LETTERS TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN[11] FROM 1671 TO 1690. (continued 4)

LETTER LXV.

Vichi, Wednesday evening, Sept. 22, 1677.

I have just received a letter of the 15th. I fancy it has taken a trip to Paris. The chevalier has received one from the handsome abbé, of the same date, which shows me you were well, at least on that day. It is true that if Vardes had mentioned your illness to me, in terms ever so little stronger than those he used, no consideration would have kept me from you; but he managed so well, that I have no food for uneasiness but what is passed by. I conjure you, my beloved child, to send me word of the return of your health and beauty. I can not dispense with this intelligence, nor can I endure the thoughts of your being less handsome at your age. Do not fancy, therefore, that you can reconcile me to your extreme thinness, which is too plain a proof of your ill state of health: mine is as perfect as it can be. I put an end to-morrow to all my business, and take my last medicine. I have drunk the waters sixteen days, have twice used the pump and the hot-bath; but the pump was too much for me, and I am sorry for it, but it made me too hot and giddy; in short, I had no occasion for it, and drinking the waters was sufficient. I set out on Friday for Langlar. My messmates, Termes, Flamarens, and Jussac, will follow me thither. The chevalier will come to see me on Saturday, and will return on Monday to begin the pump. He will be only a week without me. He will receive in my absence a thousand presents from my friends, and is very well satisfied with me. My hands are better; the inconvenience is so very slight, that I shall use no remedy but time. I am perfectly in despair, my child, at the frightful ideas you entertain. Heavens! is it possible, that in my present state of health, I can do you any injury? It is certainly very much against my inclination if I do. I know not whether it is your intention to write me such admirable passages as you are accustomed to do. You could not possibly fail to succeed in such attempt, and I can assure you they would not be suffered to be forgotten: you are not sensible of the brilliancy of what you say, and so much the better. You have some little inclination to divert yourself at the expense of your humble servant, as well as at her stays and head-dress; but you would certainly have fallen in love with me had you seen the fine figure I cut at the well. I have a notion the Hôtel de Carnavalet will suit us better than the other house we heard of, which is so small that not one of your people could possibly have been accommodated there. We shall see what the great D’Hacqueville will do. I tremble lest Madame de l’Islebonne should take it into her head to stay. I am still very uneasy about Corbinelli; he has been very severely handled by his ague, his delirium, and every thing that is frightful. He takes the potable gold; we shall see what effect it produces.[148] I desire you would still talk to me of yourself and your health. Do you use no method to repair the loss of your two bleedings? Good heavens! what a disorder! and what apprehensions must it give to those who love you! Here come the chevalier and the rest of my old companions, with one who certainly plays a better fiddle than Baptiste. We should be delighted to send you and M. de Grignan a chacone and an echo with which he charms us, and with which you would likewise be charmed. You shall hear him this winter.

LETTER LXVI.

Paris, Friday, October 15, 1677.

We have been at Livri for these two days; Madame de Coulanges, who is quite well, doing the honors of the house, and I the company. We had the Abbé Têtu and Corbinelli with us. Mademoiselle de Méri, who was returning from La Trousse, came there too, thinking to spend some days with Madame de Coulanges; but this lady has ended her campaign, and we all returned yesterday to Paris. Mademoiselle de Méri went directly to Madame de Mereuil’s, for her own house was, it seems, in complete disorder; and Madame de Coulanges, the Abbé Têtu and I, paid some visits in the country, like Madame de la Fayette at Saint Maur, and Madame de Schomberg at Rambouillet. I thought of sleeping at Madame de Coulanges’, but for that night only. I returned here to visit the good abbé, who has been bled, and is still much indisposed with his cold; I am sorry I could not help leaving him for this little moment. We live quite in the open air; all my people are as busy as bees in packing up for our removal. I encamped in my own bed-chamber; and am now in that of the worthy, my whole furniture being a little table, on which I now write to you, and that is sufficient. I fancy we shall all be pleased with our Hôtel de Carnavalet. We think it strange not to have seen Termes, though we have been home these nine days. It is easy to guess that he has returned to his college, and that his regent gives him not a moment’s relaxation. I am not at all sorry, as you may very well suppose, and shall not reproach him for it; but ask the chevalier, whether, after the great pleasure he took in talking with me at Vichi, such extreme indifference be not very singular. It would certainly be very indiscreet, if the lady stood in need of being directed, and such conduct would be something to talk of; but it is impossible to do her any injury. I thought he seemed quite delighted at Vichi, on account of the vocation as you say, and to be with a good sort of woman, in full assurance of having no demands made upon him. This repose charmed him; there is sometimes great pleasure in passing from one extreme to another. He was mightily taken with the perpetual gossip of Vichi. You see what the consequence of this has been, at which I am under no sort of concern, but I tell it you as I do a thousand things else. When excess and imprudence are pushed to a certain extreme, I am persuaded they are more injurious to men than women; at least their fortunes are always sure to pay considerably for it. But let us leave Termes under the ferula; there is a good deal to be said of another old ferula,[149] which discovers its severity too much. As for you, my child, you enjoy a real vacation, and make an admirable use of the fine weather; to dine at home in your own house is a very extraordinary affair. You write to me from Rochecourbière—what a pretty place to date from! what a delightful grotto! How amiable you are to remember me at that delightful place, and to be sorry that I am not there to share its pleasures with you! Let us leave Providence to dispose of affairs at his pleasure; we shall see one another again, my love. In the mean time I shall prepare to receive you at Carnavalet, where I shall again have the pleasure of rendering you a thousand little services, which are of no real importance; but I am happy in the opportunity, because you wrote me word the other day, that little attentions were a stronger proof of friendship than any other. It is true, we can not set too high a value upon them; self-love has certainly too large a share in what we do on great occasions. Tender interest is swallowed up in pride; this is an idea of yours which I would not for the world deprive you of, as I find my account in it but too well.

I am, in regard to the loss of Bayard, precisely in the same disposition you guessed I was. Madame de la Fayette is utterly inconsolable. I have presented your compliments to her. She was then living on a milk diet, which she has discontinued on account of its turning acid on her stomach; so that we have lost this sole ground of hope of the recovery of her desperate state of health. That of M. de Maine is certainly far from being good. He is at Versailles, where no one has seen him; they say he walks worse than he did. In short, I really fancy there is something in it.

LETTER LXVII.

Paris, Wednesday, October 27, 1677.

I shall no longer, my child, ask you why. In three words, my horses are thin, my tooth is loose, and my preceptor has got the king’s evil. All this is dreadful. One might well make three grievances of these three answers, and especially of the second. I shall not ask you after this, whether your watch goes right, for you will then tell me it is broken. Paulina answers much better than you do; nothing can be more amusing than the little rogueries she means to be guilty of, when she says she will be a rogue some day or other herself. Ah, how sorry I am that I can not see this dear child! I fancy you will soon console me for this, if you pursue the plan I have laid down to you; you will set out at furthest in a week, and will not receive this letter at Grignan. M. de Coulanges is to set out to-day by the stage-coach for Lyons, where you will find him; he will inform you how delightfully we are accommodated. There was no hesitation in choosing the upper part of the house for you and me, and the lower for M. de Grignan and his daughters; so that all will be perfectly well.

I recommend to all your Grignans, who are so careful of your health, to see that you do not fall into the Rhône, by the cruel pleasure you take in exposing yourself to its greatest dangers. I entreat them to turn cowards, and to land with you. I find, besides, that I shall be very happy to administer to you some of my chicken-broth. The place you desire at my table, you may be assured is yours. The regimen which your Grignans prescribe for you is my ordinary fare. I agree with Grisoni to banish all ragouts.

LETTER LXVIII.

Livri, Wednesday, October 25, 1679.

I am here alone; I was loath to suffer any irksomeness but my own. No company tempts me to begin my winter so soon. If I chose it, I could assume an air of solitude; but after hearing Madame de Brissac say, the other day, that she was wholly engaged in her meditations, and had rather too much of her own company, I am proud to boast that I have passed this whole afternoon in the meadow, in conference with our sheep and cows. I have store of good books, especially Montaigne; what could I desire more, since I can not have you? I have the favor of your last letter at this place. You fancy I am at Paris, sitting in the chimney-corner, and have, no doubt, sitting by your own, received my lamentations on the fatigue of your journey; what a dreadful thing it is to be at such a distance! It is impossible to be more astonished than I was to find you with M. and Madame de Mêmes; I fancied you had been deceived, and that you were to have received them at Livri. They write to me to express how much they are charmed at the reception you have given them: they are very desirous to see me, which is the strongest inducement for my returning so speedily.

You are in the right to suppress Paulina’s modesty; it will be worn out by the time she is fifteen; a premature and ill-timed modesty may have sad consequences. You are in jest, to thank Corbinelli for the compliment he paid your good sense. He merely thinks you superior to others; and when he says so, he says what he thinks, and has no intention to flatter you. He would have said a word or two in my letter, on the compliments you were pleased to make him; but this I intend to wave till my return. M. and Madame de Rohan have not thought of making him a present, out of the two thousand five hundred pistoles they received at the assembly of the States, under the title of the little prince of Leon. Some people have a strange destiny; Corbinelli’s seems to be to hold in the most sovereign contempt what other folks prize in the highest degree. It is true, I was very much amused with his conversation, and that of the Abbé de Piles;[150] they agreed in many things, though there were some of harder digestion, which they seemed to chew upon. M. de Rochefoucault calls this eating hot peas: I am sure they had a good dish of them; for this forest is adapted for such things. The fat abbé has entered on his office of gazetteer, so you need be under no uneasiness about answers; he is better calculated for the office than I am.

Your brother is a strange creature; he could not, for the soul of him, help spoiling all the wonders he performed at the assembly of the States, by an absurd fancy and a pretense of being in love perfectly ridiculous. The object is a Mademoiselle de la Coste, upward of thirty years of age, without fortune or beauty; even her father says he is very sorry for it, and that it is by no means a fit match for M. de Sévigné; he writes me so himself; I commend and thank him for his prudence. What do you suppose your brother has done since? he has never quitted his damsel, but has followed her to Rennes and Lower Brittany, where she has gone under pretense of visiting Tonquedec; he has almost turned her brain, and has put her out of conceit with a very proper match she had in some degree contracted; it is the talk of the whole province. M de Coulanges, and all my friends in Brittany, write to me about it, and are all persuaded he will certainly marry her. For my own part, I am convinced of the contrary; but I ask him why he so unnecessarily disgraces his poor head, after such a promising commencement? why he makes the lady reject an offer she now looks upon with the most sovereign contempt? and why this perfidy? If it is not perfidy, it will have some other name, since I am determined, let what will happen, never to sign the marriage-contract. If he be really in love, so much the worse, for this is a source of the most extravagant actions; but as I think him incapable of that passion, I should scruple, were I in his place, thus wantonly to wound the repose and the fortune of one he can so easily dispense with. He is now at the Rocks, from whence he writes to me about this journey to Tonquedec’s, but not a syllable of his Dulcinea, or of this noble flame. Only in general terms, a great many fine things, and compliments without number. In short, it is an affair I leave entirely to the disposal of Providence.

LETTER LXIX.

Paris, Friday, Nov. 10, 1679.

I am no longer a shepherdess, my poor child; I have left with regret my solitary conversation with your letters, and your image, aided by Louison, our cows and sheep, and the twilight, which I embraced with eagerness, because I would neither spare nor flatter myself. I am now in the refinements of the Hôtel de Carnavalet, where I find I am not less occupied with you, that your letters are not less dear to me, or that any thing in the world is capable of driving you from my thoughts. I shall have little news to tell you; I know scarcely any at present; but what I hear comes from good authority, and may be depended on. You assure me, my dearest child, you are perfectly well. God grant it be so; this is soon said. I wish you would not write me such long letters; I am certain they do you harm. Were it not for this consideration, you may believe I should be glad they were as long as possible; but this apprehension damps all the pleasure I receive from them. Du Chêne told me the other day nothing could be worse for you than much writing. The time must come, my child, when you will write less; and when you are here, you must think of your health, and your recovery. We will take care to put the Hôtel de Carnavalet in as good order as possible for you. The good abbé wishes this as much as I do. Pray, write me no more bad accounts of yourself, nor imagine that your letters are better than your conversation; I should be unworthy of your love were I capable of entertaining such a thought. I am convinced of your affection, and I have as much relish for your society as those who are most delighted with your conversation. Ah! did you know the power of a word, a look, a kind expression, or a caress from you, and from what distant countries one of these could bring me, you would be convinced, my beauty, that nothing is equal to your presence! The account of your devotion on All-Saints’ day has affected me strangely. It was delightful to cram all your little ones into the same litter—dear little party! Had I been of your council, I should have given my vote for doing just as you did, as you will see by my advice to Paulina, in the regular answer I have written her. Lovely child! it is impossible she can ever tire you. Enjoy, my love, all these little comforts, and instead of thinking of depriving yourself of them, think of the numberless evils of this mortal and transitory life.

I finish this letter at Mademoiselle de Méri’s, where I also close my packet. She is quite exhausted with the vapors and evacuations, and is incapable of writing a single syllable; she tells you by me all she should write to you if she were able. I have been just visiting that poor chevalier who keeps his bed with pains in his neck and hip. This rheumatic humor never leaves him; I have more compassion than other people for this disorder. I am of opinion his illness will not be of long continuance. He feels the serosities already beginning to dissipate. He wants a good pumping, if the season permitted it. He gave me his letter to inclose in my packet; these poor sick people must be taken care of; all the rest of Paris is ill of a cold:

Ils ne mouraient pas tous; mais tous étaient frappés.

They died not all; though none escaped a wound:[151]

as you used to say. Adieu, my dear girl! I embrace you with the warmest affection, with all your great and little party.

LETTER LXX.

Paris, Wednesday, Nov. 22, 1679.

What I am going to tell you, my dear child, will both surprise and vex you. M. de Pomponne is out of favor; he had orders on Saturday evening, as he was returning from Pomponne, to resign his office. The king has directed that he should receive seven hundred thousand livres, and that his pension of twenty thousand livres a year, which he had as minister, should be continued to him; intending, by this, to show that he was satisfied with his fidelity. It was M. Colbert who gave him his information, assuring him at the same time that he was extremely mortified to be obliged, etc. M. de Pomponne asked him whether he might not be allowed the honor of speaking to the king, to learn from his own mouth what fault he had committed that brought this stroke upon him: he was told, he could not; so he wrote to the king, expressing his extreme sorrow, and his utter ignorance of what could have contributed to his disgrace. He mentioned his numerous family, and besought him to have compassion on his eight children. Immediately after, he caused the horses to be put into his carriage, and returned to Paris, where he arrived at twelve at night. M. de Chaulnes, Caumartin, and I, had been, as I wrote you, on the Friday at Pomponne, where we found him and the ladies, who received us with all the pleasure imaginable. We chatted all the evening, and played at chess: ah! what a checkmate they were preparing for him at St. Germain! He went thither the next morning, because a courier waited for him; so that M. Colbert, who thought to find him on Saturday evening, as usual, knowing he was set out for St. Germain, returned instantly, and had nearly killed his horses. For ourselves, we did not leave Pomponne till after dinner, where we left the ladies. It was necessary to inform them of what had happened, by letter; this was brought by one of M. de Pomponne’s valets, who arrived at nine on the Sunday at Madame de Vins’ apartment; the man’s precipitation, and his altered looks, made Madame de Vins fancy he had brought the account of M. de Pomponne’s death; so that on finding he was only disgraced, she breathed again; but she felt the extent of his misfortune, and when she was sufficiently recovered went to acquaint her sister with it. They set out that instant, leaving all the little boys in tears; and arrived in Paris at two in the afternoon, overwhelmed with grief. You may figure to yourself this interview with M. de Pomponne, and what they felt on meeting each other in so different a situation from what they were in the evening before. I learned this sad intelligence from the Abbé de Grignan, and I confess to you it pierced me to the heart. I went to their house in the evening; they saw no company in public. I went up stairs, and found them all three. M. de Pomponne embraced me without being able to utter a word; the ladies could not restrain their tears, nor I mine. You would have wept too, my child; it was really a melancholy spectacle; the circumstance of our quitting each other at Pomponne so differently, augmented our sorrows. Poor Madame de Vins, whom I left in such spirits, could hardly be recognized; a fever of a fortnight could scarcely have altered her more. She mentioned you to me, and said she was persuaded you would feel for her and M. de Pomponne’s affliction, which I assured her you would. We spoke of the blow she felt from this disgrace, both in regard to her affairs, her situation, and her husband’s fortune. I do assure you, she feels all this in its greatest horror. M. de Pomponne, it is true, was not a favorite, but his situation gave him an opportunity to obtain certain common things, which often make our fortune. There are many inferior situations sufficient to make the fortunes of individuals. It was besides pleasant to be thus in a manner settled at court. What a change! what retrenching, what economy, must now be made use of in his family! Eight children, and not to have had time to obtain the smallest favor! They are thirty thousand livres in debt; you may suppose how little they will have left: they are going to a miserable retreat at Paris and Pomponne. It is said so many journeys, and sometimes the attendance of couriers, even that of Bavaria, who arrived on the Friday, and whom the king waited for with impatience, have contributed to draw this misfortune upon them.[152] But you will easily comprehend in this the ways of Providence, when I tell you, the President Colbert has his place; as he is in Bavaria, his brother officiates in his absence, and wrote to congratulate him, and to surprise him, on the back of the letter, as if by mistake; “To M. Colbert, Minister and Secretary of State.” I paid my compliments of condolence to the unfortunate family. Reflect a little on the power of this family, as well at home as abroad, and you will easily perceive it far exceeds that of the other house where a wedding is going on.[153] My poor child, this is a long and circumstantial account; but I think, on such occasions, we can not be too particular; you are pleased we should always be talking to you, and in this instance I have perhaps complied with your desires too much. When your courier arrives, I shall have nowhere to send him; and it is an additional mortification to me to find I shall henceforth be entirely useless to you; though it is true, I was already so, by means of Madame de Vins; but that was meant in mere jest. In short, my child, all is now at an end, and such is the way of the world. M. de Pomponne is better qualified than any man upon earth to support this misfortune with courage and with truly Christian resignation. Those who have acted like him in prosperity, can not fail to be pitied in their misfortunes.

I must, however, add a word or two respecting your letter; it gave me real consolation. You tell me the little boy is quite recovered, and that I should be satisfied with yourself if I were to see you. Ah, my child, it is indeed true; what a delightful sight would it be to me to see you really occupied with the care of your health, by taking the necessary repose to recruit your wasted strength; it is a pleasure you have never yet afforded me. You find this care is by no means useless: you already discover its salutary effects; and if I torture myself here by my endeavors to inspire you with the same attention to your welfare, you plainly see I have good reason.

But besides M. de Pomponne’s having the crime of leaning toward the Jansenists, Louvois and Colbert, though enemies to each other, both labored to ruin him; the first to place his friend M. Courtin in his situation, and the second, his brother Colbert de Croissy. The last succeeded, to the great rage of Louvois.

LETTER LXXI

Paris, Friday, Nov. 24, 1679.

What a charming letter have I just received from you! what exquisite pleasure is it to hear you reason thus! What you say on the subject of medicine delights me. I am persuaded that, with that understanding and quickness of apprehension with which God has endowed you, you might, with a little application, soon outstrip the physicians themselves. You might, indeed, want a little experience, and perhaps, too, you might not kill with impunity as they do; but I would much sooner trust your judgment of a disease than theirs. The only real concern of life is undoubtedly the care of our health; the world seems to agree in this. The general question is, “How are you? how are you?” and yet we are in general wholly ignorant of every particular relating to this important science. Go on then, go on, my child; finish the course of your studies; the scarlet gown is all the diploma you will stand in need of, as in the play.[154] Pray, what do you mean by sending us your little physician? I assure you ours have entirely lost their credit here, except three or four of our acquaintance, and who prescribe the Englishman’s recipe; all the rest are held in utter abhorrence. This Englishman recovered Marshal de Bellefond the other day from death’s door. I do not think the first physician has the right secret.

Is it then true, my child, you have got the better of your complaints? No more pains in the chest, no colic, no pain in the legs? This is as it should be. You see the advantage of repose and taking care to recruit yourself. Can you be angry with me for chiding you when you neglect yourself, and inhumanly abandon all care of your health? I could talk for ten years about this wicked conduct in you, and the benefits that result from a contrary conduct. Why can not I embrace you and enjoy your company here in the evenings? I enter this house with a heavy heart. From nine till twelve at night I am as desolate as I was at Livri, and yet I prefer this silence and repose to all the evening parties I am invited to in this part of the town. I hate going out of an evening. When I am not tormented with fears for your health, I feel your absence more. The thought of your lungs is like pinching the ear to prevent the pain of boring it from being felt: this comparison I heard from you, but the former pain soon returns when I am not checked by the other. I confess I never bear your absence so well as when I am in fear for your health, and I thank you a thousand times for removing the pincers from my ears. Madame de Vins stands in need of some equally powerful means to remove her affliction at M. de Pomponne’s disgrace, by which she loses her all. I often visit her, and no misfortune shall ever drive me from the house. M. de Pomponne will easily resolve on what is to be done, and will bear his ill-fortune with dignity; he will again display the virtues of a private station, for which we so much admired him at Frêne. They say he was rather remiss in his office, and made the couriers wait too long for their dispatches. He justifies himself fully. But, good heavens! do we not plainly see where the fault lies! Ah! how would poor Madame du Plessis have adored him now! and how would this similarity of situation have cemented their union! Nothing in the world would have been so fortunate for him. I have mentioned this to no one but Madame de Vins; I suppose you understand me. I can answer for the justice of my opinion, which is, I dare say, your own. The whole court pities him, and have been to pay him their compliments of condolence on the occasion. You will soon see him recommence the thread of his perfections. We have talked a great deal about Providence, a doctrine he understands perfectly well. Surely there never was so worthy a minister. M. Colbert, the embassador,[155] is to succeed in this office; he is a great friend of the chevalier’s. Write all your thoughts to the latter; perhaps Fortune, capricious as she is, intends you should reap more advantage through his means than from our intimate acquaintance. You will easily strike into the right road by what I tell you. How is it possible for us to know what Providence has in store for us?

I continue my attentions to Mademoiselle de Méri; the impression the misfortune of her little domestic makes on her is very extraordinary. She tells me she fancies, when any one speaks to her, they are shooting at her, as if they had an intention to kill her. This really does her as much harm as her illness. It is a circle; her anger increases her disorder, and her disorder increases her anger. The sum total is, that it is a very strange affair, and I employ all my attention to administer to her relief.

Corbinelli gives up the Chevalier de Méri, with his pitiful style,[156] and the ridiculous critique he makes on a wit so free, so playful, so charming, as Voiture’s: those are to be pitied who do not understand him.[157] I would not have you depend on receiving the definition you asked of him, for he has read nothing these three months but the Code and the Cujas. He is delighted with you for resolving to study medicine: you are a prodigy in his opinion. The calm ingratitude of M. and Madame Richelieu is indeed a prodigy; you describe it very pleasantly. M. le Grand, and some others, said seriously the other day at St. Germain, that M. Richelieu had made an admirable siege: it was supposed he had been reading some book about the great Richelieu’s in the civil wars; not so, he meant Richelieu the tapestry-maker, who has made an admirable siege that hangs in his wife’s apartment.

Madame de Coulanges has been at court this fortnight; Madame de Maintenon had a cold, and would not part with her. I must tell you of a quarrel she had with the Countess de Grammont.[158] The latter was scorching her fine complexion over the fire, making chocolate; Madame de Coulanges would have saved her the trouble. The Countess bid her leave her to herself, for it was the only pleasure she had left. Madame de Coulanges answered, “Ah, ingrate!” This expression, which at any other time would have made her laugh, embarrassed and disconcerted her so highly, that she could not get the better of it, and they have not spoken since. The Abbé Têtu said, very rudely, to our neighbor, “But, madame, had she answered you, ‘The pot calls the kettle black,’ what would you have found to say?” “Sir,” said she, “I am no pot, though she is a kettle.” So here is another quarrel. Quanto and the sick lady are both on the high ropes; the latter is so much in favor with the fountain of all good things, that it occasions a great deal of animosity. I could tell you a thousand trifles if you were here.

Ah, my child, you tell me I have nothing to do but laugh, when I have your absence to support; I could almost find in my heart to say, “Ah! ingrate!” Do not you remember what this absence of yours has made me suffer? Are not you the sensible and true occupation of my heart? You well know, and you ought to feel, what a terrible addition the fear of hearing you are indisposed, and chilled by the piercing air of Grignan, makes to this apprehension. You are unjust if you are at a loss to guess my sentiments, which are so very natural, and so full of true affection for you.

LETTER LXXII.

Paris, Friday, January 26, 1680.

I begin with the state of your health, as the subject nearest my heart. It is without disparagement to this favorite idea, that I see and hear what passes in the world. Events are more or less interesting to me as they are more or less connected with you; even the attention I pay to news springs from the same source. I find you well nursed, my dear child, and kept in cotton. You are not in the whirlwind, so that I am perfectly easy with regard to your quiet; but then I am by no means so with respect to that heaviness, and those heats you are troubled with; and then again that pain you endure, with no north-easterly winds, or extraordinary fatigue to occasion it. I could wish to have a little further information on this particular, which is of so much importance to me. The care that is taken of you can not be wholly owing to precaution, nor without good reason. I wish you may be sincere in your resolution, no longer to destroy yourself with your writing-desk. Confirm me, I beseech you, in my good opinion of you, and never again write me such long letters, since Montgobert acquits herself so well of the office; and, as I have already told you, may also save you the trouble of dictating. I could wish, too, she would now and then add a word or two of her own, relative to the state of your health.

I have at last received a letter from my son, who is at Nantes. He was but twenty days on the road; he traveled only ninety leagues from Brittany in the month of January, to spend the holidays, and without one spark of love in his heart! I have written to him to take care how he tells this story to others, and that, to save his reputation, he ought to allege some flame, real or pretended; otherwise he would appear more a Breton than the Bretons themselves. I have also entreated him not to stay at Nantes, on account of my affairs; they are not a plausible excuse, and I should be sorry to pass for so silly or so covetous a being, as to prefer things which are of no consequence to the necessity of his paying his attendance at court on such an occasion as the present. He seems to me to be under some embarrassment; but he will return soon enough to set out with M. de Chaulnes. Mark my goodness, I have secured him a place in his carriage.

Madame de Soubise is no longer talked of; she even seems forgotten already. In fact, there are a thousand other things to employ our attention at present; and I am foolish enough myself to venture on some other topic. For these two days it has been, as in the affair of mademoiselle and M. de Lauzun, a constant bustle, sending to learn the news, paying visits from house to house, to learn what is passing; curiosity is on the stretch, and this is what has come out, in expectation of the remainder.[159]

M. de Luxembourg was at Saint Germain on Wednesday; the king frowned on him more than usual; he was told there was a warrant issued to apprehend him; he asked to be permitted to speak to the king; you may conjecture what was said. The king told him that if he were innocent, he had nothing to do but to throw himself voluntarily into prison, and that he had appointed such upright judges to make inquiry into affairs of this kind, that he left every thing to them. M. de Luxembourg immediately took coach, and went to Father de la Chaise; Mesdames de Lavardin and De Mouci met him as they were coming here, in a very melancholy mood, in the Rue Saint Honoré; after passing an hour at the convent of the Jesuits, he repaired to the Bastille, and delivered to Barsemeaux[160] the order he brought from Saint Germain. He was at first shown into a tolerably handsome chamber. Madame de Meckelbourg[161] came there to visit him, and was almost drowned in tears. About an hour after she left him, an order came to confine him in one of those horrible places in the towers, of which the windows are closed with iron bars, so as scarcely to admit the light of day, and to suffer no one to see him. This, my child, is ample subject for reflection; think of the brilliant fortune of such a man, raised to the honor of commanding in chief the king’s armies, and then figure to your self what his feelings must be on hearing those grating bolts shut upon him, and, if it were possible for him to sleep, what his thoughts must be when he awakes! No one thinks there has been any poison in his affair. This is a misfortune that seems to obliterate every other.

Madame de Tingres is summoned to give evidence on the trial. The Countess de Soissons could not endure the thoughts of a prison; she has been allowed time to make her escape, if she really is guilty. She was playing at basset on the Wednesday when M. de Bouillon came in; he begged her to step with him into the closet, where he told her she must either leave France, or go to the Bastille; she was not long in determining what to do. She immediately called the Marchioness d’Allure from the card-table, and they have never appeared since. When the hour of supper came, they were told the Countess supped in town; the whole company broke up, thinking something very extraordinary had happened. In the mean time, parcels are packed up, with money, jewels, etc., the male servants have gray liveries, and eight horses are put to the carriage. She made the Marchioness d’Allure, who they say was unwilling to go, sit behind, on the same side with her, and two female servants in the front. She told her people not to be uneasy on her account, that she was innocent, but that some vile women[162] had taken pleasure in implicating her; she wept, called on Madame de Carignan, and left Paris at three in the morning. It is said she is gone to Namur; you may be sure nobody wants to follow her. She will, notwithstanding, be tried in her absence, if it be only to clear her reputation to the world; there is a great deal of detraction in what La Voisin says. It is believed the Duke de Villeroy[163] is very much concerned at it; he keeps his room, and sees nobody. Perhaps I may be able to tell you more before I seal my letter.

Madame de Vibraye has fallen into the old train of devotion; God, as you well remarked, would not suffer her to pass her whole life in the company of her enemies. Madame de Buri turns her talking-mill with very great address. If the princess is to be seen at Paris, Madame de Vins wishes me to accompany her when she goes there. Pomenars has been cut for the stone; did I not tell you so? I have seen him; it is pleasant to hear him talk of the poisons; one is almost tempted to say to him, “Is it possible this crime alone should be unknown to you?” Volonne gives his opinion, without any hesitation, and wonders how any one could hold a correspondence with these vile women. The Queen of Spain is, in a manner, as much confined as M. de Luxembourg. Madame de Villars wrote to Madame de Coulanges the other day, that were it not for her love to M. de Villars, she would not have consented to pass the winter at Madrid. She gives Madame de Coulanges many pleasant and entertaining narratives, as she thinks they will go further.[164] I am overjoyed to have the pleasure of perusing her letters, without the trouble of answering them. Madame de Vins thinks as I do. M. de Pomponne is gone to breathe the air of Pomponne, where he means to stay three days; he has received all, and given up all; so that affair is finished. It really pains me to hear him always asking, What news? He is as much a stranger to what is passing as one living on the banks of the Marne; he is in the right to make his mind as happy as he can. Mine, as well as the abbé’s, was much affected at what you wrote with your own hand; you did not feel it, my dear child, but it was impossible to read it without tears. Good heavens! you pronounce yourself as good for nothing, as an encumbrance to the earth; to one who sees no object in existence but you! Think of the consequences your talking thus may produce. I beseech you, never henceforth to say any ill of your humor. Your heart and mind are too perfect to suffer such light clouds to be perceived; be a little more tender of truth and justice, as well as of the sole object of my vows and prayers. I shall think myself really dead till I have the gratification of seeing you.

Besides the persons here named, Madame de Polignac was decreed to be imprisoned, and Madame de la Ferté, as well as the Countess du Roure, to be personally summoned.

The Countess de Soissons was accused of having poisoned her husband; Madame d’Alluie, her father-in-law; Madame de Tingry, her children; Madame de Polignac, a valet who was in possession of her secret; and this secret was, that she wished to give the king a charm, to make herself beloved by him.

The king gave the Duchess de Foix a note, written by her to La Voisin, expressed in these terms, “The more I rub the less they project.” He required an explanation. It alluded to a recipe to increase the size of the bosom. She informed La Voisin that her drug was ineffectual.

It may be supposed that La Voisin had many of these secrets for the use of ladies.

LETTER LXXIII.

Paris, Wednesday, January 31, 1680.

It is impossible for me to see your hand-writing without emotion. I well know the injury writing does you; and though you say the most affectionate and most amiable things to me possible, I regret exceedingly the purchase of that pleasure at the expense of your lungs; I know you are still far from well. You tell me the weather is extremely mild, and that you do not fatigue yourself, and that you write less than usual: whence, then, proceeds this obstinacy in your disorder? You are dumb on that subject, and Montgobert has the cruelty, though she has the pen in her hand, not to say a single word about it. What is the rest of the world to me, and what pleasure can I receive from the account of all the rejoicings at Aix, when I find you are obliged to go to bed at eight in the evening? “But,” say you, “do you then wish me to sit up late and fatigue myself?” No, my dearest; God forbid I should be capable of forming so depraved a wish; but when you were here, you were not wholly incapable of relishing the sweets of society. I have at length seen M. de Gordes; he told me, with great sincerity, that you were in a very feeble state in the boat, and that you were much better at Aix: but then, with the same simplicity he assures me, that the air of Provence is too keen, too piercing, and too drying, in your present condition. When we are in health, nothing is amiss; but when the lungs are attacked, and we are thin and delicate, like you, we run the risk of putting it out of our power ever to recover. Tell me no more that the delicacy of your lungs draws our ages nearer together. God forbid that the order established by Providence, so agreeable to nature and reason, and at the same time so dear to me, should be deranged with respect to us.

I must resume the article of news, which I always suffer to rest awhile when I get upon the subject of your health. M. de Luxembourg has been two days without eating; he asked for several Jesuits, but has been refused every one of them: he asked to have the Lives of the Saints, and it has been given him; you will see he is at a loss to which of the Saints he shall devote himself. He was interrogated for four hours on Friday or Saturday, I can not recollect which; after that his mind appeared much relieved, and he ate some supper. It is thought he would have done better to have made his innocence take the field, and to have left word he would return, when his proper judges[165] should think fit to summon him. He has done a real injury to the dukedom, in acknowledging the chamber; but he was willing to yield a blind obedience to the commands of his majesty. M. de Cessac has followed the example of the countess. Mesdames de Bouillon and De Tingry were interrogated on Monday at the chamber of the arsenal. Their noble families attended them to the gate: there is yet no appearance of blackness in the follies which have been laid to their charge, nor even so much as a shade of gray. Should nothing further be discovered, this is a scandal which might very well have been spared, especially to families of their high quality. Marshal de Villeroy[166] says, these gentlemen and ladies do not believe in God, though they believe in the devil. In reality, a great many ridiculous things are related respecting the private transactions of these abominable women. Madame de la Ferté, who is so properly named, went out of complaisance (to La Voisin’s) with the Countess (de Soissons), but did not go up stairs; M. de Langres accompanied Madame de la Ferté; this is very black; the circumstance has given her a pleasure not often enjoyed by her, which is, to hear it said that she is innocent.[167] The Duchess de Bouillon went to ask La Voisin for a small dose of poison, to kill an old tiresome husband she had, and a nostrum to marry a young man she loved. This young man was M. de Vendôme, who led her by one hand, and M. de Bouillon, her husband, by the other. When a Mancine[168] is guilty only of a folly like this, information is given of it; and these witches explain it seriously, and shock all Europe with a mere trifle. The Countess de Soissons asked whether she could not recover a lover who had deserted her? this lover was a great prince; and it is asserted that she declared, unless he returned to her, she would make him repent his ingratitude: that is understood to be the king, and every thing is of importance that has relation to him; but let us look to the sequel; if she has committed any greater crime, she has not mentioned it to these baggages. One of our friends says there is an elder branch of the poison, to which they never refer, as it is not a native of France. What we have here, are younger branches only, without shoes to their feet. La T***[169] gives us to understand there is something of greater consequence behind, as she was schoolmistress to the novices. She says, “I admire the world; it really believes I have had children by M. de Luxembourg.” Alas! God knows whether she has or not; the present prevailing opinion, however, is in favor of the innocence of the persons denounced, and a universal horror for the defamers; to-morrow it may be the reverse. You well know the nature of these general opinions; I shall give you a faithful account of them; it is the only subject of conversation here: indeed there is scarcely an example of such scandal in any court in Christendom. It is said La Voisin put all the infants, whose abortion she had procured, into an oven; and Madame de Coulanges, as you may suppose, when speaking of La T***, says, it was for her the oven was heating.

I had a long chat yesterday with M. de la Rochefoucault, on a subject we have already discussed. There is nothing to oblige you to write; but he entreats you to believe that what could give him the highest gratification in the world would be to have it in his power to contribute to your changing the place of your residence, should an opportunity offer. I never saw so obliging or so amiable a man.

What I am going to tell you, I have heard from good authority. Madame de Bouillon entered the chamber like a queen, sat down on a chair placed there on purpose for her, and, instead of answering to the first question that was asked her, demanded that what she should say might be taken down in writing; it was, “that her sole reason for coming there was from the respect she bore to the king’s command, and not in obedience to the chamber, whose authority she in nowise acknowledged, as she would not derogate from the privileges of the dukedom.” Every word was written down. When she took off her glove, she discovered a very beautiful hand. Her answers were very sincere; those respecting her age not excepted. “Do you know La Vigoureux?” “No.” “Do you know La Voisin?” “Yes.” “What reason had you to desire the death of your husband?” “Desire the death of my husband! ask him whether he believes a syllable of it. He gave me his hand to the very gate.” “But what was your reason for so often visiting La Voisin?” “Because I wanted to see those Sibyls she promised me I should see; a company which certainly well deserved all this noise and scrutiny.” “Did you not show that woman a bag of money?” She answered, “I did not, and for more reasons than one;” and then with a smiling, and at the same time a disdainful air, “Well, gentlemen, have you done with me?” “Yes, madame.” She rose, and, as she was going out, said loud enough to be heard, “I really could not have believed that men of sense would have asked so many foolish questions.” She was received by all her friends and relations with adoration, she was so pretty, easy, natural, firm, unconcerned, and tranquil.[170]

La T*** was by no means so cheerful. M. de Luxembourg is perfectly disconcerted: he is neither a man, nor half a man, nor even a woman, unless it be a foolish woman. “Shut this window; light a fire; give me some chocolate; give me that book; I have abandoned God, and God has abandoned me.” This is the conduct he displayed before Baisemeaux and his commissaries, with a countenance pale as death. With nothing better than this to carry to the Bastille, he had better have gained time, as the king, with infinite goodness, had put into his power to do, till the very moment before he committed himself; but we must of necessity have recourse to Providence, in spite of our efforts to the contrary. It was by no means natural to behave as he has done, weak as he appears to be.[171] I was misinformed: Madame de Meckelbourg has not seen him; and La T***, who came with him from St. Germain, never intended, any more than himself, to give Madame de Meckelbourg the least notice of it, though he had time enough to have done it if he had been so inclined; but La T*** kept every one from seeing him, and watched him so closely, that not a soul came to him but herself. I have been to see this Meckelbourg at the nunnery of the Holy Sacrament, where she has retired. She is in great affliction, and complains loudly of La T***, whom she blames for all her brother’s misfortunes. I made your compliments to her by way of anticipation, and assured her you would be extremely grieved to hear of her ill-fortune. She expressed great regard for you. One might, at this time, do almost what one pleased at Paris, it would not be noticed.

LETTER LXXIV.

Paris, Wednesday, February 7, 1680.

So, my child, you sometimes play at chess. For my own part, I am an enthusiast in this game, and would give the world if I could learn to play it like my son or you. It is the finest and most rational game of any; chance has nothing to do with it; we blame or applaud ourselves, and our success depends upon our skill. Corbinelli would fain make me believe I shall acquire it. He says I have some ideas and schemes of my own; but I can not see three or four moves forward into the game. I assure you I shall be much ashamed and mortified if I do not, at least, attain mediocrity. Every one played it at Pomponne when I was last there—men, women, and children; and while the master of the house was beating M. de Chaulnes, he met with a strange check at St. Germain.

There has been a sad melancholy Monday, which you will easily comprehend. M. de Pomponne is at length gone to court. He dreaded this very much. You may guess what his thoughts were on the road, and when he beheld the court at Saint Germain, and received the compliments of the courtiers who surrounded him. He was quite overcome; and when he entered the chamber where the king was waiting for him, what could he say, or how begin? The king assured him he had always been satisfied of his fidelity and services; that he was perfectly at ease as to the state secrets he was acquainted with; and that he would give him and his family proofs of his regard. M. de Pomponne could not help shedding tears when he mentioned the misfortune he had to incur his displeasure. He added, that with respect to his family, he left it entirely to his majesty’s goodness; that his only grief was the being removed from the service of a master to whom he was attached, as well by inclination as duty; that it was next to impossible not to feel so heavy a loss in all its severity; that this cut him to the quick, and caused him to betray those marks of weakness, which he hoped his majesty would forgive. The king told him he was himself affected at them, that they proceeded from goodness of heart, and that he ought not to be offended. The whole discourse turned on this, and M. de Pomponne came away with eyes somewhat red, and the looks of a man who had not merited his misfortune. He told me all this yesterday evening: he could have wished to have been more firm, but he could not get the better of his emotion. This is the only occasion in which he has appeared too much affected; though it might be said he had not paid his court badly, if to pay court had been his object. He will soon recover his philosophy, and in the mean time an affair of some importance is concluded; these are renewals which we can not help feeling with him. Madame de Vins has been at Saint Germain: good God, what a difference! She had attentions enough paid her; but to reflect that that had been her home, where she has not now a corner to shelter her head in! I felt what she underwent in that journey. Adieu, my beloved child; I am always impatient to hear from you, but pray write only two words to me; renounce long letters forever, and spare me. It is horrible to think that those who love you, and who are beloved by you, should be the ruin of your health.

LETTER LXXV.

Paris, Friday, Feb. 9, 1680.

I see you are in the midst of the pleasures of the carnival, my beautiful dear; you give little private suppers to eighteen or twenty ladies; I am well acquainted with your mode of life, and the heavy expenses you incur at Aix; but yet, amid all this bustle, I fancy you contrive to have plenty of rest. We say sometimes, I will have pleasure for my money; but I think I hear you say, I will have rest for mine: take your rest then, and enjoy, at least, this advantage. I can not help being surprised that a minuet-tune does not tempt you sometimes; what! not a single step! no motion of the shoulders! quite insensible! it is not to be believed, it is unnatural; I never yet knew you sit still on these occasions, and, were I to draw such inferences as I commonly do, I should imagine you much worse than you say you are.

There was, yesterday evening, an enchanting entertainment at the Hôtel de Condé. The Princess of Conti named one of the duke’s daughters, with the Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon. First was the christening, then the dinner; but what a dinner! then a play, but what a play! interspersed with fine pieces of music, and the best opera-dancers. A theater built by the fairies; such perspectives, orange-trees loaded with fruits and flowers, festoons, pilasters, scenes, and other decorations; in short, the whole expense of the evening cost no less than two thousand louis-d’ors, all for the sake of the pretty princess.

The opera (of Proserpine) is superior to every other. The chevalier tells me he has sent you several of the airs, and that he saw a gentleman[172] who said he had sent you the words; I dare say you will like it. There is a scene in it,[173] between Mercury and Ceres, which requires no interpreter to be understood; it must have been approved, since it has been performed; but you will judge for yourself.

The poisoning affair is grown quite flat; nothing new is said of it. The report is, that there will be no more blood spilled; you will make your own reflections, as we do. The Abbé Colbert is made Coadjutor of Rouen. They talk of a journey into Flanders. No one knows what this assembling of the forces portends.

Friar Ange has raised Marshal de Bellefond from the dead; he has cured his lungs, that were incurable. Madame de Coulanges and I have been to visit the grand-master,[174] who has been almost at death’s door for a fortnight past; his gout had returned; add to this an oppression, which made every one suppose he was at his last gasp; cold sweats, light-headedness; in short, he was ill as it was possible to be. The physicians could give him no relief; he sent for Friar Ange, who has cured him, and brought him from the very gates of death, by the gentlest and most agreeable medicines; the oppression went off, the gout fell back into his knees and feet, and he is now out of danger.

Adieu, my dear child! I still lead the same life, either in the suburbs, or with these good widows; sometimes here, sometimes eating chicken with Madame de Coulanges; but always pleased to think I am gliding down the stream with old Time, and hastening the happy moment when I shall see you again.

LETTER LXXVI.

Paris, Wednesday, Feb. 14, 1680.

I think you extremely fortunate in the society of Madame du Janet, who is come on purpose for you; this is a friendship that pleases me. I am fully persuaded her whole employment will be to take care of your health; pray embrace her for me. You give yourself very little concern about the vanities of this world; I think I see you constantly retiring and going to bed, leaving the rest to sing and dance by themselves; you will have rest for your money, as I told you the other day.

Montgobert has related to me, very pleasantly, the maneuvers of the beautiful Iris, and the jealousy of the count; I dare say he will often see the moon with this beauty; he has revenged himself for this time, by a very pretty song. Montgobert made me laugh at her respect for M. de Grignan. She had written, that he came to the ball la gueule enfarinée (full of expectation): she recollected herself, erased the gueule, and wrote the bouche, so that it is now la bouche enfarinée.

The gendarmes are quite bewildered. My son goes to Flanders, instead of meeting the dauphiness. The army is assembling, they say, to take Charlemont.[175] We know nothing certain, except that the officers are going to the army, and that in a month there will be an army of fifty thousand infantry. The chevalier’s regiment is not one of them.

The chamber of the arsenal is again sitting. One of the committee, whose name is not mentioned, said to M. de la Reynie: “But, sir, as far as I see, we are only employed about sorceries and witchcraft, such diabolical proceedings, of which the parliament of Paris never takes cognizance. Our commission is, to try the case of poisoning; how comes it that we inquire into any thing else?” La Reynie was surprised, and said, “Sir, we have secret orders.” “Be so good, sir,” replied the other, “as to communicate those orders to us, and we will obey them as well as you; but, as we are without your knowledge, I think I say nothing contrary to reason and justice, in thus expressing myself.” I am of opinion you will not blame this man’s honesty, though he does not wish to be known. There are so many, persons of worth belonging to this chamber, that you will find it difficult to guess who he is.

The little Prince de Léon was baptized yesterday at Saint Gervais, by a bishop of Brittany; M. de Rennes stood godfather, as representing the States of Brittany; the duchess was godmother. The rest were all Brittany folks: the Governor of Brittany, the Lieutenant-General of Brittany, the Treasurer of Brittany, the Deputies of Brittany, several Lords of Brittany, the Presidents of Brittany, father and son. In short, had there been a dance, they would have danced Brittany dances; and have eaten Brittany butter, had it been a meager day. I assure you, my son feels all the secret power which attaches the Bretons to their country; he is returned perfectly enchanted with it. He has begun, for the first time in his life, to admire Tonquedec, and to think him worthy of imitation. It would be like stopping the course of the Rhône, to oppose this torrent, which carries him so far as even to dispose him to sell his place. He said this to Gourville and several others, before he mentioned it to me. He assigns very good reasons. He looks forward. He fears the disgusts which may be occasioned by means of M. de la Trousse. He is sorry for those who are appointed to the gendarmerie, and has no wish to be ruined. The sum of the matter is, that by thus discovering his inmost heart, he would reduce us to the necessity of saying, “Certainly, he is perfectly in the right to sell his place.” I can not reproach myself with concealing what my duty obliged me to say on this strange resolution, in which I expressed myself with the freedom I sometimes indulge myself in. I desired him to wait for at least some pretext, some shadow of dissatisfaction; in short, to stay for something that may serve to keep his real thoughts undiscovered. But it was to no purpose; for all M. de la Garde and I have been able to do, is to beg he will not interfere. We are overjoyed at his absence, as it may be a means of preventing his doing injury to his affairs, by decrying his own goods. I told him it was very unfortunate to value commissions merely from whim and caprice, by his liking and disliking; to pay an exorbitant price for the ensigncy, because he was wild for it—to rate the sub-lieutenancy at nothing, because he is disgusted with it. Is it thus we would buy and sell, unless we were fools, ignorant of business, and wished to ruin ourselves? Adieu, my beloved child; be not uneasy on this account. Let us adore the dispensations of Providence, whose kindness sends us no greater subject of complaint. I shall still possess my mind in liberty, for I shall still be as much yours as ever. This will make no change in me; quite the contrary, quite the contrary.

This complaisance throughout Europe cost dear to France. The king, habituated thus to have his own way, adopted three fatal resolutions: he revoked the Edict of Nantes, protected James II., and accepted the testament of the King of Spain.

LETTER LXXVII.

Paris, Friday, February 23, 1680.

Indeed, my child, this has been a very pretty week for the Grignans; should Providence favor the elder brother in proportion as it has the younger, we might soon expect to see him in a charming situation. In the mean time, I think it no disagreeable thing to have brothers in such favor. The chevalier had scarcely returned thanks for his pension of a thousand crowns, when he was chosen, out of eight or ten persons of quality and merit, to be an attendant upon the dauphin, with a salary of two thousand crowns; so here are appointments to the value of nine thousand livres a year, in the space of three days. He immediately went back to Saint Germain with his second acknowledgments, for it seems he had been appointed in his absence, while he was here in Paris. His personal merit has greatly contributed to this choice. His distinguished reputation, his strict honor and probity, and the regularity of his conduct, have been remarked; and it is the general opinion, that his majesty could not have made a better choice. There are but eight persons named yet, Dangeau, D’Antin, Clermont, Sainte-Maure, Matignon, Chiverni, Florensac, and Grignan.[176] The last is universally approved. Permit me, then, to pay my compliments of congratulation to M. de Grignan, the coadjutor, and yourself.

My son sets out to-morrow; he has read the reproaches you make him. Possibly the charms of the court he wishes to leave, and where he has so handsome an establishment, will make him change his opinion. We have prevailed on him not to be in a hurry, but to wait quietly till he meets with the temptation of a greater sum than he gave.

You have given me a specimen of M. de Grignan’s joy by my own, in hearing that you are better. As your complaints are no longer continual, I am in great hopes that, by taking care of yourself, using a milk diet, and giving up writing, you will in the end restore my daughter to me as lovely as ever.

I am charmed with Montgobert’s sincerity. Had she always written me word you were well, I should never have given credit to her. She has managed the whole business to a miracle, and has won my heart by her candor; so natural is it for us to love not to be deceived. May Heaven preserve you, my dear, in this prosperous state! which gives us all such flattering hopes. But to return to the Grignans, for we seem to have forgotten them. Nothing else is talked of here. Nothing but complimenting passes in this house; one has scarcely done when another begins. I have not seen either of them since the chevalier has been made a lady of honor, as M. de Rochefoucault calls it. He will write you all the news much better than I can possibly do. It is supposed that Madame de Soubise will not be one of the traveling party. See how long my letter is growing! Well, I will only mention La Voisin’s affair, and conclude.

She was not burned on Wednesday, as I wrote you word; the sentence was not executed till yesterday. She knew her fate on the Monday, a very extraordinary circumstance! In the evening, she said to those who guarded her, “What! no medianoches!” She ate with them at midnight out of whim, for it was no fast-day, drank plentifully of wine, and sang several drinking songs. On Monday she received the question ordinary and extraordinary. She had now dined, and slept nearly eight hours. She was confronted while under the torture with Mesdames de Dreux and Le Feron, and several more. Her answers have not yet transpired, but every one expects to hear strange things. She supped in the evening, and, lacerated and disjointed as she was, gave a loose to her excess, to the disgust of every one present. They endeavored to make her sensible of her ill conduct, and that she would be much better employed in thinking of God, and singing devout hymns, than such songs; upon which she sang a psalm or two in mockery, and then fell asleep. Wednesday was spent in the like confronting, drinking, and singing; she absolutely refused to let a confessor come near her. In short, on the Thursday, that is, yesterday, they denied her all kinds of food, excepting only a little broth, of which she complained greatly, seeming to be apprehensive that she should not have strength to carry her through the business of the day.

She came from Vincennes to Paris in a coach; she seemed embarrassed, and as if she wished to conceal what she felt. They would have had her confess, but she would not hear of it. At five o’clock she was bound and set on the sledge, dressed in white, with a taper in her hand. She was extremely red in the face, and was seen to push away the confessor and the crucifix with great violence. Madame de Chaulnes, Madame de Sully, the Countess (De Fiesque), myself, and several others, saw her pass by the Hôtel de Sully. When she came to the Church of Notre-Dame, she refused to pronounce the amende-honorable; and at the Grêve, she struggled with all her might to prevent their taking her out of the sledge; she was, however, dragged out by main force, and made to sit down on the pile, to which she was bound by iron chains, and then covered over with straw. She swore prodigiously, and pushed away the straw five or six times: but at length the fire increased, she sunk out of sight, and her ashes are by this time floating in the air. This is the end of Madame Voisin, celebrated for her crimes and her impiety. One of the judges, to whom my son happened to mention his surprise at persons being burned alive in a slow fire, made answer: “My dear sir, there are some indulgences granted to the women in favor of their sex.” “How, pray sir? are they strangled?” “No, sir; they are covered with faggots, and the executioner tears off their heads with iron hooks.” So you see, my child, this is not so dreadful as we have been told it was. How do you find yourself after this little story? It made my blood run cold in my veins.

LETTER LXXVIII.

Paris, Friday, March 15, 1680.

I am much afraid we shall lose M. de la Rochefoucault. His fever still continues. He received the sacrament yesterday. The tranquillity of his mind is really worthy of admiration. He has settled all affairs of conscience, and his disorder and the prospect of approaching dissolution give him no concern; you would think it was his neighbor at the point of death. He hears the physicians dispute without being the least affected by it, and the contentions of the Englishman and Friar Ange, without saying a word. I return to this verse:

Trop au-dessus de lui, pour y prêter l’esprit.[177]

He would not see Madame de la Fayette yesterday, on account of her tears, and because he was to receive the sacrament; but he sent about noon to know how she was. Believe me, my child, he has not passed his life in making useless reflections: he has rendered death so familiar that the prospect is neither new nor terrific to him. M. de Marsillac arrived the day before yesterday, at midnight, so overwhelmed with grief, that I do not think even you could feel more for me. It was a long time before he could compose himself; at length he came in, when he found M. de Rochefoucault sitting in his chair, with an air very little different from that he usually wore. As M. de Marsillac is the only one of his children who may be said to enjoy his friendship, it was thought he would be himself affected at seeing him; but of this, however, there was not the smallest appearance, and he even did not name his illness to him. His son, unable to contain himself any longer, withdrew to give vent to his grief; when, after a great deal of altercation, Gourville being against, and Langlade for the Englishman, each of them supported by different parties in the family, and the two Esculapian chiefs keeping up all the warmth of their natural animosity, M. de Marsillac decided in favor of the Englishman; and yesterday, at four in the afternoon, M. de la Rochefoucault took his medicines, and at eight repeated them again. As there is no getting admittance at present, it is difficult to learn the truth; however, I have been told that after having been last night within an instant of giving up the ghost through the struggle between the medicine and the gouty humor, he had so considerable an evacuation that though the fever has not yet abated, there is reason to hope for a favorable issue. I am convinced in my own mind that he will recover, though M. de Marsillac does not yet venture to admit a ray of hope. I can compare him, in his affections and grief, to no one but yourself, my dear child, who can not bear the thoughts of my death. You may well believe that I shall not give him M. de Grignan’s letter at present: it shall go, however, with those that may come afterward; for I am convinced, with Langlade, from whom I learned all I tell you, that the remedy given will complete the cure.

I want to know how you are, after your journey to Marseilles; I must chide M. de Grignan for taking you with him; I can not approve of such useless jaunts. Must not you also show Toulon, Hieres, Saint Baume, Saint Maximin, and the Fountain of Vaucluse, to the Mademoiselles de Grignan?

I am almost constantly with Madame de la Fayette, who must be totally insensible to the charms of friendship, and the affections of the heart, were she less afflicted than she is. I close this packet at her house, at nine in the evening; she has read your little note; for, in spite of her fears, she has hope enough to be able to read it. M. de la Rochefoucault is still the same; his legs begin to swell, which the Englishman does not like; he seems certain, however, that his medicines will have the desired effect. If this be true, I shall admire the great humanity of the physician in not tearing him piecemeal, for this will be the ruin of them all; to take the fever out of their hands, is to take the bread out of their mouths. Du Chêne is very easy about the matter, but all the others are stark mad.

LETTER LXXIX.

Paris, Sunday, March 17, 1680.

Though this letter will not go till Wednesday, I can not help beginning it to-day, to inform you that M. de la Rochefoucault died last night. I am so much engrossed with this misfortune, and with the extreme affliction of our poor friend,[178] that I must relieve my mind by communicating the painful event to you.

Yesterday, which was Saturday, the Englishman’s medicine had done wonders; all the favorable symptoms of Friday, which I mentioned to you, were increased; his friends began to sing Te Deum in their hearts; his lungs were clear, his head free, his fever less, his evacuations such as indicated a salutary crisis: in this state yesterday, at six o’clock in the evening, he relapsed, so as to leave no hopes of recovery; his fever redoubled in an instant, with an oppression of the chest and delirium; in a word, he was suffocated by the treacherous gout, and, notwithstanding he had a great degree of strength left even after all his bleeding, it carried him off in less than five hours, so that he expired at midnight in the arms of the Bishop of Condom. M. de Marsillac did not leave him a moment; he is under inexpressible affliction: he will find, however, some consolation in the king and the court; and so will the rest of the family, from the place he enjoys: but when will poor Madame de la Fayette find again such a friend, such a companion, such kindness, such attention, such confidence, and such consideration for her and her son! She is infirm, confined to her room, and not like other people eternally from home. M. de Rochefoucault was also of a sedentary disposition; their situation rendered them necessary to each other; so that the mutual confidence and delightful friendship that subsisted between them was unequaled. Think of this, my child, and you will be convinced with me that no one could sustain a greater loss, for this is not to be repaired or obliterated even by time. I have never once quitted this disconsolate friend; she did not mix in the hurry and confusion of the family, so that she really stood in need of some pity. Madame de Coulanges has likewise acquitted herself very well on this occasion, and we shall continue to discharge our duty even at the hazard of our eyes, which are almost always filled with tears. You see how unluckily your letters came; they have hitherto had no admirers but Madame de Coulanges and myself; when the chevalier returns he may possibly find a proper season for presenting them; meantime you must write one out of condolence to M. de Marsillac; he does honor to filial affection, and is a living proof that you are not alone in this respect; but, in fact, I doubt that either of you will meet with many imitators. The melancholy that reigns around me has awakened all my sensibility, and makes me feel the anguish of separation in all its horrors.

LETTER LXXX.

Paris, Wednesday, April 3, 1680.

My dear child, poor M. Fouquet is dead,[179] and I am affected at the intelligence: I never knew so many friends lost in a manner at once, and it overwhelms me with sorrow to see so many dead around me; but what is not around me pierces my heart, and that is the apprehension I suffer from the return of your former disorders; for though you would conceal it from me, I can perceive your flushings, your heaviness, and shortness of breath. In short, that flattering interval is now over, and what was thought a cure has turned out a mere palliative. I remember your words: that a flame half-quenched is easily revived. The remedies you treasure up against an evil day, and which you reckon infallible, ought to be used immediately. Has M. de Grignan no authority on this occasion? Is he not alarmed at your situation? I have seen young Beaumont; I leave you to guess whether I asked him any questions. When I recollected that he had seen you within a week, he appeared to me the most desirable companion in the world. He said you were not quite so well when he set out as you had been during the winter. He mentioned your supper and entertainment, which he praised highly; as also the kind attentions both of you and of M. de Grignan, and the care M. de Grignan’s daughters took that you might not be missed when you retired to rest. He said wonders of Pauline and the little marquis; I should never have been the first to put an end to the conversation, but he wanted to go to St. Germain; for, as he said, he had paid me the first visit, even before that which he owed to the king his master. His grandfather had the same place which Marshal de Bellefond has had:[180] he was a very intimate friend of my father’s; and instead of seeking out for relations, as is generally the custom, my father chose him, without further ceremony, to stand sponsor to his daughter; so that he is my godfather. I am perfectly acquainted with all the family. I think the grandson handsome, extremely handsome. You did well to say nothing to him about your brother: I have myself mentioned it to no one, except to such persons as my son had previously informed of it, in order to find a purchaser.

I conclude you must by this time be at Grignan. I see with affliction the bustle of taking leave; I see, on your quitting your retirement, which appeared to you so short, a journey to Arles; another fatigue; and I see your journey to Grignan, where you may possibly be saluted on your arrival by a northeast wind; ah! I can not behold all these things for a person so delicate as you are, and not tremble.

You have sent me an account of Anfossi infinitely preferable to all mine. I do not wonder you can not think of parting with an estate where there are so many diverting gipsies. There could not be a more agreeable or novel reception; you are indeed so much a Stoic, and so full of reflections, that I should fear joining mine to yours, lest I should double the sorrow; but I think it would be prudent and reasonable, and worthy of M. de Grignan’s affection, to use his utmost endeavors to be here about the beginning of October. There is no other place where you can think of passing the winter. But I will say no more at present; things urged prematurely lose all their force, and often create disgust.

There are no more long journeys talked of here; the only one spoken of is that to Fontainebleau. You will most assuredly have M. de Vendôme with you this year. For my part, I am preparing to set out for Brittany with inexpressible regret; but I must go in order to be there, stay a little while, and return. After the loss of health, which I always, with reason, place first, nothing gives me so much vexation as the disorder of my private affairs. It is to this cruel reason I sacrifice my ease and gratification; for I leave you to judge what a situation I am likely to be in, with so much time and solitude on my hands, to add new force to my anxiety at being separated from you. This cup, however, I must swallow, bitter as it is, in hopes of seeing you at my return; for all my movements tend to that point. And, however superior I may be to other things, that is always superior to me; it is my fate. And the sufferings which attend my affection for you, being offered to God, are a penance due for a love which I ought to bear for him alone.

My son is just arrived from Douay, where he commanded the gendarmerie during March. M. de Pomponne has spent the day here; he loves, honors, and esteems you perfectly. My being resident for you with Madame de Vins, occasions my being often with her; and, indeed, I could not wish to be better any where. Poor Madame de la Fayette is now wholly at a loss how to dispose of herself; the loss of M. de la Rochefoucault has made so terrible a void in her life, as to render her a better judge of the value of so precious a friendship. Every one else will be comforted in time; but she, alas! has nothing to occupy her mind, whereas the rest will return to their several avocations.

Mademoiselle de Scuderi is greatly afflicted with the death of M. Fouquet; that life is at length terminated, which so many pains have been taken to preserve. His illness was convulsions, and a constant retching, without being able to vomit. I depend on the chevalier for news, especially what relates to the dauphiness, whose court is composed exactly as you guessed; your notions are very just. The king is often there, which keeps the crowd somewhat at a distance. Adieu, my dear, affectionate child; I love you a thousand times more than I can express.

LETTER LXXXI.

Paris, Friday, April 12, 1680.

You mention the dauphiness to me; the chevalier can tell you more about her than I can. However, I think she does not seem to attach herself much to the queen. They have been to Versailles together, but on other days they generally make their separate parties. The king frequently visits the dauphiness in an afternoon, when he is sure not to be crowded. She holds her circle from eight in the evening till half after nine; all the rest of the day she is alone, or with her ladies in waiting. The Princess of Conti almost always makes one of these private parties; for, as she is yet but very young, she stands in need of such a pattern to form her conduct by. The dauphiness is a miracle of wit, understanding, and good education. She frequently mentions her mother with great affection; and says, that she is indebted to her for all the prosperity and happiness she enjoys, by the pains she bestowed on her. She learns music, singing, and dancing; she reads, she works at her needle; in short, she is a complete being. I must own that I had a great curiosity to see her. Accordingly I went with Madame de Chaulnes and Madame de Carman; she was at her toilet when we came in, and engaged in a conversation in Italian with the Duke of Nevers. We were presented to her, and she received us very politely. It is easy to perceive that, if a moment could be found of putting in a word opportunely, it would not be difficult to engage her in conversation. She is fond of Italian, of poetry, of new publications, music, and dancing. You see that one need not be long dumb amid such a variety of topics for discourse; but it requires time—she was going to mass. Neither Madame de Maintenon nor Madame de Richelieu was in her apartment.

The court, my dear child, is by no means a place for me; I am past the time of life to wish for any settlement there. If I were young I would take pleasure in rendering myself agreeable to this princess; but what right have I to think of returning there? You see what my views are. As for those of my son, they seem to have become more reasonable; he will make a virtue of necessity, and keep his commission quietly. Indeed it is not an object for any one to give himself much trouble to gain, though Heaven knows it has cost us trouble enough; but the truth is, that money is very scarce, and he sees plainly that he must not make a foolish bargain. So, my dear, we must even wait for what Providence shall bring forth.

Yesterday the Bishop of Autun pronounced the funeral oration of Madame de Longueville,[181] at the church of the Carmelites, with all the powers and grace that man is capable of. Here was no Tartuffe,[182] no hypocrite; but a divine of rank, preaching with dignity, and giving an account of that princess’s life with all the elegance imaginable, passing lightly over the most delicate parts of it, and dwelling upon or omitting all that should or should not be said. His text was these words, “Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.” He divided his oration into two parts, equally beautiful; he spoke of the charms of her person, and of the late wars, inimitably; and I need not tell you, that the second part, which was taken up in giving an account of her exemplary penitence for the last twenty-seven years of her life, gave him an ample field to expatiate upon the virtues of her mind, and to place her in the bosom of her God.[183] He took occasion very naturally to praise the king; and the prince was also compelled to digest a great many eulogiums; but as delicately prepared, though in a different manner, as those of Voiture. This hero was present, as were the duke, the Princess of Conti, and all the family, besides an infinite number of other persons; though, in my opinion, too few, for I think this respect was at least due to the prince, on occasion of an event he had not yet ceased to lament. You may perhaps ask me how I came there? Madame de Guénégaud offered the other day at M. de Chaulnes’, to take me with her; as it was not inconvenient to me, I was tempted to embrace the offer; and I assure you I did not at all repent having done so. There were a great many women present, who had as little to do there as myself. Both the prince and the duke paid great attention to all who were there.

I saw Madame de la Fayette as we were coming out of the church; she was bathed in tears; it seems that some of M. de la Rochefoucault’s hand-writing had by accident fallen in her way, which had awakened all her sorrows. I had just parted from the Mesdemoiselles de la Rochefoucault at the Carmelites, who had been also weeping the loss of their father; the eldest, in particular, equaled M. de Marsillac in affectionate sorrow. I really do not think that Madame de la Fayette will ever be comforted; for my part, I am the worst of any of her acquaintance to be with her; for we can not help indulging ourselves in talking of that worthy man, and the conversation is death to her. She was certainly more deserving of his regard than any of those he had an affection for. She has read your little note, and thanks you warmly for the manner in which you seem to enter into her grief.

Have I told you of the reception Madame de Coulanges met with at St. Germain? The dauphiness told her that she already knew her by her letters; that her ladies had also told her a great deal of her wit, and that she wished to judge of it herself. Madame de Coulanges supported her character admirably upon the occasion; her repartees were brilliant, sallies of wit flew without number; in the afternoon she was invited to be of the princess’s private party, with her three friends: all the ladies of the court would have strangled her. You see that by means of these friends she gets admittance to a private conversation; but what does all this tend to? She can not be one of their party in public, nor at table. This spoils the whole; she is fully sensible of the humiliation; and has been these four days tasting these pleasures and dissatisfactions.

We can not forbear adding an epigram of Boileau’s upon him:

Which may be Englished by a parody on a well-known epigram in our language: