LETTERS TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN[11] FROM 1671 TO 1690. (continued 3)

I am convinced he thinks no more about the cassolette. If I had desired him not to send it, it would only have served to put him in mind of it, so I thought it was best to take no notice of it. There is no news of importance stirring. Every thing goes on with spirit on M. de Turenne’s side.

The other day there was a Madame Noblet, of the Vitri family, playing at basset with monsieur. Mention was made of M. de Vitri, who is very ill, upon which she said to monsieur, “Ah! sir, I saw him this morning, poor man! his face looked just like a stratagem.” What could she mean? Madame de Richelieu has received such kind and affectionate letters from the king, that she is more than repaid for what she has done.[115] Adieu, my dearest and best-beloved.

LETTER XLIII.

Paris, Friday, July 19, 1675.

Guess from whence I write to you, my dear—from M. de Pomponne’s, as you will perceive by the few lines which Madame de Vins sends you with this. I have been with her, the Abbé Arnauld, and D’Hacqueville, to see the procession of St. Genevieve pass; we returned in very good time; we were back by two o’clock; there are many that will not return till night. Do you know that this procession is considered a very fine sight. It is attended by all the religious orders, in their respective habits, the curates of the several parishes, and all the canons of Notre-Dame, preceded by the archbishop of Paris in his pontificals, and on foot, giving his benediction to the right and left as he goes, till he comes to the cathedral; I should have said to the left only, for the Abbé de St. Genevieve marches on the right, barefoot, and preceded by a hundred and fifty monks, barefoot also; the cross and miter are borne before him, like the archbishop, and he gives his benedictions in the same manner, but with great apparent devotion, humility, and fasting, and an air of penitence, which show that he is to say mass at Notre-Dame. The parliament, in their red robes, and the principal companies follow the shrine of the saint, which glitters with precious stones, and is carried by twenty men clad in white, and barefoot. The provost of the merchants, and four counselors, are left as hostages at the Church of St. Genevieve, for the return of this precious treasure. You will ask me, perhaps, why the shrine was exposed. It was to put a stop to the continual rains we have had, and to obtain warm and dry weather, which happened at the very time they were making preparations for the procession, to which, as it was intended to obtain for us all kinds of blessings, I presume we owe his majesty’s return, who is expected here on Sunday next. In my letter of Wednesday I will write you all that is worth writing.

M. de La Trousse is conducting a detachment of six thousand men to Marshal de Créqui, who is to join M. de Turenne. La Fare and the others remain with the dauphin’s gens-d’armes, in the army commanded by the prince. The other day madame and Madame de Monaco took D’Hacqueville, at the Hôtel de Grammont, to walk about the streets and the Tuileries incog.; as her highness is not much given to a disposition for gallantry, her dignity sits very easy on her. The Tuscan princess is expected every hour. This is another of the blessings obtained by the shrine of St. Genevieve. I saw one of your letters yesterday to the Abbé de Pontcarré; it is the best letter that ever was written; there is no part of it which has not some point and wit. He has sent a copy of it to his eminence, for the original is kept as sacred as the shrine.

Adieu, my dearest and best-beloved; you are so remarkable for your inviolable love of truth, that I do not abate myself a single expression of your kindness toward me, and you may judge, then, how happy it makes me.

LETTER XLIV.

Paris, Wednesday, July 24, 1675.

The weather is so extremely hot, my dear, that instead of tossing and tumbling in my bed the whim took me to get up (though it is but five o’clock in the morning) and chat a little with you.

The king arrived at Versailles on Sunday morning; the queen, Madame de Montespan, and all the other ladies, went to take possession of their former apartments. In a short time after his arrival, his majesty began to make the usual visits: the only difference is that they play in the state-apartments. I shall have more intelligence before I conclude my letter. The reason of my being so ill-informed of what passed at Versailles is, that I came but last night from M. de Pomponne’s; Madame de Pomponne had invited D’Hacqueville and me in so pressing a manner that there was no refusing. Indeed, M. de Pomponne appeared delighted to see us; you were spoken of with all the friendship and esteem imaginable, during the short time we were there, and there was no want of conversation. One of our whims was to wish we could see through a great many things which we think we understand, but which, in fact, we do not; we should then see into what passes in families, where we should find hatred, mistrust, anger, and contempt, in the room of all those fine things that are set to outward show, and pass upon the world for realities. I was wishing for a closet hung with mirrors of this kind instead of pictures. We carried this odd notion very far, and diverted ourselves extremely with it. We were for opening D’Hacqueville’s head to furnish ourselves from thence with some of these curious anecdotes, and pleased ourselves with thinking how the world is in general imposed upon by what they see and take for truth. You think that things are so and so in such a house; that such a couple adore each other; but stay a while and turn up the cards, and you will see that they hate each other most completely. You would imagine that such an event proceeded from such a cause—the little demon that drew aside the curtain would undeceive you; and so through life. This afforded us infinite amusement. You see, my dear, I must have plenty of time to entertain you with such trifles. This is the consequence of rising so early in the morning; this is doing as M. de Marseilles does. If it had been winter I should have visited by torch-light.

You have your cool north-east wind at last. Ah! my child, how uncomfortable it is; we are broiling with heat in this country, and in Provence you are starving with cold. I am convinced that our shrine has effected this change; for, before the procession, we discovered, like you, that the sun and the seasons had changed their course. I thought I had discovered, too, like you, that this was the true reason that had occasioned the days we so much regret to fly so rapidly. For my part, my dear child, I experience as much sorrow to see these days passed and gone forever, as I formerly experienced joy in spending winter and summer, and every season, with you; this painful thought must give way to the hope of seeing you again.

I wait for cooler weather before I take physic, and for cooler councils in Brittany[116] before I venture thither. Madame de Lavardin, De la Troche, M. d’Haroüis, and I, shall consult together about a proper time for our journey, having no design to run ourselves into the midst of the commotions that at present rend our poor province. They seem to increase daily, and those concerned in them have got as far as Fougères, burning and ransacking all the way as they go along. This is rather too near the Rocks. They have begun a second time to plunder the bureau[117] at Rennes: Madame de Chaulnes is terrified almost to death at the continual menaces she hears. I was told yesterday that some of the mutineers had actually stopped her in her coach, and that even the most moderate of them had sent notice to M. de Chaulnes, who is at Fort Louis, that if the troops he had sent for took a single step toward entering the province, his wife would run the hazard of being torn to pieces by the insurgents. It is necessary, however, that some troops should march against them, for things are come to such a height that lenitives are no longer of service. But it would not be prudent for us to set out before the storm is a little subsided, and we see the issue of this extreme confusion. It is hoped that the approaching harvest will help to disperse the rioters, for after all they must get in their grain; and there are nearly six or seven thousand of them, not one of whom can speak a word of French.

M. de Boucherat told me the other day, that a curate having received a clock that had been sent him from France, as they call this part of the country, in the sight of some of his parishioners, they immediately cried out in their language, that it was a new tax, they were sure of it, they saw it plainly. The good curate, with great presence of mind, and without seeming at all confused, said to them, “My children, you are mistaken, you know not what you are talking of; it is an indulgence.” This brought them all immediately upon their knees. You may, by this specimen, form a judgment of the understandings of these people. Let the consequence be what it may, I must wait till the hurricane is past; but I am sorry to be obliged to defer my journey. It was fixed at the most convenient time for me, and it can not be put off without interfering with my plans. You know my resignation to Providence; we must all return to this at last, and take things as they come. I talk wisely, as you see, but I do not always think wisely. You well know there is one point in which I can not practice what I preach.

LETTER XLV.

Paris, Friday, August 16, 1675.

I could wish all you write to me of M. de Turenne inserted in a funeral oration. There is an uncommon beauty and energy in your style; it has all the force of eloquence that can be inspired by grief. Think not, my child, that the remembrance of him can be lost in this country. The torrent that sweeps every thing away can not remove a memory so well established; it is consecrated to immortality. I was the other day at M. de la Rochefoucault’s, with Madame de Lavardin, M. de Marsillac, and Madame de la Fayette. The premier joined us. The conversation, which lasted two hours, turned wholly on the divine qualities of this true hero. The eyes of every one were bathed in tears, and you can not imagine how deeply the grief of his loss is engraved on all their hearts. You have exceeded us in nothing, but in the satisfaction of sighing aloud, and of writing his panegyric. We remarked one thing, which was, that it is not at his death only, that the largeness of his heart, the extent of his knowledge, the elevation of his mind are admired; all this the world acknowledged during his life. How much this admiration is increased by his death you may easily suppose. In a word, my dear, do not think that the death of this great man is regarded here like that of others. You may talk of it as much as you please; but do not suppose your grief can exceed ours. That none of the devotees have yet taken it into their heads to doubt whether his soul was in a good state, proceeds from the perfect esteem every person felt for him. It is not possible that sin or guilt could find a place in his heart; his conversion,[118] so sincere, appeared to us like a baptism. Every one speaks of the innocence of his manners, the purity of his intentions, his unaffected humility, the solid glory that filled his heart, without haughtiness or ostentation, his love of virtue for its own sake, without regarding the approbation of men, and, to crown all, his generous and Christian charity. Did not I tell you of the regiment he clothed? It cost him fourteen thousand francs, and left him almost penniless. The English told M. de Lorges, that they would continue to serve this campaign to avenge his death; but that they would afterward retire, not being able to serve under any other general after M. de Turenne. When some of the new troops grew a little impatient in the morasses, where they were up to their knees in water, the old soldiers animated them thus: “What! do you complain? It is plain you do not yet know M. de Turenne; he is more grieved than we are when we are in any difficulty. He thinks of nothing at this moment but of removing us hence; he wakes, while we sleep; he is a father to us; it is easy to see that you are but young soldiers.” It was thus they encouraged them. All I tell you is true; I do not load you with idle stories to amuse you because you are at a distance; this would be cheating you, and you may rely upon what I write to you as firmly, as on what I should tell you if you were here. I return to the state of his soul. It is really remarkable that no zealot has yet thought fit to doubt whether it has pleased God to receive it with open arms, as one of the best and noblest he ever created. Reflect a little upon this general assurance of his salvation, and you will find it is a sort of miracle, scarcely known but in his case.

The king has said of a certain person, whose absence last winter delighted you, that he had neither head nor heart; these were his very words. M. de Rohan, with a handful of men, has dispersed and put to flight the mutineers, who were formed in troops in his Duchy of Rohan. Our troops are at Nantes, commanded by Fourbin; for Vins is still a subaltern. Fourbin’s orders are to obey M. de Chaulnes; but as M. de Chaulnes is at Fort Louis, Fourbin in effect has the command. You understand what these imaginary honors are, which remain without action in those who have the name of commanders. M. de Lavardin wished much to have this command; he has been at the head of an old regiment, and pretends it was an honor due to him; but his claim was not admitted. It is said that our mutineers have sued for pardon; I suppose they will obtain it, after a sufficient number have been hanged. M. de Chamillart, who was odious to the province, is removed; and M. de Marsillac, who is a worthy man, is made intendant. These disorders no longer prevent me from taking my journey; but there is something here I am unwilling to leave. I have not yet been able to go to Livri, however my inclination may tempt me. Time must be taken as it comes; we wish to be in the center of news in these critical times.

Let me add a word more concerning M. de Turenne. He had made an acquaintance with a shepherd, who knew the roads and the country well; he used to take him along with him, and order his troops to be posted according to his direction. He had a great affection for this shepherd, and esteemed him as a man of good plain sense. He said that Colonel Bec owed his rise to a similar quality; and that he believed this shepherd would make his fortune as he had done. He was pleased with having contrived to make his troops pass without danger; and said to M. de Roye, “In good earnest this seems to me no ill performance, and I believe M. de Montecuculi will not find it so.” It is indeed esteemed a masterpiece of military skill. Madame de Villars has seen another account since the day of battle, in which it is said that the Chevalier de Grignan performed wonders, both in respect of valor and prudence. God preserve him! for the courage of M. de Turenne seems gone over to the enemy; and they think nothing impossible, since the defeat of Marshal de Créqui.

M. de la Feuillade went post to Versailles the other day, where he surprised the king, and said to him, “Sire, some (meaning Rochefort) send for their wives, and some come to see them: I am come only to see your majesty, and to thank you a thousand and a thousand times. I shall see nobody besides your majesty, for it is to you I owe every thing.” He talked a long while with the king, and then taking his leave, said, “Sire, I am going; I beg you to make my compliments to the queen and the dauphin, and to my wife and children.” And he mounted his horse; and in reality saw no other person. This little sally pleased the king much; he told the court, laughing, how he had been made the bearer of M. de Feuillade’s compliments. It is a great thing to be happy; every thing then succeeds; nothing is taken amiss.

LETTER XLVI.

Paris, Friday Evening, Aug. 16, 1675.

At length, my dear, M. de la Trousse is found. I admire his good fortune in this affair: after having performed wonders at the head of his battalion, he was surrounded by two squadrons of the enemy’s horse, so completely, that no one knew how it would end; when on a sudden he finds himself prisoner to——Whom? The Marquis de Grana, with whom he was intimate for six months at Cologne, and with whom he had cultivated a close friendship. You may judge how he will be treated; he has a pretty little wound, which will furnish him with an excellent plea for passing the vintage at La Trousse; for there is no reason to doubt that he will be released on his parole; and, what is still better, will meet with the most favorable reception at court. Nothing can exceed the congratulations and compliments that have been made him by all his friends on this occasion. I really pity him for having so many thanks to return: if he were to have carved his own fortune, could he have done it more completely to his wish? As for honest Sanzei, we have no news of him, which does not look well. Marshal de Créqui is at Trèves, at least it is so reported, and that his people saw him cross the river, with three others, in a miserable little boat. His wife is distracted with grief, not having heard a syllable from himself; for my part I really think he has been drowned, or else killed by the peasants on his way to Trèves. In short, matters appear to go badly on all sides, La Trousse excepted.

LETTER XLVII.

Paris, Wednesday, Aug. 28, 1675.

If I had the means of sending letters to you every day I could easily contrive to write them. I sometimes do so even now, though my letters do not go; but the pleasure of writing is reserved for you alone: to every one else I write, because I must. I have particulars to relate respecting M. de Turenne. Madame d’Elbeuf,[119] who is for a few days at the Cardinal de Bouillon’s, invited me to dine with them yesterday, and to share in their grief. Madame de la Fayette was likewise there; the purpose of our meeting was fully answered, for there was not a dry eye among us. Madame d’Elbeuf had a picture of the hero, admirably executed. All his people arrived at eleven o’clock; the poor creatures were already in deep mourning, and bathed in tears; three gentlemen came in who were ready to die at the sight of the picture; their cries pierced every heart; they could not utter a word; his footmen, his pages, his trumpeters, were all in tears, and made every body else weep to see them. The first who was able to speak, answered our mournful questions, and we prevailed on him to relate the manner of his death. It seems he was desirous of confessing, and when he retired for that purpose, he gave his orders for the evening, and was to have communicated the next day, which was Sunday, when he expected to give battle. He mounted on horseback at two o’clock the Saturday, after having taken a little refreshment, and as he had many people with him, he left them all at about thirty paces from the hill, and said to young d’Elbeuf, “Nephew, stay you there: you move round me so much, that I shall be known.” M. Hamilton, who happened to be near the place where he was going, said to him, “Sir, come this way if you please, the enemy’s fire is directed to the place in which you are.” “You are right, sir,” replied M. de Turenne; “I would not willingly be killed to-day; this will do extremely well.” He had scarcely turned his horse, when he saw St. Hilaire, who, coming up to him with his hat in his hand, desired him to cast his eye on a battery he had just raised, pointing to the place. M. de Turenne turned back, and at that very instant, without having time to stop his horse, he had his arm and part of his body torn to pieces by the same ball that carried off St. Hilaire’s arm and hand in which he held his hat. The gentleman, who was watching him attentively, did not see him fall, for his horse ran away with him as far as the spot where he had left young d’Elbeuf; he was leaning with his face over the pommel of the saddle. The moment his horse stopped, this great man fell off into the arms of his people, who were gathered round him, twice opened wide his eyes, moved his lips a little, and sank to eternal rest. Think of his death, and of part of his heart being carried away! His people immediately burst into loud cries of lamentations, but M. Hamilton quieted them as well as he could, and had young d’Elbeuf removed, who had thrown himself upon his uncle’s body frantic with grief, and would not be dragged from it without violence. A cloak was immediately thrown over the body, and it was placed by the side of a hedge, where they kept watch over it in silence till a carriage could be sent for to carry it to his tent; there it was met by M. de Lorges, M. de Roye, and several others, who were ready to expire with grief; but they were obliged to restrain themselves, and think of the important business that had devolved on them. A military service was performed in the camp, where tears and sorrow were the mourning; the officers, however, had each a crape scarf, the drums were covered with the same, they beat only a single stroke, the soldiers marched with their pikes trailing and pieces reversed; but the cries and lamentations of a whole army can not be described without emotion. His two nephews assisted at this mournful ceremony, I leave you to judge in what condition. M. de Roye, though much wounded, would be carried thither. I suppose the poor Chevalier de Grignan was overwhelmed with grief. When the body was removed from the camp, to be brought to Paris, the same scene of grief was renewed, and in every place through which it passed, nothing was heard but lamentations: at Langres, however, they exceeded even this; the bier was met by more than two hundred of the principal inhabitants in mourning, followed by the common people, and all the clergy in sacerdotal habits. In the town a solemn service was performed, and they all voluntarily entered into a contribution toward defraying the expenses, which amounted to five thousand francs; for they conducted the body as far as the next town. What say you to these natural marks of affection, founded on the most extraordinary merit? He is to be brought to St. Denis this evening; the people are all gone to meet the body at a place about two leagues distant, from whence they will conduct it to a chapel, where it is to be deposited for the present; there will be a service performed at St. Denis, till that at Notre-Dame is celebrated, which will be a solemn one. Such was our entertainment at the cardinal’s; we dined, as you may suppose, melancholy enough, and afterward did nothing but sigh till four o’clock. Cardinal de Bouillon mentioned you, and took upon him to answer for you, that, had you been in Paris you would have made one in our sad party; I assured him that you took no small share in his grief. He intends to answer both your letter and M. de Grignan’s; he desired me to say a thousand kind things to you, and so did the worthy d’Elbeuf, who, as well as her son, has lost every thing. It was a good idea to undertake thus to tell you what you know already as well as myself; but these originals struck me, and I was glad to show you in what way we forget M. de Turenne in this part of the world.

M. de la Garde told me the other day, that in the enthusiasm of the wonders which were related of the Chevalier de Grignan, he had advised his brothers[120] to bestir themselves on the occasion, to support his interest at least for the present year; and that he found them both very well disposed to do extraordinary things. This good La Garde is at Fontainebleau, from whence he is to return in three days, to set out at last; for he longs to be gone, though courtiers in general seem to be very leaden-heeled. The situation of poor Madame de Sanzei is really deplorable; we know nothing yet respecting her husband; he is neither dead nor alive, wounded nor prisoner. His people do not take the least notice of him in their letters. M. de la Trousse, after having mentioned the report of his being killed (this was the day of the action), has never since mentioned a syllable about him, either to Madame de Sanzei or to Coulanges,[121] so that we are quite at a loss what to say to this distracted woman; and yet it is cruel to let her remain in this state of uncertainty; for my part, I am persuaded her husband is killed; the dust and blood must probably disfigure him so much as not to be known again, and he has been stripped with the rest of the slain. Or he was perhaps killed at a distance from any of the rest; or by the country-people on the road, and thrown into a hedge. I think it is more probable that he has met with some such melancholy fate, than that he has been taken prisoner without a word having been heard respecting him.

And now, my dear, I must tell you that the abbé thinks my journey so necessary, that I no longer oppose it; I shall not have him always with me, and therefore I ought to take advantage of his good intentions toward me. It will be only a trip of two months, for the good abbé is not the least disposed to pass the winter there. He expresses himself very sincerely on the subject, and you know I am always the dupe of every thing that has the appearance of sincerity; so much the worse for those who deceive me. I conceive that it would be very dull there in the winter; long evenings may be compared to long marches for tediousness. I was not dull the winter you were with me; you, who are young, might have felt so, but do you remember our readings? It is true, that if every thing had been taken away that surrounded the table, and even the book too, it is impossible to tell what would have become of me. Providence will arrange every thing. I treasure up all your sayings; we get out of our dullness as we do out of bad roads; we see no one stop short in the middle of a month, because he has not the courage to go through it; it is like dying, we see no one who does not know how to keep out of this dilemma; there are parts in your letters which I neither can nor will forget. Are my friends Corbinelli and M. de Vardes with you? I hope they are. In that case, I dare say, there has been no deficiency of conversation among you; you have talked incessantly of the state of affairs, of the death of M. de Turenne, and are at a loss to guess what will be the consequences of it; in fact, you are just like ourselves, though you are in Provence. M. de Barillon supped here last night. The conversation turned upon M. de Turenne, and the universal grief occasioned by his loss; he entered largely into his virtues, his love of truth, his love of virtue for its own sake, and his reward in the practice of it; he finished this eulogium with adding, that no one could love and esteem M. de Turenne without being the better for it. His company and conversation inspired such hatred of deceit and double-dealing, as raised his friends above the generality of mankind. In this number the chevalier was particularly distinguished as one for whom this great man showed more than common esteem and affection, and who, on his side, was one of his greatest admirers. We shall never see his equal in any age: I do not think we are quite blind in the present day, at least those I meet are not so, and this perhaps is boasting that I keep good company. But I must tell you one word more of M. de Turenne, which I heard yesterday. You know Pertuis well, and his adoration and attachment to M. de Turenne; as soon as he heard of his death, he wrote his majesty the following note: “Sire, I have lost M. de Turenne; I feel my heart unable to support this blow; and being incapable of serving your majesty as I ought to do, I humbly request your permission to resign my government of Courtrai.” Cardinal de Bouillon prevented the letter from being given to the king; but, fearing he might come in person, he informed his majesty of the effect Pertuis’ grief had on him. The king appeared to enter with great goodness and indulgence into his sentiments, and told Cardinal de Bouillon that he esteemed Pertuis the more for this mark of attachment to his friend and benefactor,[122] and that he thought him too honest a man not to discharge his duty in whatever situation he was in. This is a specimen of grief for this hero. He had a patrimony of 40,000 livres a year; and M. Boucherat says, that after all his debts, and the several legacies he has bequeathed, are paid, there will not remain more than 10,000. These are the vast treasures he had amassed during a service of fifty years! Adieu, my dearest child, I embrace you a thousand times, and with inexpressible tenderness.

LETTER XLVIII.

Tuesday, September 17, 1675.

Here is an odd date for you:

I think I might add,

for the water is so very low, and we are so often aground, that I heartily wish for my carriage again, but that is out of reach for some time. The water becomes dull when one is alone. A Count des Chapelles and a Mademoiselle de Sévigné are wanting to enliven the scene. In short, it is mere folly to take a boat at Orléans, or even at Paris; but it is the fashion, as it is at Chartres to buy chaplets. I told you I saw the Abbé d’Effiat at his noble mansion. I wrote to you from Tours; from thence we went to Saumur, where we saw Vineuil, and wept again over M. de Turenne. He seems greatly affected with his loss; you will pity him when I tell you he is in a place where no one ever saw this hero. Vineuil is grown very old, very phthisicky, very driveling, and very devout; but he is still witty. He sends you a thousand and a thousand compliments. It is thirty leagues from Saumur to Nantes; we determined to go there in two days, and to get into Nantes this day. With this view we were upon the water some part of the night, but fortunately we ran aground about two hundred yards from the place where we were to go ashore to sleep, and could not get out of the boat, so we put back and landed at another place, and, following the barking of a dog, we got, about midnight, to a little hut, but the most wretched place you can possibly conceive; there we found two or three old women spinning, and some fresh straw, upon which we all lay down without taking off our clothes. I should have laughed heartily at this scene, had it not been for thinking of our poor abbé, whom I was vexed to have exposed to such a fatiguing journey. At daybreak we re-embarked, but were again so completely stranded, that it was above an hour before we could get afloat again; however, we were resolved to get to Nantes, though against both wind and tide. We were forced to row all the way. When we got there, I received your letters, and as I find the post must pass through Ingrande, I shall leave this little note by the way. I am very well, and only want somebody to chat with. I shall write to you from Nantes, as you may suppose. I am very impatient to hear from you, and about M. de Luxembourg and his army, for my head has been in a sack these nine days. The History of the Crusades is very amusing, particularly to those who have read Tasso, and who see their old friends again in prose and in history, but with respect to the author’s style, I am his very humble servant. The Life of Origen is divine.[125]

LETTER XLIX.

The Rocks, Sunday, Oct. 20, 1675.

I can not sufficiently admire the diligence and fidelity of the post. I received on the 18th your letter of the 9th, that is, in nine days only after date, which is all that can be desired. But, my dear, we must soon put an end to our admirations; for, as you say, you are going still further off, that we may both be exactly in the spot which Providence has assigned us. For my part, God knows, I acquit myself very ill in my residence; but you, heavens! M. d’Angers (H. Arnauld) can not do more. When I think, however, of our separation, and how much I deserve to enjoy the pleasure of being with you, and of all your affection for me, and then reflect that we are placed at two different ends of the globe, you must excuse me if I can not view this part of our history with gayety of heart. Common sense opposes it, and my infinite love still more. I have nothing to do but take refuge in submission to the will of Providence. I am very glad you have seen M. de la Garde; he does me great honor in approving my turn of mind: he is a very good judge. I am sorry you are going to lose him so soon, for he is really a worthy man. Your conversations must have been endless. So he is to take the archbishop away to La Garde. It was very well said of him, that he was like a river which fertilized and made every country flourish through which it passed. I find he did wonders at Grignan.

M. de Chaulnes is at Rennes with four thousand men; he has removed the parliament to Vannes, which has occasioned a terrible desolation. The ruin of Rennes brings with it that of the whole province. Madame de Marbeuf is at Vitré; she has brought me a thousand compliments from Madame de Chaulnes, and from M. de Vins, who intends paying me a visit. I am not under the least apprehension about these troops on my own account, but I can not help feeling for the despair and desolation our poor province suffers at present. It is supposed we shall not have any assembly of the states here, or if we have, it will be only to buy off the taxes which we gave two million five hundred thousand livres to have taken off only two years ago, and which have been all laid upon our shoulders again; and, perhaps, they may set a price too upon bringing the parliament back to Rennes. M. de Montmoron[126] is fled out of the town, to a seat belonging to one of his friends, at about three leagues distance from hence, that he may avoid hearing the cries and lamentations of the people at seeing their dear parliament removed. You see I am quite a Breton, but, you know, it is owing to the air I breathe, and to something else, for every creature, without distinction, is in affliction throughout the province. Be under no concern about my health, my dearest child; I am extremely well. Madame de Tarente has given me an essence that has cured her of vapors that were worse than mine: two drops are to be taken for fifteen days following, in any beverage that is drunk at table, and it cures effectually. She has told me circumstances of its efficacy, which have all the air of those in the comedy of the Médecin Forcé; but I believe them all, and I would take some of the essence now if it were not that I think it a pity to make use of so admirable a remedy when I have no real occasion for it. I will send you, some time or other, the remainder of the prosperities of the boat. You will make La Plessis too vain, for I shall tell her how much you love her. Except what I told you the other day, I do not think a better creature exists. She is here every day. I have some of your excellent Hungary water in my pocket; I am quite in love with it; it cures all my sorrows; I wish I could send some of it to Rennes.

My woods continue very beautiful still, and the verdure is a hundred times finer than at Livri; I do not know whether this proceeds from the nature of the trees themselves, or from the refreshing rains we have here; but there is certainly no comparison; every thing here looks as green now as in the month of May. The leaves that fall are brown, it is true, but those that remain on the trees are not at all faded; you never observed this beauty in them. As to that blessed tree that saved your life, I am often tempted to build a little chapel there. It seems to carry its head above all the rest, and exceeds them in bulk as well as stature, and with very good reason, for it saved you. I may, at least, repeat to it the stanza of Medor, in Ariosto, in which he wishes happiness and peace to the cave that had given him so much pleasure. Our sentences are not at all disfigured; I visit them frequently. I think they are rather increased, and two trees that are close to each other, often present us with two contrary sentiments, “La lontananza ogni grand piaga salda,”[127] and “Piaga d’amor non si sana mais.”[128] There are five or six thus contradictory. The good princess was charmed with them, as I am with the letter you have written our good abbé, on Jacob’s journey to the land of promise, in your closet.

Madame de Lavardin has informed me of what is still to be kept secret for a few days longer, that D’Olonne is going to marry his brother to Mademoiselle de Noirmoutier. He gives him all his lands in Poitou, besides a great quantity of jewels and furniture. They are at La Ferté-Milon, where this curious affair is to be made up. I never thought D’Olonne would have given himself any concern about his name or family.

LETTER L.

The Rocks, Wednesday, November 6, 1675.

What a delightful letter have you written to me, my dear child! What thanks do I not owe you for employing your hand, your eyes, your head, your time, in composing so agreeable a volume! I have read it over and over, and shall read it again with pleasure and attention. I can read nothing that is more interesting; you satisfy my curiosity in every thing I wish. I admire your care in giving me such punctual answers. This makes a conversation perfect, regular, and extremely entertaining. But I must beg you not to destroy yourself; this fear makes me renounce the pleasure of having frequently such entertainments. You can not doubt my generosity in sparing you the fatigue of immoderate writing.

I comprehend with pleasure the high esteem that is paid to M. de Grignan in Provence, after what I have seen of it. This is a pleasure you are scarcely sensible of; you are too much accustomed to be loved and honored in a province where you command. If you saw the horror, the detestation, the hatred, that the people have here for their governor, you would feel more than you do the pleasure of being adored every where. What affronts! what injuries! what menaces! what reproaches! the very stones fly round him. I do not believe M. de Grignan would accept this post upon such conditions.

You mention to me the paper you have signed so heroically in favor of M. de Grignan.[129] You say you had no doubt which way the honorable sentiments of Cardinal de Retz[130] inclined. I do not say any thing of mine; it was enough that you could discern what his counsels tended to. In certain delicate affairs, we do not presume directly to advise, but we represent the case; the common friends of both do what is proper, that there may be no jarring opposition in the interest of those they love. But with a soul so perfectly generous and good as yours, we consult only ourselves, and act precisely as you have done. Have you not seen how much you have been admired? Are you not pleased that you owe to none but yourself so noble a resolution? You would have done nothing blamable, if you had refused to sign—you would only have acted like the rest of the world; but by consenting to it, you have exceeded all the world. In a word, my child, enjoy the beauty of your own action, and do not think meanly of us for not having prompted you to it. On a similar occasion, we should perhaps have acted as you have done, and you would have advised as we did; it is all well, I am very much pleased that M. de Grignan is so good as to recompense this mark of your friendship and affection by a greater attention to his affairs. The prudence you commend him for, is the truest mark of his gratitude you could have wished.

LETTER LI.

The Rocks, Sunday, December 1, 1675.

Well, my dear, it seems now settled that I am to receive two of your packets together, and miss one post; you should see the faces I make, and how I receive it in comparison with those that come regularly. I am of your opinion, my child, and would give a great deal to be as easy about answering letters as the coadjutor is, and keep them in my pocket for a month or two without troubling my head about them. Well, it is a gift from heaven certainly, this happy indifference! Madame de Langeron used to say of visits, and I apply it to every thing: “What I do fatigues me, and what I omit to do vexes me.” I think this is very well said, and I feel it sensibly. I am always exact, however, in my answers. It is with pleasure I give you the top of the basket; that is, you have the very flower of my mind, my head, my eyes, my pen, my desk—the rest fare as they can. I have as much amusement in chatting to you, as labor and fatigue in writing to others. I am perfectly stunned with the great news that abounds in Europe.

I suppose the coadjutor has shown Madame de Fontevraud the letter he received from you. You are ignorant of its value. You write like an angel; I read your letters with admiration. You no sooner set out than you reach the goal. Do you remember the minuet which you danced so well, and closed in such excellent time, when the other creatures were not at the end of theirs till the next day? The late madame and yourself were famous for this; we used to call it gaining ground. Your letters are just the same.

As for your poor little frater, I know not where he has hid himself; it is three weeks now since I had a line from him. He made no mention of the pretty airing upon the Meuse, though every body believes it here; his fortune is really very hard, poor lad. I do not see how he can manage the affair of his promotion, unless Lauzun will take the guidonage in part of payment, with some other little additions we will endeavor to raise; but to buy the ensign’s place, and have the guidonage left upon our hands, will never do. Your reasoning upon the matter is very just; we all acquiesce in it, and shall be very well contented to mount after the other two,[131] provided the guidon serves as the first step.

I shall finish the year here very peaceably. There are times when all places are indifferent, and a solitude like this not unpleasant. Madame de la Fayette returns you all your civilities; she has very bad health, and poor M. de Limoges still worse; he has resigned all his benefices to the king; I fancy his son, the Abbé de la Fayette, will have one of his abbeys. Poor Gascony has been as roughly handled as we have been. We have six thousand troops sent down to pass the winter among us: if it were not for the misconduct of the provinces, I do not know how they would be able to dispose of their troops. I can not think peace is so near: do you remember all our reasoning upon the subject of war, and how many there must be killed? This is always a certain prophecy, and so is that, that your letters can never tire me, long as they may be: ah! you will find no chimera in this hope, they are my choicest reading. Ripert brings you a third volume of the Moral Essays, which are worth your perusal. I never met with greater energy than there is in the style of these writers: they make use of no words but what are in common use, and yet they appear perfectly new, by the elegant manner in which they dispose them. In the morning I read the history of France; in the afternoon, some serious subjects in my woods; such as the Essays, the Life of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, which I think delightful, or the Iconoclastes; and in the evening, things of a lighter nature: this is my constant rule. I hope you continue to read Josephus; take courage, my dear, and go on boldly to the end. If you read the history of the Crusades, you will meet with two illustrious men who were your ancestors, but not a word about the great family of V***, that holds its head so high at present: but I am persuaded there are some passages which will make you throw aside the book, and curse the Jesuit;[132] and yet upon the whole it is an admirable history.

LETTER LII.

The Rocks, Wednesday, Dec. 11, 1675.

A little patience, my dear child, brings us to the accomplishment of our wishes: I have received the two packets of letters from you that I should have received before; but they are come at last, and you will do me no more than justice to believe that I am highly delighted to have them. I thank you that notwithstanding all your philosophy, you enter into all my melancholy reflections on the immense distance that separates us; you sympathize with me; you seem afflicted as well as myself with this disposition of Providence; but you encounter it with more courage than I do, who always feel from it some new increase of sorrow. I am continually meditating on the past, for which the present and the future can never make me amends. It is an ample field in which to exercise a heart so tender and ill-defended as mine. I can not but admire those good ladies who make a duty of their inclination; there is La Troche for instance, who has so well turned and wound her good fortune, that she is at length settled at her ease in the good city of Paris, making it the seat of her empire and the field of all her operations. She has fixed her son at court, in spite of wind and tide, and makes it her business to be always near him. As for Marbeuf, she had begun, even in her husband’s time, and now lays no restraint upon herself; she has taken a lease of a house in Paris for a hundred years, and most humbly takes her leave of poor Brittany: while you, my dear child, who were born and bred in this country, you whom I have always so fondly loved, and so ardently wished to have forever with me, are driven to the furthest end of the world by the storms of adverse fortune; but, if I mean to put an end to my letter, I must pass lightly over these reflections, and resume my courage in the flattering hope of a change: d’Hacqueville and I indulge some pleasing dreams of that kind; but this is not a time to communicate them to you. Let us return to the miseries of this poor province.

Every place is full of warriors; there are to be some at Vitré, notwithstanding the princess is there. Monsieur, when he writes to her, styles her his good aunt; his dear aunt; but I do not find that she is better treated than others. There are to be troops at Guerche, the estate of the Marquis de Villeroi; and from thence they are to spread themselves among the country people, to rob and strip them. This is a heavy disaster upon poor Brittany, that never experienced any thing of the kind before. Our governor has received a power to grant a general amnesty, which he disperses with one hand, and with the other lets loose eight thousand soldiers, over whom he has as much command as you have: they have all their orders. M. de Pommereuil is expected here every day; he has the inspection of this little army, and may very soon boast a fine government. He is the best and wisest of the robe; he is my friend; but I doubt whether he will be as tractable as your intendant, whom you manage so excellently; I am afraid he will be changed. I can give you no information to-day respecting Languedoc; in the mean time content yourself with some from Guienne; I find they are well protected, and have procured a considerable mitigation of their burden. Alas! we are not so happy; our protections, if we had any, would do us more harm than good, by the animosity against us of two individuals. I believe we may still find, or at least promise to find, the three millions demanded of us, without ruining our friend;[133] for he is so beloved by the states, that they would do any thing rather than he should suffer. And this, I think, is enough upon the subject.

I am rejoiced that you are not returned to Grignan; it would have been only an additional fatigue and expense to you. Prudence and economy, for which the good abbé desires me to thank you, have rendered that step unnecessary. Let me know if the dear little ones are to come to you. We have most delightful weather here, and we are making some new walks, which will be very beautiful. My son is very good, and helps to amuse us; he enters into the spirit of the place, and has brought no more of the warrior or of the courtier with him into this retreat, than is sufficient to enliven conversation. When it does not rain we are not so much to be pitied as at a distance it may be supposed; the time we have fixed to spend here will pass like the rest.

My letter has not been given to Louvois; the whole affair is negotiating between Lauzun and myself; if he will take the guidonage, we have offered to make a small addition to it; if he resolves to sell his post outright, which would be very unreasonable, he must look for a purchaser on his side, as we shall on ours; that is all. I have written to the chevalier to condole with him on our not having met at Paris; we should have made curious lamentations together on our last year’s party, and should have renewed our tears for the loss of M. de Turenne. I know not what idea you have of our princess; I assure you she is no Artemisia;[134] her heart is like wax, it easily takes impression; she makes a boast of it, and says pleasantly enough that she has a ridiculous heart; this is spoken in general terms, but the world is rather more particular in its applications. I am in hopes I shall be able to keep this folly within bounds, by the frequent speeches I make (as if I intended nothing by them) on the detestable light in which those women are held, who give too great a rein to their passions, and how much they subject themselves thereby to contempt. I talk miraculously sometimes; I am heard and approved as much as can be expected. Indeed, I consider it quite a duty to talk thus; and should think it an honor to be instrumental in working a reformation.

I am tired to death with the barrenness of news; we stand in great need of some event, as you say, let it be at whose expense it will; as long as we have no more Turennes to lose, vogue la galère. You tell me extraordinary things; I read them, admire them, believe them, and then you send me word they are not true; I well know the style and braggart of the provinces. You judge superficially of our governor, when you say you should have acted as he did, had you been in his place; I know you would not; neither did the king’s service require it. Ah! what is become of the excellent understanding you had last winter? This is no time to think of deputations; let us see peace restored, and then we shall have time to think of every thing.

As to the religion of the Jews, I said, when reading their history, that “if God had given me grace to have been born a Jew,”[135] I should have liked it better than any other except the true religion. I admire its magnificence; but you must admire it still more, on account of its year of rest, and of dressing-gowns, which would have given you an opportunity of being a shining example of piety in your elbow-chair; never would sabbath have been better kept. Ripert has received the Moral Essays; they contain several treatises, and among the rest one that is particularly pleasing; you will guess which I mean. I am delighted with your good health and beauty, for I love you truly. I often wish for you in these woods, the air of which, as well as that of Livri, is a great preservative to the complexion. Our good abbé praises you highly for your care in discharging your debts; for that, in his estimation, is the law and the prophets; and as M. de Grignan is so prudent, I will embrace him notwithstanding his beard; but do you know that your little brother’s beard has the presumption to rival it? it is to much purpose! Send me word of your success at play. It seems to me as if I saw your little fingers taking out of the pool; but these times are past; good and evil travel on the same road, but they leave different impressions. You have given a great dinner; where was I? for I know all; I see all the magnificence from hence. You express yourself admirably on the marriage of the little prince (De Marsan) and the maréchale; the disproportion is doubtless great, but suppose he should have escaped it! Believe me, you have no need of my letters, you can write delightfully without a theme. But I must reduce myself at last to Solon’s rule, “Nothing is to be praised on this side the grave;” which is a heavy restriction for me, who dearly love to praise what is praise-worthy; besides, who can stay so long? For my part, I shall always go on in my old way: adieu, my ever-lovely and beloved child.

LETTER LIII.

The Rocks, Sunday January 12, 1676.

You may fill your letters with whatever you please, and still be assured that I read them with great pleasure and equal approbation; no one can write better than you do, and it is not my friendship only that leads me to form this opinion.

You delight me by saying you like the Moral Essays; did I not tell you they would suit your taste? As soon as I began to read them, I could think of nothing but of sending them to you; you know I am communicative, and do not like to enjoy a pleasure alone. If this book had been written on purpose for you, it could not have been more calculated to please you. What language! what energy in the arrangement of the words! I think I never read French but in this book. The resemblance of charity to self-love, and of the heroic modesty of M. de Turenne and the prince to Christian humility—but I forbear. This work deserves to be praised from beginning to end, but I should write a strange letter if I were to do so. I am very glad, however, you like it, and I have a better opinion of my own judgment in consequence. You do not admire the life of Josephus; but it is sufficient if you approve his actions and his history. Did you not think him very happy in the cave, where they drew lots who should stab himself the last?

We laughed till we cried at the story of the girl who sung the indecent song, for which she confessed aloud in the church. Nothing can be more novel and amusing. I think she was in the right; the confessor certainly wished to hear the song, for he was not satisfied with the girl’s accusation of herself. I fancy I see him bursting with laughter the first at this adventure. We often send you ridiculous stories, but we can not surpass this. I always talk of Brittany, and it is to encourage you to talk of Provence; it is a country in which I am more interested than in any other. My journey thither takes away all possibility of being tired with what you tell me, because I am acquainted with every body, and understand every thing perfectly. I have not forgotten the beauty of your winters. Our season is very fine here; I walk every day, and have almost made a new park round the waste land at the end of the mall. I am planting four rows of trees there; it will be a great improvement, for all this part is now uniform and cultivated.

But I shall take my departure, in spite of all these charms, in February. The abbé’s affairs are still more urgent than yours, which has prevented me from offering our house to Mademoiselle de Méri; she has complained of this to several persons, I understand, but I know not what reason she has to do so. The worthy is in raptures with your letters; I often show him passages that I know will please him. He thanks you for what you say of the Moral Essays; he was delighted with them himself. The little girl is still with us; she has an active little mind which has never been exercised, and we take pleasure in improving it. She is in perfect ignorance; it is an amusement to us to give her some general knowledge: a few words of this great universe, of empires, countries, kings, religions, and wars, of astronomy and geography. It is pleasant to see the unfolding of all these things in a little head which has never beheld a town or a river, and who thought the whole world extended no further than our park; she amuses us highly. I informed her to-day of the capture of Wismar; she knows we are sorry for it, because the king of Sweden is our ally. Such are our amusements. The princess is delighted that her daughter has taken Wismar; she is a true Dane. She has asked monsieur and madame to exempt her entirely from the soldiery, so that we shall all be safe.

Madame de la Fayette is very grateful for your letter; she thinks you very polite and obliging. But does it not appear strange to you that her brother-in-law is not dead, and that such mistakes should arise at the short distance of Toulon and Aix? Upon the questions you put to the frater I decide boldly, that he who is angry, and shows his anger, is preferable to the deceiver, who conceals his malignity under fair and specious appearances. There is a stanza in Ariosto descriptive of guile.[136] I would transcribe it, but I have not time to look for it. The good D’Hacqueville stills talks to me of the journey of St. Geran, and to prove how short her stay will be, he says she can only receive one of my letters at Palisse. This is how he treats an acquaintance of a week; he is just the same with respect to others, but this is excellent. I forgot to say that I had thought like you of the different ways of painting the human heart, some white and others blacker than black. You know what color mine is of for you.

Orlando Furioso. Canto xiv.

Hoole’s Translation. Book xiv.

LETTER LIV.

(MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ DICTATES—HER SON WRITES.)

The Rocks, Monday, Feb. 3, 1676.

Guess, my dear child, what it is that comes the quickest, and goes off the slowest; that brings you nearest to health, and removes you the furthest from it; that throws you into the most agreeable situation imaginable, and, at the same time, hinders you from enjoying it; that flatters you with the most pleasing hopes, and keeps you the longest from the accomplishment of them. Can not you guess? Do you give it up? Why, it is the rheumatism. I have had it these three and twenty days; since the fourteenth day I have been free from fever and pain, and in this delightful situation, thinking myself strong enough to walk, which is the summit of my wishes, I find myself swelled all over—feet, legs, hands, arms; and this swelling, which they call my cure, and in reality is so, is the sole occasion of my present vexation; were I good for any thing, I might gain myself some credit by it. However, I believe the enemy is conquered, and that in two days I shall be able to walk. Larméchin gives me great hope of this. I every day receive letters from our friends at Paris, congratulating me on my recovery. I have taken M. de Lorme’s opening powders, which have been of great service to me; I am going to take them again; they are a never-failing remedy in these cases. After this attack I am promised an eternal succession of health. God grant it. My first step will be to return to Paris. I desire you, therefore, my dear, to calm all your fears; you see what a faithful account we have given you of the affair; let that make you easy.

LETTER LV.

Paris, Wednesday, April 15, 1676.

I am very melancholy, my dear; my poor boy is just gone; he has so many little social virtues that are the charm of society, that were he only an acquaintance I should regret his loss. He desired me, over and over again, to tell you that he forgot to take notice to you of the story of your Proteus, who was at one time a capuchin, at another time a galley-slave; he was highly amused at it. It is supposed we are going to undertake the siege of Cambray; this is so extraordinary a step, that every one thinks we have had intelligence with some one in the place. If we lose Philipsburg, it will be very difficult to repair the breach: vederemo, we shall see. But still we reason and make almanacs, all of which end with, the king’s star will prevail.

At length Marshal Bellefond has cut the thread that tied him here. Sanguin has purchased his place[137] for 55,000 livres, and a brevet de retenue of 350,000. This is a fine settlement, and an assurance of a cordon bleu.[138] M. de Pomponne has paid me a very cordial visit; all your friends have exerted themselves wonderfully. I do not go out yet. The cold winds retard the cure of my hands, and yet I write better than I did, as you may see. I turn myself at night on my left side; I eat with my left hand: these are left hand performances. My face is very little altered; you would soon discover that you have seen it somewhere before; it is because I have not been bled, and have endeavored to get cured of my illness without such remedies. I thank you for mentioning the pigeons to me. Where has the little one acquired this timidity? I am afraid you will throw the blame upon me: you cast a suspicious eye toward me. This humor will, I dare say, pass off, and you will not be obliged to make a monk of him. I am resolved to go to Vichi; they have set me against Bourbon on account of the air. The Maréchale d’Estrées wishes me to go to Vichi; she says it is a delightful country. I have told you what I think of that affair; either resolve to return hither with me, or do not come at all; for a fortnight will only disturb me with constant thoughts of a separation, and will be on the whole a foolish and useless expense. You know how dear the sight of you is to me, so take your own measures.

I wish you had finished the bargain about your estate: M. de Pomponne tells me it is raised to a marquisate. I desired him to make it a dukedom: he assured me it would give him great pleasure to do so, and that he would use all expedition in drawing up the patents. This is a considerable step. I am delighted to hear the pigeons are so well. How does the little tiny, or rather the great fat one do? I love him dearly, for resolving to live against wind and tide. But I can not forget my little girl;[139] I suppose you will determine on putting her to Saint Marie, according to the resolutions you adopt this summer; all depends upon that. You seem satisfied with the devotions of Passion and Easter weeks: you shut yourself up at Grignan. For my part, my thoughts were not affected with any thing. I had no object to strike the senses. I ate meat till Good Friday, and had only the comfort of being very distant from any opportunity of committing sin. I told La Mousse you remembered him, and he advises you to make the most of your man of wit. Adieu, my dear child.

LETTER LVI.

Paris, Wednesday, April 29, 1676.

I must begin by telling you that Condé was taken by storm on Saturday night. The news at first made my heart beat; I feared the victory had cost us dear, but it does not prove so; we have lost some men, but none of any note; this may be reckoned a complete happiness. Larei, the son of M. Lainé, who was killed in Candia, or his brother, is dangerously wounded. You see how soon our old heroes are forgotten.

Madame de Brinvilliers is not so comfortable as I am; she is in prison, and endeavors to pass her time there as pleasantly as she can; she desired yesterday to play at piquet, because she was dull. Her confession has been found; it informs us that at the age of seven years she ceased to be a virgin; that she had ever since gone on at the same rate; that she had poisoned her father, her brothers, one of her children, and herself; but the last was only to make trial of a counter-poison. Medea was a saint compared with her. She has owned this confession to be her own writing; it was an unaccountable folly; but she says she was in a high fever when she wrote it, and that it was an act of madness or frenzy, which does not deserve a serious thought.

The queen has been twice at the Carmelites with Madame de Montespan. The latter set on foot a lottery; she collected every thing that could be useful to the nuns; this was a great novelty and amusement in the convent. She conversed a long time with sister Louise[140] de la Miséricorde, and asked her whether it was really true that she was as happy there as it had been generally reported. She replied, “I am not happy, but I am contented.” Quanto talked to her a great deal of the brother of monsieur; and asked her if she had no message to send him, and what she should say to him for her. She replied in the sweetest tone and manner possible, though perhaps a little piqued at the question; “Whatever you please, madam, whatever you please.” Fancy this to be expressed with all the grace, spirit, and modesty, which you so well understand. Quanto afterward wished for something to eat, and sent to purchase some ingredient that was necessary for a sauce she prepared herself, and which she ate with a wonderful appetite. I tell you the simple fact without the least embellishment. When I think of the letter you wrote me last year about M. de Vivonne, I consider all I send you as a burlesque. To what lengths will not folly lead a man who thinks himself deserving of such exaggerated praise!

LETTER LVII.

Paris, Friday, July 17, 1676.

At length it is all over: La Brinvilliers is in the air; after her execution her poor little body was thrown into a large fire, and her ashes dispersed by the wind, so that whenever we breathe, we shall inhale some particles of her, and by the communication of the minute spirits, we may be all infected with the desire of poisoning, to our no small surprise. She was condemned yesterday; and this morning her sentence was read to her, which was to perform the amende honorable in the church of Notre-Dame; and, after that, to have her head cut off, her body burned, and her ashes thrown into the air. They were for giving her the question, but she told them there was no occasion for that, and that she would confess every thing; accordingly, she was till five o’clock in the evening relating the history of her life, which has been more shocking than was even imagined. She gave poison to her father ten times successively, but without effect, and also to her brother, and several others, at the same time preserving the appearance of the greatest love and confidence. She has said nothing against Penautier. Notwithstanding this confession, they gave her the question, ordinary and extraordinary, the next morning; but this extorted nothing more from her. She desired to speak with the procurator-general: no one yet knows the subject of their conversation. At six o’clock she was carried in a cart, with no other covering than her shift, and with a cord round her neck, to the church of Notre-Dame, to perform the amende honorable; after which, she was put again into the same cart, where I saw her extended on a truss of straw, with a confessor on one side, and the hangman on the other; indeed, my child, the sight made me shudder. Those who saw the execution say she mounted the scaffold with great courage. I was on the bridge of Notre-Dame, with the good d’Escars; never was Paris in such commotion, nor its attention so fixed upon one event. Yet, ask many people what they saw, and they will tell you they saw no more than I did, who was not present; in short, the whole day has been dedicated to this tragedy.

LETTER LVIII.

Livri, Wednesday, Nov. 4, 1676.

Nothing can be more true than the proverb which says, that liberty is destroyed by uncertainty. Were you under any sort of restraint, you would have determined what to do long ago, and not have been like Mohammed’s coffin, suspended between heaven and earth; one of the loadstones would certainly, by this time, have got the better of the other. You would no longer be dragooned, which is a very unpleasant state. The voice you heard, in passing the Durance, exclaim, Ah, mother! mother! would pierce to Grignan: or at least, that which counseled you to leave it, would not haunt you at Briare; for which reason, I maintain that nothing can be more opposite in its nature to liberty than indifference and indecision. Can it be possible that the sage La Garde, who has, it seems, resumed all his wonted wisdom, has likewise lost his free will? is he incapable of advising you? can he be at a loss to decide in this important point? you have seen that I decide like one of the councils. But how is it that La Garde, who is coming to Paris himself, can not contrive that his journey may take place at the same time with yours? If you do come, it would be no bad thought to take the way of Sully; the little duchess would certainly convey you as far as Nemours; at least, you would find some friend or other, from day to day, so that you would have a relay of friends, till you found yourself in your own apartment. You would have met with a better reception last time, but your letter came so late that you took every body by surprise, and had nearly missed me, which would have been a fine circumstance indeed; but we will contrive to keep clear of this inconvenience in future. I can not help praising the chevalier,[141] who arrived in Paris on Friday evening, and dined here on Saturday; was it not very good of him? I was delighted to see him, and I assure you we spoke with great freedom of your scruples. I am now going to take a trip to Paris. I must see M. de Louvois on your brother’s account, who is still here without leave, which vexes me not a little. I want to talk to M. Colbert likewise, about your pension: these two visits are all I have to make. I have some thoughts of going to Versailles, but will acquaint you whether I do so or not. In the mean time, we have the finest weather imaginable; the country has yet put on none of its horrors, and St. Hubert has favored the hunter extremely.

We are still reading Saint Augustine with pleasure: there is something so great and noble in his ideas, that all the mischief that weak minds can possibly receive from his doctrine, falls infinitely short of the good which others may derive from the perusal. You will imagine I give myself airs of a learned lady; but when you see in what a familiar style this is written, you will cease to wonder at my capacity. You tell me that if you did not love me a great deal more than you say, you should love me very little: I am strangely tempted to scold you for this, even though I should risk the saying an unkind or an uncivil thing: but no; I am fully persuaded you love me; and God knows much better than it is possible for you to do, what a strong affection I entertain for you. I am glad to hear Pauline is like me, she will serve to put you in mind of me. “Ah! mother, there is no need of that.”

LETTER LIX.

Livri, Friday, Nov. 6, 1676.

Surely there never was so brilliant a letter as your last; I had some thoughts of sending it back, that you might have the pleasure of perusing it. I could not help wondering while I read it, how it was possible to wish so ardently to receive no more. This, however, is the affront I put on your letters: you seem to treat mine much more civilly.

This Reimond is certainly hem! hem! with the head-dress you know so well; she has dressed in this style, as you properly observe, that she might seem qualified to hear the music of the blessed above; and our sisters have done the same from the wish of obtaining a fund of seven thousand livres, with a pension of a thousand, by which she is enabled[142] “to go abroad when she likes, and she likes it very often.” We have never had such merchandize before; but the beauty of our house causes us to overlook every thing; for my own part, I am quite delighted with it: for in my opinion both her apartments and her voice are divine, hem, hem.

The dates you mention in speaking of Madame de Soubise, are, thank God, among those which have escaped my memory. Some marked incivility must certainly have been shown during the festivities at Versailles. Madame de Coulanges informs me that the tooth has disappeared since the day before yesterday; in that case, you will conclude they can have no tooth against her. You are very amusing upon my friend’s[143] illness, and at the same time it is all true. The quartan ague of our friend of the suburbs,[144] is happily at an end. I have sent your letter to the chevalier,[145] without apprehension or reproof. I love him sincerely; and as for my pigeon, I wish I could give him a kiss; I have some idea in my head, I know not how truly, that leads me to think I shall one day or other see all these little folks. I can not understand the eight months’ child; pray is she likely to live a century? I fancy the gentlemen that fought it out so bravely in the streets, are in a fair way to live as long. It would really be a very pretty and just punishment for a battle in the midst of summer. Adieu, my dear lovely child, I shall finish this in the good city of Paris.

Friday, at Paris.

So! here I am. I have been dining at the worthy Bagnol’s, where I found Madame de Coulanges in this charming apartment, embellished with the golden rays of the sun, where I have often seen you, almost as beautiful and as brilliant as he. The poor convalescent gave me a hearty welcome, and is now going to write two lines to you; it is, for aught I know, something from the other world, which I am sure you will be very glad to hear. She has been giving me an account of a new dress called transparencies. Pray, have you heard of it? It is an entire suit of the finest gold and azure brocade that can be seen, over which is a black robe, either of beautiful English lace, or velvet chenille like the winter laces you have seen; this occasions the name of transparency, which is, you see, a black suit, and a suit of gold and azure, or any other color, according to the fancy of the wearer, as is all the fashion at present. This was the dress worn at the ball on St. Hubert’s day, which lasted a whole half-hour, for nobody would dance. The king pushed Madame d’Heudicourt into the middle of the room by main force; she obeyed, but at length the combat ended for want of combatants. The fine embroidered boddices destined for Villers-Côterets serve to walk out on an evening, and were worn on St. Hubert’s day. The prince informed the ladies at Chantilly, that their transparencies would be a thousand times more beautiful if they would wear them next their skin, which I very much doubt. The Granceis and Monacos did not share in the amusements, because the mother of the latter is ill, and the mother of the angels has been at death’s door. It is said, the Marchioness de la Ferté has been in labor there, ever since Sunday, and that Bouchet is at his wit’s end.

M. de Langlée has made Madame de Montespan a present of a robe of gold cloth, on a gold ground, with a double gold border embroidered and worked with gold, so that it makes the finest gold stuff ever imagined by the wit of man. It was contrived by fairies in secret, for no living wight could have conceived any thing so beautiful. The manner of presenting it was equally mysterious. Madame de Montespan’s mantua-maker carried home the suit she had bespoke, having made it to fit ill on purpose; you need not be told what exclamations and scoldings there were upon the occasion. “Madam,” said the mantua-maker, trembling with fear, “as there is so little time to alter it in, will you have the goodness to try whether this other dress may not fit you better?” It was produced. “Ah!” cried the lady, “how beautiful! What an elegant stuff is this? Pray, where did you get? It must have fallen from the clouds, for a mortal could never have executed any thing like it.” The dress was tried on; it fitted to a hair. In came the king. “It was made for you, madam,” said the mantua-maker. Immediately it was concluded that it must be a present from some one; but from whom? was the question. “It is Langlée,” said the king. “It must be Langlée,” said Madame de Montespan; “nobody but Langlée could have thought of so magnificent a present—it is Langlée, it is Langlée!” Every body exclaims, “It is Langlée, it is Langlée!” The echoes repeat the sound. And I, my child, to be in the fashion, say, “It is Langlée.”

LETTER LX.

Paris, Wednesday, June 30, 1677.

At length you inform me that you are arrived at Grignan. The pains you have taken to keep our correspondence uninterrupted, is a continual mark of your affection. I can assure you that you are not mistaken in the opinion that I stand in need of this support; indeed no one can be more in want of it. It is true, however, and I too often think so, that your presence would have been of much greater service to me; but your situation was so extraordinary, that the same considerations that determined you to go, made me consent to your departure, without doing any thing more than stifle my sentiments. It was considered a crime in me to discover any uneasiness with regard to your health. I saw you perishing before my eyes, and was not permitted to shed a tear. It was killing you, it was assassinating you; I was compelled to suppress my grief. I never knew a more cruel or more unprecedented species of torture. If, instead of that restraint, which only increased my affliction, you had owned that you were ill; and if your love for me had been productive of complaisance, and made you evince a real desire to follow the advice of physicians, to take nourishment, to observe a regimen, and to own that repose and the air of Livri would have done you good, this would indeed have comforted me, but your opposition to our sentiments aggravated my grief and anxiety. In the end, my child, we were so circumstanced, that we could not possibly avoid acting as we did. God explained to us his will by that conduct; but we should endeavor to see whether he will not permit us mutually to reform, and whether, instead of that despair to which you condemned me from a motive of affection, it would not be more natural and more beneficial to give our hearts the liberty they require, and without which it is impossible for us to lead a life of tranquillity. Thus I have declared my mind to you freely once for all. I shall mention the subject no more, but let us each reflect upon the past, that, whenever it pleases God to bring us together again, we may carefully avoid falling into the same errors. The relief which you have found in the fatigues of so long a journey, sufficiently proves the necessity you are under of laying aside restraint. Extraordinary remedies are necessary for persons of an extraordinary character; physicians would never have dreamed of such a one as that I have just mentioned. God grant it may continue to produce the same good effect, and that the air of Grignan may not prove injurious to you! I could not avoid writing to you in this manner, in order to relieve my heart, and intimate to you that we must endeavor, when next we meet, not to give any one an opportunity of paying us the wretched compliment of saying very civilly, that to keep quite well, we should never see one another again. I am astonished at the patience that can bear so cruel a thought.

You brought the tears into my eyes in speaking of your little boy. Alas, poor child; who can bear to see him in such a situation! I do not retract what I always thought of him; but am of opinion that, even from affection, we ought to wish him already in a happier world. Paulina appears to me worthy of being made your play-thing; her resemblance even will not displease you, at least, I hope it will not. That little quadrangular nose is a feature you can not possibly dislike to find at Grignan.[146] It seems to me somewhat odd that the noses of the Grignan family should admit no shape but this, and should be altogether averse to a nose like yours, which might have been sooner formed; but they dreaded extremes, though they did not care about a trifling modification. The little marquis is a very pretty fellow; you should not be at all uneasy at his not being altered for the better. Talk to me a great deal about the persons you associate with, and the amusements they afford you.

LETTER LXI.

Livri, Saturday, July 3, 1677.

Alas, how grieved I am at the death of your poor child![147] it is impossible not be affected at it. Not that I was ever of opinion he could live; the description you gave convinced me that his case was desperate. But, it is a great loss to you, who had lost two boys before: God preserve to you the only one that remains! He discovers an admirable disposition; I am much better pleased with sound sense and just reasoning, at his age, than with the vivacity of those who turn out fools at twenty. Be satisfied with him, therefore; lead him like a horse that has a tender mouth, and remember what I told you respecting his bashfulness; this advice comes from persons much wiser than myself; and I am sure it is good. With regard to Paulina, I have one word to say to you; from your description of her she may, perhaps, in time, become as handsome as yourself; when a child, you were exactly like her. God grant she may not resemble me in having a heart so susceptible of tenderness! I see plainly that you love her, that she is amiable, and that she amuses you. I wish I could embrace her, and recognize that face again which I have seen somewhere.

LETTER LXII.

Livri, Friday, July 16, 1677.

I wish, my dear child, that you had a tutor for your son; it is a pity his mind should be left uncultivated. I doubt whether he is yet of an age to eat all sorts of food promiscuously; we should examine whether children are strong and robust, before we give them strong meats; otherwise we run the hazard of injuring their stomachs, which is of great consequence. My son stays behind to take leave of his friends; he will then come to me here; he must afterward join the army, and after that he may go and drink the waters. An officer, named M. D****, has lately been cashiered for absenting himself; I know the answer you will make, but this instance sufficiently shows the severity of military discipline. Adieu, my dear child; be comforted for the loss of your son; nobody is to blame concerning him. His death was occasioned by teething, and not by a defluxion upon the lungs; when children have not strength sufficient to force out the teeth at a proper time, they are never able to bear the necessary motion to make them all come at once; I talk learnedly. You know the answer of Sully’s green bed to M. de Coulanges, made by Guillerague; it is droll enough; Madame de Thianges repeated it to the king, who sings it; it was said at first, that he had ruined himself by it; but it is not true, it will perhaps make his fortune. If this discourse does not come from a green mind, it comes from a green head, which is the same, and the color of the thing can not be disputed.

LETTER LXIII.

Livri, Wednesday Evening, July 24, 1677.

Love Paulina, love Paulina, my child! indulge yourself in that amusement; do not destroy your peace of mind by depriving yourself of her; what are you afraid of? You may still send her to a convent for a few years, when you think it necessary. Enjoy maternal affection for a while; it is exquisite when it springs from the heart, and the choice falls upon an amiable object. Dear Paulina! methinks I see her here; she will resemble you, notwithstanding she bears the mark of the workman. It is true, this nose is a strange affair; but it will improve, and I will answer for it, she will be handsome.

Madame de Vins is still here; she is now in my closet, engaged in conversation with D’Hacqueville and my son. His heel is still so bad that he may perhaps go to Bourbon when I go to Vichi. Be under no concern about this journey; and since it is not the will of Heaven that I should enjoy the charms of your society, we must yield obedience to his will; it is a bitter evil, but it must be endured; we are the weakest, and to attempt resistance is vain. I should be too happy if your friendship was clothed in all its realities; it is still extremely dear to me, though divested of the charms and pleasures which your presence and company bestow upon it. My son and I will answer all you have said on the subject of epic poetry. The contempt I know he has for Eneas, makes me apprehensive he will be of your opinion. Yet all the great wits have a taste for every thing written by the ancients.

LETTER LXIV.

Epoisses, Wednesday morning, August 25, 1677.

I have here, my beloved child, received your letter of the 11th, which I expected with so much impatience; I am not used to such delays; it renders my whole journey uncomfortable to be thus disappointed. M. Guitaut does all he can to convince me how extremely glad he is to see me here. All our people are at Bourbilly, where the farmer treated us yesterday with a most plentiful dinner. M. de Guitaut and M. de Trichâteau were there; this gave an air of comfort to the frightful Bourbilly-house. I shall continue here till Sunday, and will write to you once more from this place. There is no sort of constraint in this house, so that I can read, work, or walk out, when I please. My host and I have a great deal of conversation together, and there is hardly a country you can name where we have not been travelers. He tells me a thousand stories of Provence, of the intendant and Vardes, which I was ignorant of till now. He seems very devout; follows good teachers; has a great desire to pay his old debts, and to contract no new ones. This is the first step to be taken when we become acquainted with true religion.