know.

The lover of her whom you style the incomparable,[64] did not meet her at the first stage, but on the road, in a house of Sanguin’s, a little beyond that which you know; he remained there two hours. It is thought he then saw the children for the first time. The fair one stays there, attended by a guard and a female friend; she is to be there for four or five months. Madame de la Vallière is at St. Germain. Madame de Thianges is here with her father; I saw her daughter the other day, she is beautiful beyond all imagination. Some people pretend that the king went straight to Nanteuil, but it is certain that the fair one is at the house called Genitoi. I tell you nothing but the truth; there is nothing I have a greater aversion and contempt for than idle stories.

You have taken your departure, then, my dear. Well, I will live in the hope of hearing from you at every stage. I shall not be behindhand on my side. I have managed so well as to find a friend at the post-office, who is very careful of our letters. I have for these several days past been occupied in adorning my cottage; Saint Aubin has effected wonders. I shall sleep there to-morrow. I swear to you that the reason I like it so well is because it is intended for you. You will be very well accommodated in my apartment, and I shall not be less so. I will tell you how charmingly every thing is contrived. I am extremely uneasy about your poor brother; this terrible war makes us tremble for those we love; whenever I think of it it fills me with horror; but then, again, I comfort myself with the thought that it may not be so bad as I apprehend, for I have remarked that things seldom happen as we expect them to do.

Pray let me know what has happened between the Princess Harcourt and you.[65] Brancas is dreadfully chagrined that you do not love his daughter. M. d’Uzès has promised to re-establish peace between all parties: I should be glad to know what has occasioned the coolness between you.

You tell me of your son, that his beauty grows less, and his merit increases: I am sorry for the loss of his beauty, and I am rejoiced to find that he loves wine; this is a little spice of Brittany and Burgundy together, which will produce a charming effect with the prudence of the Grignans. As for your daughter, she is quite the reverse; her beauty increases, and her merit lessens. I assure you, she is very pretty, but as obstinate as a demon; she has her little wills and little designs of her own; she diverts us extremely; she has a beautiful complexion, blue eyes, black hair, a nose neither handsome nor ugly; her chin, her cheeks, and the turn of her face are faultless. I shall say nothing of her mouth, it will do very well. She has a very sweet voice: Madame de Coulanges thinks it suits her mouth admirably.

I fancy, my dear child, that I shall at last be a convert to your opinion. I meet with vexations in life that are insupportable, and find, notwithstanding my fine reasoning at the beginning of this letter, there are many evils which, though less severe than bodily pain, are nevertheless equally to be dreaded.

LETTER XXVII.

Paris, Friday, May 30, 1672.

I had no letter from you yesterday, my poor child. Your journey to Monaco had put you quite out of sorts. I was afraid some little disaster of this kind would befall me. I now send you news from M. de Pomponne; the fashion of being wounded is already begun; my heart is very heavy with the fears of this campaign. My son writes by every opportunity; he is at present in good health.

My aunt is still in a deplorable state, and yet we have the courage to think of appointing a day for our departure, assuming a hope which in reality we can not entertain. I can not help thinking that many of the events of life are ill-arranged; they are, as it were, rugged stones lying across our way, too unwieldy to be removed, and which we must get over as well as we can, though not without pain and difficulty. Is not the comparison just? I shall not bring my little girl with me; she goes on very well at Livri, and is to stay there during the summer. You never saw Livri in such perfection as it is at present; the trees are beautifully green, and the honeysuckles are every where in profusion. I am not yet tired of their perfume. But you despise our shrubberies since you have been accustomed to your groves of orange-trees.

I have a very tragical history to communicate to you from Livri. Do you remember that pretended devotee, who walked so steadily without turning his head that you would have thought he was carrying a glass of water upon it? His devotion has turned his brain. One night he gave himself five or six stabs with a knife, and fell on his knees in his cell, naked, and weltering in his blood. On entering, he was found in this posture. “Good God! brother, what have you done? Who has treated you thus?” He replied, very calmly, “Father, I am doing penance.” He fainted away; he was put to bed; his wounds, which were found very dangerous, were dressed; with uncommon care and attention he recovered at the end of three months, and was sent back to his friends.

If you do not think such a head sufficiently disordered, tell me so, and you shall have the story of Madame Paul,[66] who is fallen desperately in love with a great booby of five or six and twenty, whom she had taken to be her gardener. The lady has managed her affairs admirably; she has married him. The fellow is a mere brute, and has not common sense; he will beat her soon, he has already threatened to do it; no matter, she was resolved to have him. I have never seen such violent love; there is all the extravagance of sentiments imaginable, were they but rightly applied; but they are like a rough sketch of an ill painting; all the colors are there, they want only to be properly disposed. It is extremely amusing to me to meditate on the caprices of love. I feel frightened for myself when I see such things! What insolence, to attack Mme. Paul—that is to say, austere, old, straight-laced virtue herself!

LETTER XXVIII.

Paris, Monday, June 20, 1672.

I can not reflect upon the situation you have been in, without great emotion; and though I know you are out of danger, yet I can not turn my eyes on what has passed without a horror that distracts me. Alas, how much was I in the dark about a health that was so dear to me! If any one had told me that my daughter was in greater danger than if she had been in the army, how little should I have believed it! Must I suffer this useless grief in addition to so many other sorrows that afflict my heart? The extreme danger my son is in; the war, which rages every day with greater violence; the couriers, who bring no other news but the death of some friend or acquaintance, and may bring accounts more fatal; the fear of hearing ill news, and yet the curiosity of knowing it; the desolation of those who are in excess of grief, and with whom I pass a great part of my time; the strange state of health my aunt is in, and my extreme desire of seeing you; all this afflicts and consumes me, and forces me to lead a life so contrary to my inclination, that I have need of more than a common share of health to support it.

You have never seen Paris as it is at present; all the world is in tears, or fears to be so. Poor Madame de Nogent is almost beside herself. Madame de Longueville pierces every heart with her complaints. I have not seen her indeed, but this is what I am told. Mademoiselle de Vertus returned two days since from Port-Royal, where she resides. They sent for her and M. Arnauld, to impart to Madame de Longueville the terrible news. The very sight of Mademoiselle de Vertus was sufficient; her sudden return was too sure a sign that some fatal accident had happened. As soon therefore as she appeared—“Ah! mademoiselle, how is it with my brother?”[67] She did not dare, even in thought, to inquire further. “Madam, he is recovered of his wound—there has been a battle—” “And my son?” No answer was made. “Ah! mademoiselle, my son, my dear child! answer me; is he dead?” “I have no words to answer you, madam.” “Oh, my dear son! Was he killed on the spot? Had he not a single moment? Oh, God! what a sacrifice is this!” And she threw herself upon the bed, and by expressions of the most lively sorrow, by fainting-fits, by convulsions, by the silence of despair, by stifled cries, by sudden bursts of passion, by floods of bitter tears, by eyes uplifted to heaven, and by heart-rending complaints, she exhibited all the various emotions of grief. She sees a few friends; and, in pure submission to Providence, consents to receive such nourishment as is just sufficient to keep life and soul together. She takes no rest; her health, before in a declining state, is visibly altered for the worse. For my part, I wish her death earnestly, as I can not think she can survive such a loss. There is a certain gentleman[68] who is scarcely less affected. I can not help thinking, that if they had met, in the first moments of their grief, and had been alone together, all other sentiments would have given place to sighs and tears, redoubled without intermission; there would have been a dumb scene of sorrow, a dialogue of inarticulate sighs and groans. This is a mere thought of my own. But, my dear, how great affliction is this! The very mistresses of poor De Longueville do not constrain themselves; his domestics are disconsolate; and his gentleman, who came yesterday with the ill news, scarcely appears a reasonable creature. This death effaces the thoughts of all others.

A courier, who arrived yesterday evening, brings an account of the death of the Count du Plessis,[69] who was killed by a cannon-shot, as he was giving directions for making a bridge. Arnheim is besieged by M. Turenne. They did not attack the fort of Skeing, as it was defended by eight thousand men. Alas! these successful beginnings will be followed with a tragical end for a great number of families. May Heaven preserve my poor son! He was not upon this expedition; but the campaign is not yet finished.

In the midst of our afflictions, the description you have given me of Madame Colonna and her sister,[70] is really divine; it rouses one under the most melancholy circumstances. It is an admirable picture. The Countess de Soissons, and Madame de Bouillon,[71] are quite in a rage with these fools, and say they ought to be confined. It is thought that the king will not disoblige the constable[72] (Colonna), who is certainly one of the greatest men in Rome. In the mean time we are in expectation of seeing them arrive here like Mademoiselle de l’Etoile;[73] this comparison is good.

The accounts I send you are from the best authority; you will find by all you receive, that M. de Longueville has been the cause of his own death, as well as of the death of many others; and that the prince has showed himself, through the whole of this expedition, more like a father than the general of an army. I said yesterday, and others agreed with me, that if the war continues, the duke[74] will certainly occasion the death of the prince. His love for him surpasses every other consideration.

La Marans affects to appear overwhelmed with grief. She says that she sees very plainly there is something in the news from the army which is concealed from her; and that the prince and the duke are dead, as well as M. de Longueville. She conjures people, by all that is sacred, to speak out, and not to spare her; and tells them, that in her deplorable situation, it is in vain to hide any thing from her. If it were possible to laugh under these circumstances, we should laugh at her. Alas! if she knew how little any of us think of concealing any thing from her, and how much every one is taken up with his own griefs and his own fears, she would not have the vanity to believe we paid so much attention to her as to deceive her.

The news I send you comes, as I before said, from good authority; I had it from Gourville, who was with Madame de Longueville when she heard of her son’s death. All the couriers come straight to him. M. de Longueville had made his will before he set out. He leaves a great part of his property to a son he has, who, as I believe, will take the title of Chevalier d’Orleans,[75] without expense to his relations. Have you heard how the body of M. de Longueville was disposed of? It was laid in the same boat in which he passed the river two hours before. The prince, who was wounded, ordered him to be placed near him, covered with a cloak, and, with several others who were wounded, repassed the Rhine to a town on this side of the river, where they came to have their wounds dressed. It was the most melancholy sight in the world. They say the Chevalier de Monchevreuil, who was attached to M. de Longueville, will not have a wound dressed which he received as he stood next to him.

I have received a letter from my son: he is very much grieved at the death of M. de Longueville. He was not in this expedition, but he is to be in another. What safety can be hoped for in such a profession? I advise you to write to M. de la Rochefoucault, on the death of the chevalier, and the wound of M. de Marsillac. This fatal event has given me an opportunity of seeing his heart without disguise: for constancy, worth, tenderness, and good sense, he infinitely surpasses any one I have ever met with; his wit and humor are nothing in comparison. I will not amuse myself at present with telling you how much I love you. I embrace M. de Grignan, and the coadjutor.

The same evening, at 10 o’clock.

I made up my packet two hours ago, and on my return to town I found a letter for me, with the news that a peace was concluded with Holland. It may easily be imagined that the Dutch are in the greatest consternation, and glad to submit to any terms; the king’s success is beyond all that has ever been known. We shall once more breathe again; but what a cruel addition must this be to the grief of Madame de Longueville, and all those who have lost children and near relations! I have seen Marshal du Plessis; he is greatly afflicted, but demeans himself like a brave soldier. His lady[76] weeps bitterly; the countess[77] is only disconcerted at not being a duchess. I think, my dear child, that if it had not been for the rashness of M. de Longueville, we should have gained Holland without losing a man.

LETTER XXIX.

Paris, Friday, Dec. 8, 1673.

I must begin, my dear child, by telling you of the death of the Count de Guiche: this is the chief subject of conversation at present. The poor youth died of sickness and fatigue in M. de Turenne’s army; the news came on Tuesday morning. Father Bourdaloüe went to acquaint the Marshal de Grammont with it; who feared it the moment he saw him, knowing the declining state of his son. He made every one go out of his chamber, which was a little apartment near the convent of the Capuchins, and as soon as he found himself alone with Bourdaloüe, he threw himself upon his neck, saying, that he guessed but too well what he had to tell him; that it was his death-stroke, and that he received it as such from the hand of God; that he lost the true, the only object of his tenderness and natural affection; that he had never experienced any real joy, or violent grief, but through his son, who was not a common character. He threw himself on a bed, unable to support his grief, but without weeping, for this is a situation that denies the relief of tears. Bourdaloüe wept, but had not yet spoken a word. At last he began to comfort him with religious discourse, in which he employed his well-known zeal and eloquence. They were six hours together; after which Bourdaloüe, to induce him to make a complete sacrifice, led him to the church of these good Capuchins, where vigils were said for his son. He entered the church fainting and trembling, supported more by the crowd that pressed round him on every side, than by his feet; his face was so much disfigured with grief, that he could scarcely be known. The duke saw him in this lamentable condition, and related it to us at Madame de la Fayette’s, with tears. The poor marshal returned at last to his little apartment, where he remains like a man under sentence of death. The king has written to him. No one is admitted to see him. Madame de Monaco[78] is inconsolable, and refuses to see company. Madame de Louvigny[79] is likewise incapable of receiving comfort; but it is only because she is not at all grieved. Do not you wonder at her good fortune? She is in a moment become Duchess of Grammont. The chancellor’s lady[80] is transported with joy: the Countess de Guiche[81] behaves admirably well; she weeps when they tell her all the kind things her husband said, and the excuses he made to her when he was dying. “He was a very amiable man,” she says; “I should have loved him passionately, if he had loved me in the slightest degree; I suffered his contempt with grief, and his death affects me with pity; I always hoped he would change his sentiments with regard to me.” This is certainly true; there is not the least fiction in it. Madame de Verneuil[82] feels real concern on this occasion. I believe it will be sufficient, if you only desire me to make your compliments to her; so you need only write to the Countess de Guiche, to Madame de Monaco, and Madame de Louvigny. The good D’Hacqueville has been desired to go to Frasé, thirty leagues from hence, to tell the news to Madame de Grammont, and to carry her a letter written by the poor youth a little before he died. He made a full confession of the faults of his past life, asked pardon publicly, and sent to tell Vardes a great many things which may benefit him. In a word, he ended the comedy well, and has left a rich and a happy widow.[83] The chancellor’s lady is so fully sensible, she says, of the little happiness this poor lady must have had in her marriage, that she thinks of nothing but repairing this misfortune. We are at a loss for a proper match for her. You will perhaps name for her M. de Marsillac, as we did; but they do not like each other: the other dukes are too young. M. de Foix is destined for Mademoiselle de Roquelaure. Think a little for us, for the affair is pressing. I have sent you, my dear child, a tedious account, but you sometimes tell me you like minuteness.

LETTER XXX.

Paris, Monday, Dec. 11, 1673.

I am just returned from St. Germain, where I have been two whole days with Madame de Coulanges at M. de la Rochefoucault’s. In the evening we went to pay our court to the queen, who said a thousand obliging things to me of you; but if I were to enumerate all the how-d’ ye-do’s and compliments that I had, both from men and women, old and young, who crowd about me to inquire after you, I should have to name the whole court. “And how does Madame de Grignan do? and when will she return?” and so on. In short, only figure me to yourself in the midst of a crowd of idle people, who, having nothing else to do, would every one ask me some question, so that I was frequently obliged to answer twenty at once. I dined with Madame de Louvois: it was who should be the first to invite me. I would have returned yesterday, but we were stopped by force to sup with M. Marsillac in his enchanted apartments with Madame de Thianges, Madame Scarron, the duke, M. de la Rochefoucault, M. de Vivonne, and a band of heavenly music. This morning, with much ado, we got away.

A quarrel of a singular nature is the news of the day at St. Germain. The Chevalier de Vendôme, and M. de Vivonne are the humble servants of Madame de Ludre. The chevalier expressed a wish of compelling M. de Vivonne to resign his pretensions. But on what grounds? he was asked. Why, he would fight M. de Vivonne. They laughed at him. It was, however, no joke, he said, he would fight him; and he mounted his horse to take the field. But the best of the story was Vivonne’s reply to the person who brought him the challenge. He was confined to his room by a wound in his arm, and, receiving the condolence of the whole court, ignorant of the threat of his rival: “I, gentlemen,” said he, “I fight! He may fight if he pleases, but I defy him to make me fight. Let him get his shoulder broken, let the surgeon make twenty incisions in his arm, and then”—it was thought he was going to say, we will fight—“and then,” said he, “perhaps we may be friends. But the man must be jesting to think of firing at me! A pretty project, truly! He might as well fire at the door of a house.[84] I repent, however, having saved his life in crossing the Rhine, and will do no more such generous actions till I have the nativity cast of those I intend to assist. Would any one have thought, when I was remounting this fellow on his horse, that a few weeks afterward he would want to shoot me through the head for my kindness?” This speech, from the tone and manner in which it was delivered, had so droll an effect, that nothing else is talked of at St. Germain.

I found your siege of Orange very much magnified at court. The king had spoken of it very agreeably, and it was thought highly honorable to M. de Grignan, that, without the king’s order, and merely to follow him, seven hundred gentlemen should have assembled upon the occasion; for the king having said seven hundred, every one else said seven hundred; it was added, with a laugh, that two hundred litters also followed him. But it is thought, seriously, that few governors could have obtained such a retinue.

I have had two hours’ conversation at two different times with M. de Pomponne. He exceeds my most sanguine hopes. Mademoiselle de Lavocat is in our confidence: she is a very amiable girl. She knows all our affairs—the business of the syndic, of the procurator, our gratuity, opposition, deliberation, etc., as well as she does the map of the empire and the interest of princes; that is, she has them at her finger’s end. We call her the little minister. We have interludes in our conversation, which M. de Pomponne calls flashes of rhetoric to secure the good humor of the audience. There are some points in your letters I can not reply to; we often answer ridiculously when we write from such a distance. You know how grieved we once were at the loss of some town, when they had been rejoicing for ten days at Paris because the Prince of Orange had raised the siege; but this is one of the evils of distance. Adieu, my beloved child; I embrace you very affectionately.

LETTER XXXI.

Paris, Friday, Dec. 22, 1673.

A piece of political news is just come into my head, and, contrary to my custom, I shall give it you. You know the King of Poland[85] is dead. The grand marshal,[86] the husband of Mademoiselle d’Arquien, is at the head of an army against the Turks; he has lately gained so complete a victory over them, that fifteen thousand were left dead on the field of battle, two bashaws are taken prisoners, and he himself occupies their general’s tent. After so distinguished a victory, it is not in the least doubted that he will be declared king, especially as he is at the head of such an army, and that fortune generally declares in favor of numerous battalions. This piece of news has given me pleasure.

I never now see the Chevalier de Buous. He is enraged at not being made a chef d’escadre.[87] He is at St. Germain, and I am in hopes he will manage his affairs so well as to obtain his desire at last: I sincerely wish it. The Archbishop (of Arles) has written to assure me of the joy the affair of Orange has given him, and that he hopes that of the Syndicate will end no less happily. He finds himself obliged to own, by the event, that your vigor was of more service than his prudence, and that from your example he is become a perfect bravo. This has rejoiced me exceedingly.

And now, my dear child, when I picture you to myself, pale and thin, when I think of the agitations you endure, and that the slightest degree of fever endangers your life, I suffer night and day from apprehensions for you. What happiness would it be to have you with me, in a less destructive climate, in your native air, which would again restore you to health and vigor! I am surprised that loving you as the Provençals do, they do not urge this remedy to you. I consider you as having been so useful till now, and as having relieved M. de Grignan so much in all his affairs, that I dare not regret I did not bring you with me; but when every thing is finished, why not give me this satisfaction? Adieu, my dearest child, I am very impatient to hear from you. You would throw yourself into the fire, you say, to convince me of your love: my child, I have no doubt of your affection, and without this extraordinary proof of it, you may give me a much more pleasing and a much more convincing one.

LETTER XXXII.

Paris, Friday, December 29, 1673.

M. de Luxembourg is a little pressed near Maestricht, by the army of M. de Monterei[88] and the Prince of Orange; he dares not venture to remove his camp, and he must perish where he is, unless they send him speedy and effectual succor. The prince is to set out four days hence with the duke and M. de Turenne; the latter is to serve under the two princes, and there is a perfectly good understanding between the three. They have twenty thousand foot, and ten thousand horse; the volunteers and those companies which are not to march, do not go, but all the rest do. La Trousse and my son, who arrived here yesterday, are to be of the number; they have scarcely had time to pull off their boots before they are in the mud again. The rendezvous is appointed at Charleroi, on the 16th of January. D’Hacqueville has written you word of this, but you will read it more distinctly in my letter.[89] It is certainly very important news, and has occasioned a great bustle every where. We know not what to do for money. It is certain M. de Turenne is not on terms with M. de Louvois, but it is not generally known; and while he continues to keep in with M. Colbert, there will be nothing said about it. This afternoon I had some great folks with me, who desired their compliments to M. de Grignan, and to Grignan’s wife. They were the grand-master, and the charmer.[90] I had besides, Brancas, the Archbishop of Rheims, Charôt, La Trousse, etc., who all in like manner desired to be remembered to you. They talk of nothing but war. The charmer knows all our affairs, and enters admirably into our little perplexities. He is governor of a province, which is sufficient to give him an idea of our feelings on those subjects. Adieu, my dearest child. I participate in all the joys of your conquests.

LETTER XXXIII.

Paris, Monday, New Year’s Day, 1674.

I wish you a happy year, my child; and in this wish I comprehend so many things, that I should never have done if I were to enumerate them. I have not yet asked leave for you to return to Paris, as you feared; but I wish you had heard what La Garde said of the necessity of your coming hither, that you may not lose your five thousand francs, and of what he thinks proper for M. de Grignan to say to the king. If it were a suit which you were obliged to solicit against any one who designed to injure you, you would doubtless come to solicit it; but as it is to come to a place where you have a thousand other affairs, you are both guilty of the greatest indolence. Ah, what an enchanting thing is indolence! you feel its power too much; read La Garde upon this subject, chapter the first. Consider, in the mean time, that you would have the pleasure of seeing the king, and receiving his approbation.

The edicts are revoked which gave us so much uneasiness in our province. The day that M. de Chaulnes declared it to the States, there was a cry of “Long live the king!” which made every one present weep for joy. They embraced each other, broke out into the highest expressions of rapture, ordered Te Deum to be sung, made bonfires; and the thanks of the public were given to M. de Chaulnes. But do you know what we are to give the king as a mark of our gratitude? six hundred thousand livres, and as much more by way of a voluntary gratuity. What think you of this little sum? You may judge by this of the favor that has been done us, in taking off the burden of these edicts.

My poor son has arrived here, as you know; he is to return on Thursday, with many others. M. de Monterei is a very clever fellow; he disturbs the whole world, he fatigues the army, and puts it out of condition to take the field, and begin the campaign, till the end of the spring. The troops were all at ease in winter-quarters; and when, after a tedious march, they are arrived at Charleroi, he has only a single step to take to make good his retreat—till when, M. de Luxembourg can not be extricated. By appearances, the king will not set out so soon as he did last year. If, when in the field, we had to make an attack on some great town, or the enemy would come out and oppose our two heroes, as we should probably beat him, peace might almost be depended upon. This is what is said by persons of the profession. It is certain that M. de Turenne is out of favor with M. de Louvois; but as he is in favor with the king and M. Colbert, it has not made much noise.

Five ladies of the palace are appointed: Madame de Soubise, Madame de Chevreuse, the Princess d’Harcourt, Madame d’Albret, and Madame de Rochefort. The maids of honor are to serve no more, and Madame de Richelieu as a lady of honor, is also discharged. There are to be only the gentlemen in waiting, and the maîtres-d’hôtel, as formerly. But that the queen may not be without women, Madame de Richelieu and four other ladies are to wait constantly behind her chair. Brancas is in raptures that his daughter[91] is so well provided for.

The Grand Marshal of Poland has sent a letter to the king, in which he tells his majesty, that if he has any person in view to raise to the crown of Poland, he will assist him with all the forces under his command; and if not, requests his protection and assistance for himself. The king has promised it to him. However, it is imagined he will not get himself elected, because he is not of the established religion of the nation.

LETTER XXXIV.

Paris, Friday, Jan. 5, 1674.

It is a year ago this very day since we supped with the archbishop: at this moment perhaps you are supping with the intendant: I am afraid, my dear child, your mirth is feigned. All you say on this subject to me, and to Corbinelli, is admirable. My heart thanks you for the good opinion you have of me, in believing I hold in abhorrence all villainous proceedings. You are not deceived.

M. de Grignan tells you true; Madame de Thiange has left off paint, and covers her neck; you would hardly know her in this disguise. She is frequently with Madame de Longueville, and is the very pink of modish devotion. But she is still good company, and has not at all the air of a recluse. I dined with her the other day; a servant brought her a glass of liquor; she turned to me and said, “The fellow does not know that I am become a devotee;” this made us all laugh. She spoke very naturally of her intentions, and of her change. She is very cautious of saying any thing that may injure the reputation of her neighbor, and stops short when any thing of that nature escapes her; for my part, I think her more agreeable than ever. Wagers are laid that the Princess d’Harcourt will not turn nun these twelve months, now she is become a lady of the palace, and paints again: this rouge is the law and the prophets; it is the great point that our new devotion turns upon. As for the Duchess d’Aumont, her taste is burying the dead.[92] They say the Duchess de Charost kills people for her, with ill-compounded medicines, and then buries them in a religious retreat. The Marchioness d’Huxelles is very good; but La Marans is more than good. Madame de Schomberg tells me very seriously that she is of the first order for seclusion and penitence, not admitting any society, and refusing even the amusements of devotion; in a word, she is a penitent in the true sense of the word, and in all the simplicity of the primitive church.

The ladies of the palace are kept in great subjection. The king has explained himself upon this subject, and will have the queen always attended by them. Madame de Richelieu, though she does not serve any longer at table, is always present when the queen dines, with four ladies, who wait by turns. The Countess d’Ayen[93] is the sixth: she does not like the confinement of this attendance, and of being constantly at vespers, sermons, and other religious ceremonies; but there is no perfect happiness in this world. The Marchioness de Castelnau is fair, blooming, and perfectly recovered from her grief. L’Eclair, they say, has only changed her apartment at court, not very much to her satisfaction. Madame de Louvigny does not seem sufficiently delighted at her good fortune. She is thought unpardonable for not adoring her husband in the same manner as when she was first married; this is the first time the public was ever offended at a thing of this nature. Madame de Brissac is beautiful, and follows the Princess of Conti like her shadow. La Coëtquen is still the same as ever. She has a petticoat of black velvet, embroidered with gold and silver, and a brocade cloak. This dress cost her an immense sum; and when she thought she made the most splendid figure imaginable, every one said she was dressed like an actress; and she has been so much rallied in consequence, that she has thrown it aside. La Manierosa[94] is a little vexed at not being a lady of the palace. Madame de Duras, who would not accept this honor, laughs at her. La Troche is, as usual, very much interested in your affairs; but I can not express how strongly Madame de la Fayette and M. de la Rochefoucault have your interest at heart.

Madame de la Fayette and I went to see M. de Turenne a few days ago; he has a slight fit of the gout. He received us with great civility, and talked much of you. The Chevalier de Grignan has given him an account of your victories; he would have offered you his sword if there had been any occasion for it. He intends to set out in three days. My son went yesterday very much out of humor: I was not less so, at this ill-judged and in every respect disagreeable journey.

The dauphin saw Madame Schomberg the other day; they told him his grandfather had been in love with her: he asked in a whisper, “How many children has she had by him?” They informed him of the manners[95] of that time.

The Duke du Maine[96] has been seen at court, but he has not yet visited the queen: he was in a coach, and saw only his father and mother.

The Chevalier de Châtillon has no longer any thing to seek for; his fortune is made. Monsieur chose rather to give him the office of captain of his guards, than Mademoiselle de Grancey that of lady of the wardrobe. This young man therefore has the post of Vaillac, and is well provided for: they say Vaillac is to have D’Albon’s, and that D’Albon is discarded. I told you how our States ended, and that they repurchased the edicts at two millions six hundred thousand livres, and gave the same sum as a gratuitous gift, making together five million two hundred thousand livres; that the air was rent with cries of “Long live the king!” that we had bonfires, and sung Te Deum, because his majesty was kind enough to accept it. Poor Sanzei is ill with the measles; it is a disorder that soon passes, but is alarming from its violence.

I see no reason to ask the king’s pardon for the humane gentleman who was guilty of assassination; the crime is of too black a nature. The criminals who were pardoned at Rouen were not of this stamp; it is the only crime the king refuses to pardon. So Beavron has mentioned it to the Abbé de Grignan.

I have heard the ladies at the palace spoken of in a way that made me laugh. I said with Montaigne, “Let us avenge ourselves, by slandering them.” It is, however, true that they are under extreme subjection.

The report still prevails, that the prince sets out on Monday. The same day M. de Saint Luc is to espouse Mademoiselle de Pompadour; about this I am quite indifferent.

Adieu, my dear; this letter is growing too long; I conclude it for no other reason but because every thing must have an end. I embrace Grignan, and beg him to forgive me for opening Madame de Guise’s letter; I was very desirous to see her style: my curiosity is satisfied forever.

Guilleragues said yesterday, that Pelisson abused the permission men have to be ugly.[97]

LETTER XXXV.

Paris, Friday, Jan. 12, 1674.

Well, your peace is then concluded at last. The Archbishop of Rheims and Brancas received their letters before I did mine; M. de Pomponne sent to inform me of this important event from St. Germain; I was ignorant, however, of the particulars, but now I know all. I advise you, my child, to regulate your conduct by circumstances; and since it is the king’s will that you should be friendly with the bishop,[98] endeavor to obey him. But to return to St. Germain: I was there three days ago; I went first to M. de Pomponne’s, who had not yet applied for your leave of absence, but is to send for it to-day. From thence we went to the queen’s; I was with Madame de Chaulnes; there was nobody to talk but me, and you may be sure I was not deficient. The queen said without hesitation that you had been absent for more than three years, and that it was time for your return. From court we went to Madame de Colbert’s, who is extremely civil and well bred. Mademoiselle de Blois[99] danced; she is very pleasing and graceful. Desairs says she is the only one who reminds him of you: he asked me what I thought of her dancing, for my applause was required, and I gave it with the greatest readiness. The Duchess de la Vallière was there; she calls her little daughter mademoiselle, and the young princess in return calls her pretty mamma. M. de Vermandois was there too. No other children have yet made their appearance. We afterward went to pay our respects to monsieur and madame; the former has not forgotten you, and I never fail to present your dutiful acknowledgments to him. I met Vivonne there, who accosted me with, “Little mamma, I beg you will embrace the Governor of Champagne.”[100]—“And pray who is he?” said I.—“Myself,” replied he.—“You!” said I; “pray who told you so?”—“The king has just informed me of it.” I instantly congratulated him. The Countess de Soissons was in hopes of getting this post for her son.

There is no talk of taking the seals from the chancellor;[101] the good man was so surprised at this additional honor, that he began to fear a snake in the grass, and could not comprehend the reason of being thus loaded with dignities: “Sire,” said he to the king, “does your majesty intend to take the seals from me?”—“No, no, chancellor,” replied the king, “go, sleep in peace.” And, indeed, they say he is almost always asleep; there are many wise conjectures on the subject, and people can not understand the reason of this augmentation of favors.

The prince set out the day before yesterday, and M. de Turenne is to follow to-day. Write to Brancas to congratulate him on his daughter’s being in the queen’s household, for he is very proud of it. La Troche returns you many thanks for your kind remembrance of her. Her son has still nose enough to lose half of it at the next siege, without the loss being very apparent. It is said that the Dew[102] begins to be less friendly with the Torrent, and that after the siege of Maestricht, they entered into a league of mutual confidence, and saw the Fire and the Snow every day of their lives. You know all this could not last long without occasioning great tumult, nor without being discovered. The Hail[103] seems to me, with respect to the reconciliation between you and him, like a man who goes to confession, and keeps one great sin upon his conscience—by what other name can you call the trick he has played you? Still the wise heads say you must speak, you must ask, you have time, and that is sufficient; but do not wonder at the faggoting of my letters. I leave one subject, you think I have done with it, and suddenly I resume it again, versi sciolti. Do you know that the Marquis de Sessac is here, that he will have a situation in the army, and will probably soon be presented to the king? This is manifestly predestination.

Corbinelli and I talk of Providence every day, and we say, as you know, from day to day and hour to hour, that your journey is determined. You are very glad that you have not to answer for this affair, for a resolution is a wonderful thing for you, quite a wild beast. I have seen you a long time deciding on a color: it is a proof of a too enlightened mind, which, seeing at one glance all the difficulties, remains suspended, as it were, like Mohammed’s tomb: such was M. Bignon, the greatest wit of the age; I, who am the least of the present age, hate uncertainty, and love decision. M. de Pomponne informs me you received your leave of absence to-day; I am consequently ready to do every thing you wish, and to follow, or not to follow, the advice of your friends.

It is said here that M. de Turenne has not yet begun his march, and that there is no further occasion for it, because M. de Monterei has at last retreated, and M. de Luxembourg is freed, with the assistance of five or six thousand men, whom M. de Schomberg assembled, and with whom he so extremely harassed M. de Monterei, that he was obliged to retire with his troops. The prince is to be recalled and all our poor friends with him. This is the news of the day.

The ball was dull, and ended at half past eleven. The king led out the queen; the dauphin, madame; monsieur, mademoiselle; the Prince de Condé, the great mademoiselle; the Count de Roche-sur-Yon, Mademoiselle de Blois, handsome as an angel, dressed in black velvet, with a profusion of diamonds, and an apron and stomacher of point lace. The Princess d’Harcourt was as pale as the Commandeur in the play Du Festin de Pierre. M. de Pomponne has desired me to dine with him to-morrow, to meet Despréaux, who is to read his Art of Poetry.

LETTER XXXVI.

Paris, Monday, January 15, 1674.

Saturday last I dined with M. de Pomponne, as I told you, and was there till five o’clock, enchanted, transported, enraptured with the beauties of Despréaux’s Art of Poetry. D’Hacqueville was there, we often talked of the pleasure you would have received from it. M. de Pomponne recollected that one day when you were a very little girl at your Uncle de Sévigné’s, you got behind a large window with your brother, and said you were a prisoner, a poor unfortunate princess driven from your father’s house; your brother, who was as handsome as yourself, and you were as handsome as an angel played his part extremely well. You were nine years of age. He made me remember the day perfectly. He never forgets one moment that he has seen you, and promises himself great pleasure in seeing you again, which is very gratifying to me. I own to you, my dear, that my heart is bursting with joy, but I shall conceal it till I know your resolution.

M. de Villars is returned home from Spain, and has given us a thousand amusing anecdotes respecting the Spaniards. I have at length seen La Marans in her cell, for it is nothing else. I found her quite in dishabille, not a single hair to be seen, with a coarse coif of old Venice point, a black handkerchief on her neck, a faded gray gown, and an old petticoat. She seemed very glad to see me; we embraced each other tenderly. She does not seem at all changed. We began the conversation by talking of you; she appears to love you as well as she ever did, and seemed so humble that it is impossible to help loving her. We then talked of the religious life she had lately embraced. She assured me it was true that God had vouchsafed her a great portion of grace, of which she had the most grateful sense; that this grace consists in great faith, profound love of God, horror of the world and its vanities, and a thorough distrust of herself, adding, that if she were to go abroad for only an hour, this divine spirit would evaporate. In short, she seems to preserve it carefully in her solitude like a bottle of fine perfume; she believes the world would make her lose this precious liquor, and she even fears the parade of devotion might spill it. Madame de Schomberg says she is not to be compared to Madame de Marans. Her savage disposition is softened into a passion for retirement; the disposition does not change; she is even exempt from the folly common to most women, to love their confessor; she does not approve this tie, and never speaks to him but at confession. She goes on foot to her parish church, reads all our books of religion, works, prays, has a fixed time for every thing, takes all her meals in her own room, sees Madame de Schomberg at a certain hour, hates news as much as she used to like it, is as charitable to others as she used to slander them, and loves the Creator as much as she loved the creature. We laughed a good deal at her former manners, and turned them into ridicule. She has not the least air of the Collette sisters. She speaks very sincerely and very agreeably of her situation. I was two hours with her without being at all dull. She reproached herself even for this pleasure, but without the least affectation; in short, she is much more amiable than she ever was. I do not think, my dear child, you can complain that I have not been particular enough.

I have just received your letter of the 7th. I own to you, my dearest, that the joy it has given me is so lively that my heart can scarcely contain it. You know how strongly it feels, and I should hate myself if I were so warmly interested in my own affairs as in yours. At last, my child, you are coming; this is the most delightful to me of all. But I am going to tell you something you do not expect, which is, that I solemnly swear to you that if M. de la Garde had not deemed your journey expedient, and that if it really were not so for your own affairs, I would not have taken into consideration, at least for this year, the ardent desire I have to see you, nor what you owe to my infinite affection. I know how to keep within the bounds of reason, whatever it cost me, and I have sometimes as much strength in my weakness as those who are wiser. After this sincere confession I can not conceal from you that I am penetrated with joy, and that, reason concurring with my wishes, I am, at the moment I write to you, perfectly satisfied, so that I think of nothing now but of receiving you. Do you know, the best thing after yourself and M. de Grignan, would be to bring the coadjutor? You will not perhaps always have La Garde; and if he fails you, you well know M. de Grignan is not so zealous in his own affairs as in those of the king, his master. He has a religious care of those, which can only be compared to his negligence with regard to his own. When he will take the trouble to speak, no one does it better, and we can not therefore but wish it. You are not like Madame de Cauvisson, to act alone; you must wait eight or ten years. But M. de Grignan, you, and the coadjutor, would do admirably together. Cardinal de Retz is just arrived, and will be delighted to see you. What joy, my dear child, will your return occasion! but, above all things, come prudently. It is to M. de Grignan I give this charge, and I expect him to be accountable to me. I have written to the coadjutor, to entreat him to accompany you. He will facilitate our audience with the two ministers, and will support his brother’s interest. The coadjutor is bold and fortunate, and you will mutually heighten each other’s consequence. I could talk till this time to-morrow upon the subject. I have written to the archbishop. Gain my point with the coadjutor, and give him my letter.

The prince has come back, after having been thirty leagues on his journey. M. de Turenne did not go. M. de Monterei has withdrawn his forces, and M. de Luxembourg is now at liberty. Within these twenty-four hours the chapel at St. Germain has been robbed of a silver lamp, worth seventy thousand francs, and six candlesticks of the same metal, each of them taller than I am. This is a daring insolence.[104] The ropes they made use of to get in were found by the Richelieu gallery. No one can conceive how the robbery could have been committed, for there are guards continually going that way, and patrolling about all night.

Do you know that peace is talked of? M. de Chaulnes is since come from Brittany, and is to set out again immediately for Cologne.

LETTER XXXVII.

Paris, Monday, February 5, 1674.

It is many years ago, to-day, that there came into the world a creature destined to love you beyond every other thing in existence.[105] I beg you not to suffer your imagination to wander either to the right hand or to the left:—Cet homme-là, sire, c’était moi-même.[106]

It was yesterday three years that I felt the most poignant grief of my whole life. You set out at that time for Provence, and you remain there still. My letter would be very long, if I attempted to express all the sorrow I then felt, and what I have since felt, in consequence of this separation. But to leave this melancholy digression. I have received no letters from you to-day. I know not whether I am to expect any, and I fear not, as it is so late; I have, however, expected them with impatience; I wanted to hear of your departure from Aix, and to be able to compute, with some exactness, the time of your return. Every one teases me, and I know not what to answer. I think but of you and your journey. If I receive any letters from you after this is sent away, you may make yourself perfectly easy; for I will certainly take care to do whatever you desire me.

I write to-day a little earlier than usual. M. Corbinelli, and Mademoiselle de Méri, are here, and have dined with me. I am going to a little opera of Molière’s, that is to be sung at Jellison’s. It is an excellent composition; the prince, the duke, and the duchess, will be there. I shall, perhaps, sup at Gourville’s, with Madame de la Fayette, the duke, Madame de Thianges, and M. de Vivonne, of whom we are to take our leave, as he sets out from hence to-morrow. If this party is broken up, I shall, perhaps, go to Madame de Chaulnes, where I am earnestly invited, as well by the mistress of the house as by Cardinals de Retz and Bouillon, who made me promise them. The first of these is very impatient to see you; he loves you dearly.

It was apprehended that Mademoiselle de Blois had the small-pox, but it does not prove so. There is not a word said of the news from England; this makes me conclude there is nothing good from thence. There has been only a ball or two at Paris during the whole carnival; there were masques at noon, but not many. It is a very dull season. The assemblies at St. Germain are mortifications for the king, and only show the falling off of the carnival.

Father Bourdaloüe preached a sermon on the purification of our Lady, which transported every body. There was such energy in his discourse as made the courtiers tremble. Never did preacher enforce with so much authority, and in so noble a manner, the great truths of the Gospel. His design was to show that every power ought to be subject to the law, from the example of our Lord, who was presented at the temple. This was insisted on with all the strength and clearness imaginable; and certain points were urged with a force worthy of St. Paul himself.

The Archbishop of Rheims, as he returned yesterday from St. Germain, met with a curious adventure. He drove at his usual rate, like a whirlwind. If he thinks himself a great man, his servants think him still greater. They passed through Nanterre, when they met a man on horseback, and in an insolent tone bid him clear the way. The poor man used his utmost endeavors to avoid the danger that threatened him, but his horse proved unmanageable. To make short of it, the coach and six turned them both topsy-turvy; but at the same time the coach too was completely overturned. In an instant the horse and the man, instead of amusing themselves with having their limbs broken, rose almost miraculously; the man remounted, and galloped away, and is galloping still for aught I know; while the servants, the archbishop’s coachman, and the archbishop himself at the head of them, cried out, “Stop that villain, stop him; thrash him soundly.” The rage of the archbishop was so great, that afterward, in relating the adventure, he said, “if he could have caught the rascal, he would have broke all his bones, and cut off both his ears.”

Adieu, my dear, delightful child, I can not express my eagerness to see you. I shall direct this letter to Lyons; it is the third; the two first were to be left with the chamarier. You must be got thither by this time or never.

LETTER XXXVIII.

Paris, Friday, May 31, 1675.

I have received only your first letter yet, my dear child; but that is invaluable. I have seen nothing since your absence, and every fresh person reminds me of it; they talk to me of you; they pity me; they——but stop; is it not such thoughts as these we should pass lightly over? Let us then do so.

I was yesterday at Madame de Verneuil’s in my way from St. Maur, where I had been with Cardinal de Retz. At the Hôtel de Sully, I met Mademoiselle de Launoi,[107] who is just married to the old Count de Montrevel; the wedding was kept there; you never saw a bride so pert; she bustles about the house, and calls husband, as if she had been married for twenty years. This same husband of hers, you must know, is very much troubled with the ague; he expected his fit the day after he was married, but missed it; upon which Fieubet said, “We have found a remedy for the ague, but who can tell us the dose?” Mesdames des Castelnau, Louvigny, Sulli, and Fiesque, were there. I leave you to guess what these charming women said to me. My friends are too solicitous about me; they harass me; but I do not lose a single moment that I can spend with our dear cardinal. These letters will inform you of the arrival of the coadjutor; I saw and embraced him this morning. He is to have a conference this evening with his eminence and M. d’Hacqueville on the steps he is to take. He has hitherto remained incog.

The Duchess has lost Mademoiselle d’Enghien; one of her sons is going to die besides; her mother is ill; Madame de Langeron is already under ground; the prince and the duke in the army; ample subjects for tears, and, as I am told, she is not sparing of them. I leave D’Hacqueville to tell you the news of the war; and the Grignans to write to you about the chevalier; if he should return hither, I will take as much care of him as of my own son. I imagine you are now upon the tranquil Saône; our minds ought to resemble this calm view, but our hearts perpetually seduce them; mine is wholly with my daughter. I have already told you, that my greatest difficulty is to divert my thoughts from you, for they all tend to the same point.

LETTER XXXIX.

Paris, Wednesday, June 5, 1675.

I have not received any of your letters since that from Sens; you will therefore easily conceive how anxious I am to be informed of your health and safety. I am fully persuaded you have written to me, and complain of nothing but the management, or rather mismanagement of the post. According to the calculations of your friends here, you should be by this time at Grignan, unless you were detained at Lyons during the holidays. In short, my dear child, I have accompanied you step by step all the way, and am in hopes the Rhône behaved with proper respect to you. I have been at Livri with Corbinelli; but returned here with all the haste I could, that I might not lose a moment in seeing our dear cardinal. The great affection he has for you, and the long friendship which has subsisted between him and me, have attached me to him very sincerely; I see him every evening from eight till ten, and I think he is very glad to have me with him till his bed-time. Our conversation is constantly about you; this is a subject we are fond of expatiating upon, and indeed it seems the master-sentiment of both hearts. He is for coming hither, but I can not bear this house when you are not in it.

The nuncio informed him yesterday that he had just learned by a courier from Rome that he was appointed to a cardinalship. The pope[108] has lately made a promotion of his creatures, as it is called. The crowns are put off for these five or six years, and consequently M. de Marseilles.[109] The nuncio told Bonvoulour, who went to congratulate him on his promotion, that he hoped his holiness would not now accept Cardinal de Retz’s resignation of his hat; that he should use all his endeavors to dissuade his holiness from doing so, as he had the honor of being his colleague: so now we have another cardinal, Cardinal de Spada. Cardinal de Retz sets out on Tuesday; I dread the day; for I shall suffer extremely in losing so valuable a friend: his courage seems to increase in proportion as that of his friend diminishes.

The Duchess de la Vallière pronounced her vows yesterday.[110] Madame de Villars promised to take me to see it; but by some misunderstanding we thought we should not get places. Nothing more, however, was necessary than to present ourselves at the door, though the queen had given out that the admission should not be general; and, after all, we did not go. Madame de Villars was very much vexed at it. The beautiful duchess performed this action like every other of her life, in the most charming manner possible: she is surprisingly handsome: but you will be astonished to hear that M. de Condom’s (Bossuet’s) sermon was not so good as was expected. The coadjutor was there; he will tell you how well the affair goes on with respect to M. de Paris and M. de St. Paul; but he finds the shade of M. de Toulon and the spirit of M. de Marseilles every where.

Madame de Coulanges goes from hence on Monday with Corbinelli: this deprives me of my companions. You know how good Corbinelli is to me, and how kindly he enters into all my sentiments. I am convinced of his friendship, and feel his absence; but, my child, after having lost you, of what else can I complain? It is true that you are interested in my complaints, because he is one of those with whom I most enjoyed the consolation of speaking of you; for you must not imagine, that those to whom I can not speak freely are as agreeable to me as those who enter into my feelings. You seem to me to be apprehensive that I make myself ridiculous, and that I am too apt to divulge my sentiments on this pleasing subject. No, no, my dear, fear nothing; I am able to govern the torrent. Trust to me, and let me love you, till it shall please God to take you out of my heart, in order to place himself there; for you can yield to none but him. In short, my heart is so entirely occupied with, and so full of you, that finding myself incapable of any other thought, I have been restrained from performing the devotions of the season. Adieu, my dear child, for the present. I shall finish my letter this evening.

I have just received a letter from Macon; I can not yet read it without the fountain playing its old tricks: my heart is so extremely sensible that the least thing that affects it quite overcomes me. You may imagine that, with this fine disposition, I frequently meet with opportunities to try it; but, pray, have no fears for my health. I can never forget the philosophy you inspired me with the evening before we parted; I improve by it as much as I can; but I have such an habitual weakness, that in spite of your good lessons, I often yield to my emotion.

Our cardinal will have left me before you receive this; it will be a melancholy day to me, for I am extremely attached to his person, his merit, his conversation, which I enjoy as much as I can, and the friendship he expresses for me. His soul is of so superior an order that it is not to be expected that his life should be attended with only common events. He that makes it a law to himself, to do always what is most great and heroic, must place his retreat in some proper part of his life, like a shade beautifully disposed in a piece of painting, and leave his friends to lament it.

How facetious you are, my child, with the newspaper in your hand! What! can you derive amusement from it already? I did expect that you would at least have waited till you had crossed the vile Durance. The conversation between the king and the prince appears to me very humorous; I think you would have been entertained with it even here. I have just received a letter from the chevalier, who is well; he is with the army, and has only had five attacks of the ague: this is one subject of uneasiness less; but his letter which is full of friendship, is in the true German style; for he will not believe a syllable of the retreat of Cardinal de Retz: he desires me to tell him the truth, which I shall not fail to do. I shall distribute all your compliments, and I am sure, they will be well received; every body thinks it an honor to be remembered by you; M. de Coulanges was quite proud of it. The coadjutor will relate to you the success of his journey; but he will not boast that he was on the point of being stifled at Madame de Louvois’ by twenty women, who each supposed they had a right to embrace him: this occasioned a confusion, an oppression, a suffocation, of which the bare idea almost suffocates me, accompanied by the most high-flown, reiterated, and affected compliments that it is possible to conceive: Madame de Coulanges describes the scene very drolly. I wish you may have the company at Grignan you mention. My son is well; he sends you a thousand remembrances. M. de Grignan will be very willing for me to embrace him, now that he is no longer occupied with the bustle of the boat.

LETTER XL.

Paris, Friday, June 14, 1675.

Instead of visiting you in your apartment, my dear child, I sit down to converse with you by letter; when I am so unfortunate as not to have you with me, the most natural consolation I can find is to write to you, to receive your letters, to speak of you, or to take some step in your affairs. I passed the afternoon yesterday with Cardinal de Retz; you can not possibly guess what we talk of when we are together. I always begin by telling you that you can not love him too well, and that I think you happy in having so firmly fixed the kindness and affection he before felt for you. Let me know how you bear the air at Grignan, and whether it has already begun to prey upon you; how you enjoy your health and how you look. Your picture is very pleasing, but far less so than your person, without reckoning that it wants the power of speech. Be not uneasy about my health; the rule I observe at present is, to be irregular; I am not sensible of any indisposition; I dine alone; stay at home till five or six o’clock, and go in the evening, when I have no business of importance to keep me within, to the house of one of my friends. I walk or ride according to the distance, but I make every thing yield to the pleasure of being with our cardinal. I lose not a moment he can spare me, and he is very obliging in this respect. I shall feel more sensibly his departure and his absence; but this does not prevent my indulging myself in the pleasure of his conversation; I never think of sparing myself; after having endured the pangs of parting with you, I have nothing to fear from any less tender attachment. Were it not for him, and for your affairs, I should go a little to Livri; but I make every consideration yield to these, which are above all my little pleasures.

The queen went to see Madame de Montespan at Clagny on the day I told you she took her up in her carriage as she passed; she went into her room, where she staid half an hour; she then went into M. du Vexin’s, who was a little indisposed, and afterward took Madame de Montespan to Trianon, as I informed you. Some ladies have been at Clagny; they found the fair lady so occupied with the building and enchantments that are preparing for her, that I fancy her like Dido building Carthage; but the resemblance will not hold good in any other respect. M. de la Rochefoucault and Madame de la Fayette have entreated me to present their compliments to you. We fear you will have too much of the grand-duchess.[111] A prison is preparing for her at Montmartre, with which she would be frightened, if she did not hope to change it; but she will be caught; they are delighted in Tuscany to have got rid of her. Madame de Sully is gone; Paris is become a desert. I already wish myself out of it. I dined yesterday with the coadjutor at the cardinal’s: I have left him in charge to inform you of that part of ecclesiastical history. M. Joli[112] preached at the opening of the assembly of the clergy, but as he took an ancient text, and preached only ancient doctrine, his sermon seemed a piece of antiquity altogether. It was a fine subject too for reflection.

The queen dined to-day at the Carmelites de Bouloi, with Madame de Montespan, and Madame de Fontevraud; you will see how this friendship will end. They say that M. de Turenne, as it were, conducts the enemy’s troops to their quarters. My heart is much oppressed with the thoughts of losing the cardinal; the repeated intercourse of friendship and conversation which has so lately passed between us, redoubles my grief; he goes to-morrow. I have not yet received your letters. Believe, my dear, that it is not possible to love you more than I love you; nothing animates me but what has some relation to you. Madame de Rochebonne has written to me very affectionately; she told me with what feelings you received and read my letters at Lyons. I see, my dear, you are grown weak as well as I.

D’Hacqueville has sent you such a large packet that it would be ridiculous to pretend to tell you any news now.

LETTER XLI.

Paris, Friday, June 28, 1675.

Madame de Vins expressed herself very affectionately about you yesterday, my dear; that is, in her way, but it is not a bad one; there seemed no interlineations in what she said.

We have no news. The king’s good star has brought the Duke of Lorraine and the Prince of Orange across the Meuse again. M. de Turenne has now elbow-room, so that we are no longer confined in any part. I am rejoiced that my letters are so pleasing to you; I can hardly think they are so agreeable as you say they are. I know they have no stiffness in them. Our good cardinal is gone to solitude; his departure gave me sorrow, and reminded me of yours. I have long remarked our cruel separations to the four corners of the world. It is very cold; we are obliged to have a fire, and so are you, which is more astonishing still. You judge well respecting Quantova;[113] if she can not return to her old ways, she will push her authority and grandeur beyond the clouds; but she must prepare to be loved the whole year without scruple: in the mean time her house is crowded by the whole court, visits are paid alternately, and her consequence is unbounded. Be not uneasy respecting my journey to Brittany; you are too good and too attentive to my health. I will have nothing to do with La Mousse; the dullness of others weighs me down more than my own. I have no time to go to Livri. I have made a vow to expedite your affairs. I shall give your compliments to Madame de Villars and Madame de la Fayette. The latter has still a little fever upon her. Adieu, my dearest child, believe me to be most sincerely yours.

LETTER XLII.

Paris, Friday, July 5, 1675.

I sit down, my dear, to talk to you a little of our good cardinal. I send you a letter he has written to you. Pray advise him to write his history, it is what all his friends press him much to do. He tells me he is very well pleased with his desert, that he can look upon it without the least horror, and humbly hopes that God will support him in his weakness. He expresses the most sincere regard for you, and desires me not to think of leaving Paris till I have finished all your affairs. He remembers the time when you had the ague, and that he desired me, for his sake, to be careful of your health. I answer him in the same tone. He assures me that the most frightful solitude would not make him forget the friendship he owes us. He was received at St. Michael’s[114] with transports of joy; the people were all on their knees, and received him as a protector sent by God. The troops, who were quartered there, are taken off, the officers having waited on him for his orders to send away or to leave as many as pleased. Cardinal Bonzi has assured me that the pope, without staying to receive our cardinal’s letter, had sent him a brief, to tell him that he supposes, and even desires, he will keep his hat; that the preserving his rank and dignity will in no wise impede the work of his salvation; and it is moreover added, that his holiness expressly commanded him not to make choice of any other place of retirement than St. Denis; but I much doubt this latter part of the report, so I only tell you my author for the former part.