LETTERS TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN[11] FROM 1671 TO 1690. (continued 5)

LETTER LXXXII.

Paris, Wednesday, May 1, 1680.

I know not what weather you may have in Provence, but we have had for these weeks past such horrible weather here that several journeys have been delayed by it, and mine among the rest. The good abbé had like to have perished in going and coming from La Trousse; so says M. de la Trousse—you would not have believed me. They had an architect with them, and went to give orders about some alterations, which will make this house, which we before thought so beautiful, hardly to be known again.

We have a new moon to-day, which I hope will bring fine weather with it, and let me set out; I have not yet fixed on what day I shall go. I can not express the concern this second parting gives me; I must surely be out of my senses to remove so much further from you, and to place a distance of a hundred leagues more between us than there is already. I have a mortal aversion to business; it takes up so great a portion of our time, and makes us run hither and thither just as it pleases. I shall be so affected when I am setting out, that those who hand me into my carriage may very naturally think it is at parting with them. I am certain I shall not be able to refrain from tears, and yet I must go, if it is only that I may come back again.

Mademoiselle de Méri is now in possession of your apartment; the noise of that little door opening and shutting, and the circumstance of not finding you there, have affected me more than I can express. All my people do their best to serve her. And if I were vain, I could show you a letter I received from her the other day, full of thanks for the assistance I have given her; but as I am very modest, you know, I will content myself with placing it in my archives.

I have seen Madame de Vins; she is buried in her law-suits. However, we find time to chat together, and express our mutual wonder at the odd medley of good and evil in this world, and the impossibility of being truly happy. You know all that fortune has hitherto done for the Duchess of Fontanges. What she has reserved for her is this: so violent a flux, with some degree of fever, that she is confined to her bed at Maubuisson, and her fine face already begins to swell. The Prior of Cabrières does not quit her for an instant; if he effects a cure, he will not make his fortune badly at court. Think whether her situation does not derogate somewhat from her happiness. Here is further room for reflection. But to another subject.

Madame de Dreux was liberated from prison yesterday; she was only reprimanded, which is a very slight punishment, and fined five hundred livres, which are to be distributed in alms. This poor lady has been confined a whole year in a room, where the light came in only by a small hole at the top, without tidings of any thing going on, or without comfort. Her mother, who doted on her, who was herself still young and handsome, and who was equally beloved by her daughter, died about two months ago, of grief at her child’s situation. Madame de Dreux was ignorant of this event; and yesterday, when her husband and all the family went with open arms to the place where she was confined, to receive her, the first word she spoke on seeing them enter her room, was, “Where is my mother? Why is she not here?” M. de Dreux told her she was waiting for her at home. The poor creature could not, however, enjoy the satisfaction of being at liberty; but was incessantly inquiring what ailed her mother, that she was certain she must be ill, or she would have come to embrace her after so long a separation. At length she got home. “What! my mother not here? I do not see her, I do not hear her!” She flew up stairs. No one knew what to say to her; all were in tears. She ran into her mother’s apartment, she looked about her, called, but received no answer; at length a Celestine friar, who was her confessor, appeared, and told her that she must not hope to see her mother again till they met in heaven, and that she must submit with resignation to the Divine will. Upon hearing this she fainted away, and when she recovered, burst into tears and lamentations, which pierced the hearts of all present, crying that it was she who had killed her mother; that she had rather have died in prison, than have been set at liberty to know the loss of so excellent a parent. Coulanges, who had run to M. de Dreux’s, like many other friends, was witness to the whole of this affecting scene, which he related to us yesterday so naturally and pathetically, that Madame de Coulanges’ eyes looked red, and I wept heartily, being wholly unable to suppress my tears. What think you, my child, of this bitter ingredient thrown into the cup of joy and triumph, to overpower the congratulations and embraces of a whole family and their friends? The poor soul is still in tears, notwithstanding all M. de Richelieu’s endeavors to dry them for her. He has indeed done wonders in this affair.

I have been insensibly led into this long detail, which you will comprehend better than any one, and which has affected every heart. It is believed that M. de Luxembourg will be set at liberty upon as easy terms as Madame de Dreux; for some of the judges would have released her without even being reprimanded. And, upon the whole, the treatment of the accused persons has been shocking and scandalous, considering that nothing was proved against them. This, however, shows the integrity of the judges.

We all approve the discourses of your preacher; we have envied and admired him. The passion-sermon, which we heard not far from hence, was a most extraordinary one; I assure you the terms rascal and scoundrel were made use of, to express the humiliation of our blessed Saviour. Do not these terms convey noble and sublime ideas? Bourdaloüe preached like an angel from heaven, both last year and this, for it is the same sermon.

What you write me about this world appearing quite another world, if we could draw aside the curtain in every family, is both well expressed and perfectly true. Good heavens! who can tell whether even the heart of the princess, whom we praise so much, is thoroughly contented? She has appeared dull these three or four days past; who knows how things are with her? She would be with child, and she is not. Perhaps she wants to see Paris and St. Cloud, and she has not yet seen them. She is extremely affable; she studies to please. Who knows but this may cost her some uneasiness? Who knows whether she is pleased alike with all the ladies who have the honor of attending upon her? And lastly, who knows but she may be weary of so retired a life?

I have this very moment received your amiable melancholy letter of the 24th. Believe me, my dear child, it sensibly affects me. I am not yet set out, the bad weather detains me, for it would have been folly to expose myself in such a season. This has unhinged every thing. I shall write to you from Paris again, on Friday, and will tell you about the alterations that are going on: I gave my opinion first, and am not so silly as you think, when you are in the case. We read in history[184] of greater miracles: there are affections which do not yield to the other passion; hence I am become an architect.

I admire extremely what you say respecting devotion. Good heavens! how truly may it be said that we are all like Tantalus with water close to our lips, and unable to drink! Let the heart be cold, the understanding enlightened, it is just the same. I have no need of the dispute between the Jansenists and Molinists to decide this matter. What I feel myself is sufficient, and how can I doubt it, if I observe myself an instant? I could talk a long time, and with infinite pleasure on this subject, if we were together, but you stop short, and I am silent. Corbinelli had his share of your letter, for I am fond of his frank truths. He has just heard a sermon of the Abbé Flechier’s,[185] at the taking the vail of a young Capuchin nun, which has charmed him. The subject was the freedom of the children of God, which he explained in a bold and masterly style. He showed “that this young person alone could be called free, because she partook of the freedom of Christ and his saints; and she was released from the slavery in which we are held by our passions; that it was she who was free, and not we; that she had but one master, whereas we had a hundred; and that instead of lamenting for her, as we did, with a worldly sorrow which was blamable, we ought to consider, respect, and even envy her, as a person chosen from all eternity to be of the number of the elect.” I have not repeated the tenth part of what he said on this subject; but it was altogether a finished piece. The funeral oration on Madame de Longueville is not to be printed.

You ask me why I do not take Corbinelli with me? He is going into Languedoc, loaded with the favors and civilities of M. de Vardes, who has accompanied his pension of 120 francs with so excellent a seasoning, I mean so many kind and affectionate sentiments, that our friend’s philosophy could not withstand it. Vardes is always in extremes; and as I am persuaded that he formerly hated him, because he had used him ill, he now loves him, because he uses him well: this is the Italian proverb and its reverse.[186] I am going there with only the good abbé, and a few books, and your idea, which will prove the source of all my pleasure or pain. I assure you it will keep me from staying out in the evening dews: I shall recollect that it would displease you; and this will not be the only time you have prevented me from continuing my evening walk, and made me return home. I promise to consult you, and to follow your advice at all times; do the same by me, and be under no alarms; rest assured that I will take care of myself; I wish I could put the same confidence in you; but I have many subjects of complaint against you on this score; and without going further than Monaco, have I not the banks of the Rhône, whither you forced the stoutest hearts in your family to accompany you, in spite of themselves? I repeat it, in spite of themselves; and be pleased to remember, on the other hand, that I should die with fear even to pass les vaux D’Olioules[187] on foot. This confession of my cowardice is sufficient to prove my apprehensions and ensure your confidence. Let then, my dear child, the remembrance of me govern you, in some degree, as yours always governs me.

I fancy my son will meet me at Orléans. I am aware of the attentions of M. de Grignan: he has politeness, nobleness, and even affectionate tenderness; but he has some points which are not so agreeable, and more difficult to be conceived; and as every thing is cut diamond-wise, he has many sides which are inimitable, so that we are at once tempted to love and to scold him, to esteem and to blame, to embrace and to beat him.

Adieu, my dear child; I must now leave you. Surely you mean to laugh at me when you express your apprehensions lest I should write too much. My lungs are almost as delicate as Georget’s:[188] excuse the comparison, it comes from hence. But for you, my child, let me conjure you not to write. Montgobert, pray do not abandon me, but step in and take the pen from her hand.

LETTER LXXXIII.

Paris, Monday, May 6, 1680.

You observe with great humor, that, if the human heart is left to itself, it will always find something to comfort itself with, and that its disposition is to be happy. I hope mine will have the same disposition as others, and that time and the air will abate the uneasiness I at present endure. I think you borrowed from me what you say about the passion of separating ourselves from each other; it might be supposed that we thought ourselves too near neighbors, and that after mature deliberation it had been resolved on both sides to make a voluntary removal of three hundred leagues further asunder. You see I in a manner copy your own letter; the reason is, that you have given so agreeable a turn to my idea, that I take pleasure in repeating it. I hope at last, the sea will set bounds to our passion, and that after having retired, each to a certain distance, we shall return back, and advance toward each other as fast as we have receded. It is certain that for two persons who seek each other’s company, and delight in being together, we have had the most singular destiny. Whoever were to seek to destroy my faith in Providence, would deprive me of my only comfort; and if I thought it was in our own power to settle or unsettle, to do or undo, to will one thing or another, I should never have a moment’s peace. The Creator of the universe must be with me the director of every event that happens; and when I look to him as the cause, I blame no one, and submit with humility, though not without inexpressible grief of heart; at the same time I put my trust in Him, that He will again bring us together as he has done before.

LETTER LXXXIV.

The Rocks, Friday, May 31, 1680.

Notwithstanding this letter will not go till Sunday, I am resolved to begin it to-day, that I may date once more in the month of May. I fear that of June will appear still longer to me. I am certain, however, of not seeing so fine a country as the one I have left. There is a month in the year in which it rains every day; this is owing to your prayers; why will you not leave Providence a little to itself? sometimes too much rain, sometimes too great drought; you are never contented. God forgive me! but this puts me in mind of the story of Jupiter in Lucian, who is so wearied with the incessant importunities of mortals, that he sends Mercury to inquire into the matter, and, at the same time, orders ten thousand bushels of hail to fall upon Egypt, to stop their mouths.

I will no longer oblige you to answer me on the subject of the Divine Providence, which I so greatly revere; and which, in my opinion, commands and orders every thing in the world. I am persuaded you will not dare to treat this opinion as an inconceivable mystery, with the disciples of your Father Descartes; it would be indeed inconceivable, that God should have made the world, and not direct all that passes in it. Those who make such fine restrictions and contradistinctions in their writings, speak much more freely, and with greater truth on the subject, when they have no crooked policy to govern them. These cutpurses are very agreeable in their conversation. I shall not mention their names, because I fancy you guess the principal one: the others are the Abbé du Pile, and M. Dubois,[189] whom you are acquainted with, and who has an infinite share of wit. Poor Nicole is still in the Ardennes,[190] and M. Arnauld buried under ground, like a mole.[191] But whither is my pen running? This is not what I meant to say to you. I intended to tell you that I received your letters at the place where we dined the day I left Nantes, and that, having no other means of conversing with you at so great a distance, the reading of them forms an occupation preferable to every other.

We found the roads greatly improved between Nantes and Rennes, thanks to the care of M. de Chaulnes; but the incessant rains we have had of late have made them as if two winters had followed close upon each other. We were continually in sloughs, or rivers of water; we did not dare to cross over by Chateaubriant, for fear of being unable to get further. We arrived at Rennes on Ascension eve, and dear good Marbeuf was ready to devour me; nothing would satisfy her, but my taking up my abode for a time at her house, but I refused; I would neither sup nor sleep there: the next day she gave me a very elegant public breakfast, when the governor, and every person of note in the town, came to visit me. We set out again at ten o’clock, though every body assured me, that I had time enough before me, and that the roads were like this room; for that, you know, is the usual comparison: however, we found them so much like this room, that we did not get there till after midnight, and were all the way up to the axle-trees in water, and from Vitré to this place, a road I have passed a thousand and a thousand times, it was impossible to know it again; the causeways are become impassable; the ruts are sunk to a frightful depth; the little inequalities are perfect mountains and caverns; in a word, finding that we could no longer find our way, we sent to Pilois for help; he came accordingly bringing with him about a dozen stout country-fellows, some of whom held up the carriage, while others went before with wisps of lighted straw; and all spoke such jargon, that we were ready to die with laughing; at length, thus attended, we arrived here, our horses jaded, our people dripping, our carriage almost broken down, and ourselves tolerably fatigued; we made a very light supper, went to bed, slept heartily, and this morning, when we awoke, we found ourselves safe and sound at the Rocks, though very much out of sorts. I had taken the precaution to send a servant before us, that we might not come into the midst of a dust of four years standing; and we are tolerably decent at least. We have been entertained with a great number of visitors from Vitré, such as the Recollets, Mademoiselle du Plessis, still in tears for her mother, etc. etc., but I had not a moment’s comfort till I had got rid of them all, which was about six o’clock in the evening, and had spent a little time in my woods, with honest Pilois. The walks and alleys are really enchanting; there are half a dozen new ones you have never seen. By the by, be under no apprehension about my exposing myself to the damps; I know it would make you angry if I did, and that is sufficient to deter me.

You always tell me that you are in good health, and so does Montgobert; and yet I can not help thinking that the plan of plunging twice a day into the Rhône can only suit a person whose blood is violently heated. I entreat you, my child, to consult a very grave and learned author in regard to the effects bathing may have on your lungs: you know I was witness to the evident injury you sustained from your half-baths, though they were advised by Fagon.[192]

You must certainly have stood in need of all your strength to support the numerous visitors you have had; twenty persons extraordinary at table makes me start a little. These are whole retinues, as Corbinelli used to call them, when he found himself so crowded in your drawing-room, and neither saluted nor took notice of any one; it must be owned that your house is the most frequented of any in the country; this is living at rack and manger. Do you remember when we had all the Fouesnels here, with what impatience we waited for the happy minute when they were to take their leave; how cheerfully we bid them adieu in our hearts, and how terrified we were lest they should yield to the false entreaties we made them to stay; how our hearts bounded when we saw them fairly gone; and our reflections how much bad company was preferable to good, the latter occasioning pain when they leave us, whereas the departure of the other takes a weight from the mind, and restores it to freedom? do you remember all this, and how perfectly we enjoyed ourselves upon the occasion?

Madame de Coulanges writes me word that Madame de Maintenon has lost a cane to the dauphin; Madame de Coulanges has ordered it to be made. The head is a pomegranate of gold, studded with rubies; it opens and discovers the miniature picture of the dauphiness, with these words underneath, Il piu grato nasconde.[193] Clement formerly made this device for you; but that which seemed an exaggeration when applied to you, is perfectly true with regard to this princess. The beautiful Fontanges still continues very ill. My son tells me they pass their time very pleasantly at Fontainebleau. Corneille’s comedies are the delight of the whole court; I have written to my son that it must be a great pleasure to be obliged to be there, to have a master, a place, and the favor of the great; and had it been my case I should have been extremely fond of that part of the world; that the contrary was the sole reason of my removing to such a distance from it; that this kind of contempt was, in fact, the result of disappointment and vexation, and that I abused it out of pure revenge, as Montaigne says of youth; in short, that I wondered how he could prefer passing his time as I do, with Madame du Plessis and Mademoiselle de Launay, to spending it in the midst of all that is gay and great.

What I say for myself, my child, I say in reality for you; for do not imagine, if M. de Grignan and you were situated agreeably to your merit, that you would have any dislike to such a life; but it does not please Providence that you should arrive at more greatness than you at present possess. As to myself, I have seen the day when little, very little, was wanting for fortune to have placed me in the most agreeable situation in the world; when, all of a sudden, the scene changed to imprisonment and exile.[194] Do you think my fortune has been the happiest in the world? yet I am content; or, if I have my moments of murmuring, it is not on my own account.

Your description of Madame D.’s conduct is very amusing; it is a sort of economy in love, worthy of Armida. You seem to believe that M. de Rouillé will not return; I am sorry for it, and I should be still more so were it not that I believe your stay in Provence almost at an end, and consequently that you can have little occasion for him. If any thing is to be done in the assembly, the coadjutor will give a good account of it, in the absence of M. de Grignan.

LETTER LXXXV.

The Rocks, Wednesday, June 5, 1680.

At length I have the pleasure, at this immense distance from each other, to receive your letters on the ninth day after they are written, with the prospect of happier times before me. I often admire the great kindness and civility of those gentlemen of whom the author of Moral Essays speaks so humorously, and to whom we are so much indebted. What do they not do for us? To what offices do they not submit, to be useful to us? Some run four or five hundred miles to carry our letters; others, at the hazard of their necks, climb to the tops of our houses, to prevent our being incommoded by the rains; and others suffer still more. In short, this is an arrangement of Providence; and the thought of gain, which is in itself an evil, becomes converted into a source of good.

I have brought a number of the best authors with me, which I have been arranging this morning. There is no looking into them, whichever it may be, without a desire to read it through. Some are religious tracts that do honor to the faith they maintain; others books of history, the best of their kind; besides ethics, poetry, novels, and memoirs. The romances are in disgrace, and banished to a by-closet. When I enter this little library I wonder how I am able to leave it again. In short, my child, it is altogether worthy of your presence, and so are my walks; but, for the company, it is very far from being so. There is strange skimming of the pot on Sundays:[195] one good thing, however, is, that they sup at six o’clock, and leave me to fly to my lawns and groves for relief. Madame du Plessis, in her deep mourning, never quits me. I could well say of her mother as of M. de Bonneuil, she has left a very ridiculous daughter behind her: she is so impertinent too. I am really ashamed of her regard for me, and I sometimes say to myself, Is it possible there can be any sympathy between her and me? She talks incessantly; but by the grace of God, I am to her, as you are to many others, absolutely dead; I do not hear three words she says. She is at daggers drawn with all her family about her mother’s will: this is a new embellishment to the former beauties of her mind: she confounds the meaning of every thing she says; and when she is complaining of the ill-treatment she receives, she cries, They have used me like a barbarity, like a cruelty. You will have me entertain you with such trash, and now I hope you have enough for a time.

My letters are of such an enormous length that you ought, according to your rule, to make yours to me very short, and leave all the rest to Montgobert. Health is at all times a real and intrinsic treasure, that will serve us on every exigency. Madame de Coulanges has written me a thousand trifles, that I would communicate to you, but that I think it would be absolutely ridiculous. The favor of her female friend (Madame de Maintenon) still continues. The queen accuses her of the cause of the distance between her and the dauphiness. The king comforts her for this disgrace: she visits him every day, and their conversations are of a length that surprises every body, and gives occasion to numberless conjectures.

I consider futurity as a dark road, in which the traveler may find light and accommodation when he least thinks of it.

M. de Lavardin is going to be married[196] in good earnest; and Madame de Mouci[197] is said to be the person who inspires Madame de Lavardin with the idea of doing every thing that can prove advantageous to her son. This De Mouci must certainly have a most extraordinary soul. Young Molac is to marry the Duchess of Fontanges’s sister; the king gives him to the value of 400,000 francs with her.

How just is your observation upon the death of M. de la Rochefoucault and so many other friends! “The ranks close, and he is seen no more.” It is certain that Madame de la Fayette is overwhelmed with grief, and can not feel, as she would have done at another time, the good fortune of her son. The dauphiness was particular in her attentions to her: the Princess of Savoy has spoken of her as her best friend.

I am very glad my letter pleased M. de Grignan: I spoke my mind with great sincerity. He must divest himself of all those ruinous whims, which take their turns with him by the quarter. They must not merely sleep, like the nobility of Lower Brittany, but be altogether extinct.

Adieu, my beloved child; I admire and love your letters, and yet I will have no more of them; cut short, and leave Montgobert to prattle in your stead. I will try to take from you the desire of writing much: by the length of my letters you shall find them beyond your strength to answer, which is just what I wish; so shall I be a shield to you. I am of opinion that you have a numerous correspondence upon your hands, say what you will; for my part, I only stand upon the defensive in my answers, I never begin the attack; but then, even these seem of such a bulk, that, on post-days, when I retire to my chamber at night, and see my writing-desk, I am ready to run under the bed to hide myself, like our late madame’s little dog, whenever it saw a book.

LETTER LXXXVI.

The Rocks, Wednesday, June 12, 1680.

So, I have written a sermon without thinking of it! I am as much surprised at this as the Count de Soissons,[198] when he was told he had made prose. It is true, I feel myself disposed to do all honor to the grace of Christ. I do not cry out, as the queen-mother did in the excess of her zeal against those vile Jansenists, “Ah! fie, fie upon grace!” I say the contrary, and can bring good vouchers for it. Since you have imparted to me your visions, with regard to the fortunes of your brothers-in-law, I will tell you sincerely that I was afraid the air of a house, where saving grace was sometimes talked of, might have injured the Abbé de Grignan. Thank heaven, I have done no more harm than yourself; and if I am silent for the future, as I ought, and certainly shall be, it will not be from the fear of injuring any one. Your young bishops are seldom suspected of this heresy. I have just been writing to the chevalier: he has absolutely forgotten me, and as he is not infected with the Grignan indolence, it may be a serious business.

Your great building, my dear, is begun to-day; Du But will do all he can to hasten the workmen. There was no possibility of commencing sooner, and there is time enough to complete every thing. I send you a letter of Madame de Lavardin’s, by which you will see what are her sentiments. I am almost tempted to send you likewise a very long letter I have received from Madame de Mouci, in which she takes pleasure in acquainting me with every thing she has done relatively to this marriage; she has made choice of me, in preference to any other person, to communicate the whole of his conduct to. She is in the right; the second volume is worthy the admiration of any one who had read the first. She seems happy in taking every opportunity of loading M. de Lavardin with favors, by means of the influence she has over his mother. She has made her give a thousand pounds worth of pearls; she has made her give all the fire-irons, stoves, candlesticks, tables, and silver waiters, that were worth having; handsome tapestry, fine old furniture, with linen and dressing gowns, which Madame de Mouci selected herself. Her heart takes this method of avenging itself; but for her it would have been a mere village wedding. She has made her give considerable estates to her son, and, to crown all, she will manage so that the new married couple will not live in the same house with the mother, whose overbearing temper, and rigid observance of hours, would by no means suit the young couple. Madame de Mouci delights in displaying to me the liberality of her soul, and I am amazed to see the extraordinary manner in which she contributes to M. de Lavardin’s happiness. The desire of being singular, and of distinguishing ourselves by stepping a little out of the common road, seems to me to be the source of many virtues. She writes me word that she should be very happy if I were at Paris, because I should understand her; no one else being able to comprehend what she is doing. She adds besides that I should die with laughing, to see the grimaces Madame de Lavardin makes, every time the devil of avarice is cast out of her by the power of her exorcisms. The poor lady seems perfectly exhausted, like the nuns of Loudun.[199] It must certainly be a very comic scene.

I have also received some very entertaining letters from the Marchioness d’Huxelles. The fair widows do wonders. Madame de Coulanges assures me, that she is to set out on the 20th for Lyons; she writes me a thousand trifles. This city will become the source of all the private intelligence of the court; but do you suppose she will communicate any of this precious commodity to the inhabitants?

I had a visit the other day from an Augustin friar, a poor creature, a very poor creature indeed. He assumed the airs of a preacher, but I answered his pompous ignorance only with a smile of contempt; he still went on, till at last I was strongly tempted to throw a book at his head. I fancy Madame de Coulanges will be ready to reply in the same way to the ladies of Lyons. Young Coulanges will be with you; he has given up M. de Chaulnes and Brittany for Lyons and the Grignans. I am quite of his opinion, my dearest child, and my greatest joy would be to make one of your party. Ah! how I should like to sup in your delightful grotto! How pleased I should be with M. de Grignan’s music, and those beautiful passages in the opera, which have often made my eyes glisten. Oh! it would be a charming party. Your house is a little town. Really, to reflect upon our situations and dispositions, it might be supposed some magic change had been wrought upon us. And yet, to the honor of both, you fill your exalted station admirably, and shine as in your proper sphere; while I and my humble fortune seem fitted for the woods, and the solitude I inhabit. The truth is, I am assured from whence all this comes; it is necessary to raise our eyes to Heaven, after having long kept them fixed upon the earth.

The other evening one of my people told me, “that it was very warm in the mall; that there was not a breath of air stirring, and that the moon shone with the finest effect imaginable.” I could not resist the temptation, so on I put bonnets, cloaks, capuchins, and all the needless defenses you could wish; and forth I sallied to the mall, where the air was as mild as in my own room. I found there a thousand fantastic illusions of the night, black and white friars, linen scattered here and there, black men in one place, others buried upright against trees, little dwarfs who just showed their heads and concealed the rest of their bodies, priests who dared not approach me, etc., etc. After having laughed heartily at all these figures, and fully convinced ourselves of the true origin of what are called spirits, apparitions, that play their farces in the theater of our imaginations, we returned to the house without sitting down, or feeling the lest dew. I beg your pardon, my dear child, but I thought myself obliged, after the example of the ancients, as the foolish fellow we met in the gardens at Livri used to say, to show this mark of respect to the moon; I assure you I have sustained no injury from it.

There has fallen to me, out of the clouds, one of the prettiest calambour[200] chaplets in the world; this is doubtless because I tell my beads so well. The best ball to the best player, you know. This chaplet has a cross of diamonds hanging to it, with a death’s head of coral; I have certainly seen that vile face somewhere. Tell me, I beseech you, how it found its way to me at such a distance? In the mean time, I shall not tell my beads without considerable musings; I am of opinion that it will occasion greater distractions. I wait your answer on this subject.

Have you heard the story of Madame de Saint-Pouanges? They concealed it a long time from me, lest it should prevent me from returning to Paris in a carriage. This lady was going to Fontainebleau, for we should let no advantage slip, where she pretended she should be highly entertained; she had a very pretty place at court, was young, and had a taste for all the pleasures suitable to her years; she adopted the fashionable mode of setting out at six o’clock in the evening, and driving post, so as to get in about midnight. But, listen to the consequences: her carriage was overturned by the way, a piece of broken glass pierced through her stays into her body, and she died of the wound. They write me word from Paris that she lost her reason, between the pain the surgeons gave her and the mortification of dying in the bloom of youth. Is not this a curious adventure? If you know it already, it will be ridiculous to tell it you a second time; but it has made a strange impression on my brain. It seems Madame de Nevers[201] has made one, on the greatest head in the world, and has turned another smaller one quite topsy-turvy; but I do not find that this has been attended with any serious consequences.

The king took the sacrament on Whitsunday. Madame de Fontange’s influence still continues brilliant and solid; but what are we to think of this friendship? I have received a letter from M. Pomponne, in the midst of his retirement, of which I am more proud than if it had been from amid all the splendor of St. Germain. It is there he is again become as perfect as at Frêne. Ah! how excellent a use does he make of his disgrace, and what charming company he is in!

LETTER LXXXVII.

The Rocks, Saturday, June 15, 1680.

I shall make no answer to what you say of my letters. I am extremely happy that they please you; had you not told me so I should have thought them unbearable. I never can muster up courage enough to read one of them through, and I often say to myself, Good heavens! with what nonsense do I pester my poor child! Sometimes I even repent having written so much, lest I should lay you under a sort of obligation to answer me in the same way; but let me entreat you, my child, to indulge me in the pleasure of chatting to you without putting yourself to the trouble of answering. Your last letter exceeded all the bounds of prudence and the care you ought to take of your health.

You are too good in wishing me more society; but, in fact, I do not want it. I am accustomed to solitude. I have my workmen to amuse me, and the good abbé has his likewise. His taste for buildings and alterations gets the better of his prudence. It does not cost him much, indeed, but it would cost him still less to let it alone.

All my delight is in my wood: it is impossible to describe how beautiful it is. I often walk there with my cane and Louison, which is all I desire. In my closet I find such agreeable company that I often say to myself, This is worthy my daughter; she could not here lay her hand amiss upon a book, there is hardly room left for choice. I have taken up Les Conversations Chrétiennes (Christian Dialogues). They are written by an honest Cartesian, who seems to have all your Recherche de la Vérité (Inquiry after Truth), by heart; which treats of that philosophy, and of the supreme power of God over his creatures, who, as St. Paul says, “live, move, and have their being,” in Him alone, and by him know all things. I will let you know if this book is within my comprehension, if not, I shall quit it with all humility, renouncing the foolish vanity of appearing wise when I am not so. I assure you I think like our brothers; and were I to express myself in print, I should say so. I know the difference between the language of policy and that of the heart. God is omnipotent, and does what he pleases; that I understand. He wants our hearts, and we will not give them to him; there lies the mystery. But do not discover that of our sisters of Saint-Marie: they write me word that they are charmed with the book I lent them.[202]

You remind me of the foolish answer I made to excuse myself from going to Madame de Bret***,[203] “that I had but one son.” This made your bishops start. I thought that it had been merely my heretical air. I mentioned it to you the other day. I think, however, there appeared something strange in the expression. Heaven be praised, my dear countess, we have done no harm; your brothers could not be better provided for than at present, even had we been Molinists. Probable opinions, and the direction of purposes, would not have been more advantageous to them in the Hôtel de Carnavalet than the libertinism of our conversations. I am delighted at it, and have often thought how unjustly we might have suffered on this occasion.

I can make nothing of the affair of M. de la Trousse or Madame d’Epinoi, or of the servant who robbed them. I will endeavor to get information on this subject, and will send you the letters. You find that poor Madame de Lavardin is quite unhappy. Who would have supposed that she would have been otherwise than rejoiced at her son’s being married?[204] But I speak like a fool. It should be our invariable maxim, that human nature can never be happy. Young Chiverni seems to be as much so as any one: you see how he has extricated himself from his misery. Your poor brother, indeed, seems fated never to be happy in this world; as to the other world, if we may judge by appearances, I see no probability of his being in the right road. The Bishop of Chalons is certainly in heaven, for he was a devout prelate and a virtuous man. You see all our friends are lost to us one after another.

I wrote the other day to Madame de Vins that I would leave her to guess what sort of virtue I practiced most here; and informed her it was liberality. It is certain that I have given away very considerable sums since my arrival; eight hundred francs one morning, one thousand another, five hundred another, one day three hundred crowns; you may think I am jesting, but it is too true. I have farmers and millers who owe me these sums, and have not a farthing to pay me with. What is to be done in this case? Why I make a virtue of necessity, and forgive them the debts. You will readily believe that I make no great merit of this since it is forced liberality; but my head was full of it when I wrote to Madame de Vins, and so down it went on the paper. I endeavor to make the fines pay for it. I have not yet touched one of the six thousand francs from Nantes; money-matters are not soon settled. The other day I had a visit from a pretty little wife of a farmer of Bodégat, with sparkling eyes, fine person, and smartly dressed in a holland gown, with ruffled cuffs, and a long train. Good heavens! thought I, when I saw her, I am ruined; for you must know, her husband owes me eight thousand francs. M. de Grignan would certainly have fallen in love with this woman; she is the very image of one he admired at Paris. This morning a countryman came in with bags on all sides, some under his arms, some in his pockets, and some in his breeches, which he began to untie, for in this country they dress in a strange way; the fashion of buttoning the lower part of the jacket is not yet introduced here; they are very saving of the stuff of which their breeches are composed, and from the gentry of Vitré down to my clodpole, every thing is in the highest state of negligence. The good abbé, who, you know, loves the main chance, seeing the fellow so loaded, thought we were rich forever. “Upon my word, friend, you are bravely loaded, how much money do you bring us?” “Please your reverence,” answered the man, “I think there is a matter of thirty francs.” My dear child, I believe all the doubles[205] in France were collected to fill these bags. In this manner do they abuse our patience and forbearance.

You give me great pleasure by what you say of Montgobert. I thought, indeed, what I wrote to you upon her account was superfluous, and that your excellent understanding would reconcile every thing. In this manner, my child, you ought always to act, in spite of momentary vexations. Montgobert has an excellent heart, though her temper is rather too hasty and impetuous; I always honor the goodness of her heart. We are frequently obliged to bear with the little dependencies and circumstances of friendship, though they may sometimes be disagreeable. I shall some day send her a bad cause to defend at Rochecourbière; since she has a talent for these things, it ought to be exercised. You will have M. de Coulanges with you; who will be a capital performer. He will inform you of his views and expectations, I know nothing of them myself; he dreads solitude so much that he will not even write to any one who lives in it. Grignan, therefore, is a place perfectly qualified to charm him, as he himself is to charm others; I never met with such delightful society, it is the object of all my wishes; I think of you all incessantly; I read your letters over and over again, saying as at Livri: Let us see what my daughter said to me a week or ten days ago; for, in short, it is she who converses with me, and I thus enjoy “the ingenious art of painting language, and of talking to the eyes.”

You know it is not the retired groves at the Rocks that make me think of you; I thought of you as much in the midst of the bustle of Paris. You are fixed in the center of my heart; every thing else is transient; it passes and is forgotten. I have forgotten even my Agnes, and yet she is very amiable; her wit has something of the simplicity of the country in it; but that of Madame de Tarente is still in the high courtly taste. The roads from hence to Vitré are grown so intolerably bad, that the king and M. de Chaulnes have ordered them to be repaired. All the peasants of that barony will be assembled there on Monday next.

Adieu, my dearest! when I tell you that my affection is of no use to you, do you not understand in what way I mean, and to what my heart and imagination tend? Pray tell me if you intend to place our little girl at Aix with her aunt,[206] and to send Paulina away. The dear child is a perfect prodigy; her understanding and wit are a sufficient portion for her; will you then place her on a level with a common person? I should always take her with me wherever I went, and should never think of sending her to Aix with her sister.[207] In short, I should treat her, as she merits, extraordinarily.

LETTER LXXXVIII.

The Rocks, Sunday, Sept. 15, 1680.

What infinite obligations does my heart owe you, and how happy have you made it, by permitting me to hope for your presence this winter! I have read over and over again the delightful letter I so fondly and impatiently expected. I said to myself, “Yes, this is the voice of my child, who assures me she shall come to Paris soon after All-Saints.” Oh, how great the joy to have such comfortable assurance in my possession!

You surprise me at the profound secrecy that our lovely saint observes of her noble and pious intentions to Madame du Janet. It is so natural to talk of what we ardently wish, of what the heart is full of, that it is doing penance beforehand to keep silence on such occasions; but such is her disposition; she speaks on this subject only to her holy father alone, as it is he alone who is to determine the duration of a residence which she would be sorry to have protracted. By depriving herself of the pleasure of communicating her intentions, she finds them more strongly confirmed in her breast.

I can not at this distance discover what is become of the crowd that so lately swarmed in your castle. I left you, I thought, in the midst of a fair; but since I now find you reposing on your little bed, you must certainly have found means to escape from the throng. Montgobert has not written to me, and you mention your health very slightly; you ought to have informed me whether the medicines you are taking have the desired effect, and whether this thinness upon thinness is likely to reduce you to your former state. It is a sad misfortune that what does you service in one way, should injure you in another; it throws a damp upon the satisfaction we should otherwise feel.

We are at present among a set of persons with whom we make great use of both our reason and reasoning. You know, my child, what a good hearer I am, thanks to God and you, as they say in this country; I have lost, by dint of listening to you, the gross ignorance I possessed on many subjects; this is a pleasure I now feel the advantage of. We have had here a party or two at ombre and reversis, and the next day altra scena (a change of scene). M. de Montmoron came, you know he has a great deal of wit; Father Damaie, who does not live quite a hundred miles from this place; my son, who you know is perfect master of disputation, and Corbinelli’s letters, making four, and I am audience for them; they entertain me exceedingly. M. de Montmoron perfectly understands your philosophy, and controverts it stoutly. My son maintains the cause of your father; as also Damaie; and Corbinelli, in his letters, takes the same side; but they are not all more than a match for Montmoron. He insists that we can have no ideas but what are imparted through the medium of the senses. My son contends that we think independently of our senses; for instance, we think that we think:[208] this is in general the subject of our disputations, which have been carried on with great spirit, and have delighted me extremely. Could you, my child, have made a party in this conversation, by your letter, as Corbinelli has done, you would have strengthened a little our Sévigné. And now I mention him, I must acquaint you that he is still very far from being well, though he thinks himself out of danger, as indeed I do also; but he is tired of doctors as well as you; he has taken more medicines than were necessary; they have acted upon his blood, and heated it to such a degree that every day some of those horrible eruptions appear which are so very disagreeable both to those who suffer and those who see them; thus the poor fellow is happy to have a little respite, that he may repose himself.

Yesterday I observed, with admiration, how very easy it is to console ourselves for the want of play by a better avocation; and how patient we are while we are squandering our money in farthings, as I said the other day at Rennes. But without imitating you, for I hate a bad copy of a good original, I shall tell you that my age and experience make me wish not to have always such demands upon me, and that I could now and then put a little wit into my poor head; indeed it is what I am every day endeavoring to do when in my closet or my wood. You will not perhaps be displeased to know the person who has engaged us in play of late. It is a tolerably pretty woman from Vitré, who has been here three nights, and during her stay we have hardly had the cards out of our hands, she is so passionately fond of them. How much better does Mademoiselle de Grignan spend her time, happy creature! In reading your letters over more carefully, I find she speaks without reserve of her intentions to Madame du Janet, and that is the only conversation she had with M. de Grignan that she conceals from her; but still I can not help wondering that she should mention the one without the other. It must be no small satisfaction to her to have the conversation of so prudent and good a person. I reverence more than ever the wise dispensations of Providence when I reflect how it turns the steps you are about to take to my advantage; and I already begin to enjoy, in imagination, the pleasure I am to receive.

I ask a thousand pardons: I have met with a little book of madrigals,[209] containing the prettiest things in the world. I must endeavor to bring them into favor with you this winter. It is a pleasure to have a bad memory; we are reading Sarasin again, and I am as much delighted with him as at first; this is the case also with Les Petites Lettres; we find something new in these, and we add others according to our fancy: your brother has an excellent knack at furnishing these amusements. I had a mind to dip again into the Prejudices,[210] I think them admirable: but what crowns the whole, my dearest child, is, that these things all lead directly to you. Oh, how sweet the consolation, to think that we shall meet once more! Alas, a whole year has passed in continual adieus; mortifying occupation! I can not look upon the past with so much tranquillity as you do. It is to me a source of the bitterest uneasiness, at least it has been so till I read the pleasing assurance of your return; now I forgive it in consideration of the future, which offers itself to my imagination fraught with hopes that make amends for all.

But what deceives Madame de Sévigné here, is the word to think, ill understood, and applied to many secondary operations of the understanding. Its too general signification disguises its origin. Descartes himself was mistaken by not submitting this word sufficiently to the analysis which he himself invented.

LETTER LXXXIX.

The Rocks, Sunday, Sept. 22, 1680.

You are so much of a philosopher, my beloved child, that there is no such thing as giving vent to the transports of the heart with you. You are continually anticipating hopes; and you pass over the joy of possession, to contemplate the hour of separation. Believe me, we ought to manage differently the blessings which Providence has in store for us. After having made you this reproach, it remains with me honestly to confess that I deserve it as much as you do, and that it is impossible for any one to be more alarmed at the cruel rapidity of time, or to have a stronger foretaste of those sorrows which generally follow in the train of pleasures. In short, my child, this life is a perpetual checker-work of good and evil, pleasure and pain. When in possession of what we desire, we are only so much the nearer losing it; and when at a distance from it, we live in the expectation of enjoying it again. It is our business, therefore, to take things as God is pleased to send them. For my part, I am resolved to indulge myself in the delightful hope of seeing you, without any mixture of alloy.

You are very unjust, my love, in the judgment you pass upon yourself; you say, that though people at first think you agreeable, upon a longer acquaintance they cease to love you; it is precisely the reverse; you have a certain air of superiority that makes people afraid of you, and despair of ever being admitted into the number of your friends; but when once they know you, it is impossible not to be attached to you; and if any of your acquaintance seem to shun you, it is only because they love you, and can not bear the thought of not being so much loved in return as they wish. I have heard many persons extol the charms of your friendship to the skies, and afterward reflect on their own want of merit, which prevented them from preserving that happiness; thus each blames himself for a degree of coldness; but where there is no real cause of complaint on either side, it seems only to require a little leisurely conversation to be good friends again.

I have a great desire to read Terence; nothing could give me greater pleasure than to see the originals, of which the copies have afforded me so much pleasure. My son will translate to me satire against foolish amours;[211] he ought to be able to write one himself, or at least to profit by this; if the situation he is in at present does not correct him, I know not what will. We read books of controversy; one has lately been published[212] in answer to the Prejudices, to which I wish M. Arnauld had replied; but I fancy that he has been forbidden; and it is thought more advisable to leave this book unanswered, though it may do injury to religion, than to permit the publication of another that may serve to justify the Jansenists from the errors with which they have been reproached; but more of this another time. I have been promised the coadjutor’s speech, but I have not yet had it; my son and several others speak highly in its praise.

LETTER XC.

The Rocks, Wednesday, November 26, 1684.

So much the worse for you, my dear child; if you do not read over your letters, your indolence robs you of a great pleasure, which is not one of the least of the evils it may occasion you; for my part, I read them over and over again; they constitute all my joy, all my sorrow, all my occupation, so that you are the center and cause of all. I shall begin this letter with you.

Is it possible that what you tell me can be true, that when you spoke to the king you were like a person beside yourself, and so lost, to use your own expression, in the blaze of majesty, that you knew not what you said, nor could recollect any of your ideas. Never, never can I believe that my beloved daughter, always so remarkable for her ready wit and happy presence of mind, should have been in such a situation. I must confess, that from what his majesty said to you—“that he would do something for M. de Grignan”—I by no means understand that he merely alluded to the great expense M. de Grignan had lately incurred: no, the king’s answer appeared to me to bear this construction, “Madam, the favor you ask of me is a trifle, I will do something more for Grignan;” meaning, I suppose, the affair of the survivorship, which he knew would be a capital point for your family. I had no idea of the little present in question, and you know what I said upon that subject in my last letter. It rests with you, my dear, to set me right, and I beg you will do so, for I do not love to view things in a wrong light.

Madame de la Fayette has written me word that you were an angel of beauty at court, that you spoke to the king, and that it was thought you were soliciting a pension for your husband. I returned a slight answer, “that I believed it was to entreat his majesty to consider the great expenses M. de Grignan had been obliged to incur in Provence,” and that was all.

You relate inimitably the story of M. de Villequier and his mother-in-law. There seems no danger of her proving a Phædra to him. Had you read that part of your letter over, you would easily have conceived the manner in which it struck me. It is not unlike the story of Joconde; and the chambermaid yawning with fatigue at her long waiting is admirable. I think Madame d’Aumont’s conduct very praiseworthy: it ought to silence the world, and satisfy her husband. What great doings in Savoy! I can not believe the king will withhold his pity and assistance from the young Princess of Baden, when she represents to him the situation of her mother, abandoned by all her children. I do not believe she will set out till her mother is gone. This good mother, it is true, has so much fire about her, that it is difficult to persuade one’s self she is not still in the prime of her youth. The Princess de Tarente intends to receive her at Vitré. As for Madame de Marbeuf, she is one of her old acquaintance; they have spent whole winters together in supping and playing at the Palace of Soissons; you may judge how readily this will be renewed at Rennes. I have told my son the story of the Chevalier de Soisson’s engagement: we could neither of us have believed the eyes of a grandmother retained still so much power. I do not think the raising of the siege of Buda[213] worth mentioning to you; it is a piece of news hardly of sufficient consequence to obtain a place in my letter. I fancy the dauphiness,[214] however, will take the pains to be sorry: her brother has exposed himself so much, and acquitted himself so well in this expedition, that it is a pity such an elector should be obliged to return from it.

Our worthy is very ill with one of those bad colds and coughs which you have seen him afflicted with. He is in his little closet. We take better care of him here than could be done at Paris. My daughter-in-law has gone through all the hot and cold regimen of the Capuchins, without being affected either one way or the other by them. When the weather is fine, as it has been for the last three days, I venture out about two o’clock, and walk backward and forward before the gardeners, who are cutting wood, and representing the picture of winter, but without stopping to contemplate the scene; and after I have enjoyed all the heat of the sun, I return to the house, leaving the evening to those of a more hardy constitution. In this way do I govern myself to please you, and very often I do not stir out of the house at all. Coulanges’ chair, a few books that my son reads admirably, and now and then a little conversation, will compose the whole of my occupation during the winter, and the subject of your anxiety; for I shall exactly follow your orders in all points, and every where.

My son understands perfectly well what Wednesday means.[215] To say the truth, we would be very dull without him, and he without us; but he manages matters so well that there is generally a party of ombre in my apartments, and at intervals we read, and make comments on what we read; you know what sort of place the Rocks is. We have read a folio volume through in little more than a week. We have been engaged with M. Nicole, the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, and the History of the Reformation in England; in short, those who are happy enough to have a taste for reading never need be at a loss for amusement.

LETTER XCI.

The Rocks, Sunday, February 21, 1685.

Ah, my child! was ever any thing so ill-timed as the death of the King of England,[216] just at the eve of a masquerade? My poor little marquis[217] is very unfortunate to have such an unexpected event thrown in the way of his pleasure. I know nothing that can comfort him for this disappointment but the universal encomiums that have been given to his charming dress, and the hope that the masquerade is only put off for a time.

My dear child, I make you my compliments of condolence on these great occurrences, and expect yours in return upon my mistaken ideas; for I was at the masquerade, the opera, and the ball, snug in a corner, contemplating you with admiration; in short, I was in as great an agitation as you may suppose your poor mother to experience on such an occasion; and, after all, there was no entertainment of any kind.

I enter into your sentiments, my beautiful dear, better than any one. Yes, yes, I can very well conceive that we are transfused into our children, and, as you say, feel more keenly for them than for ourselves. I have sufficiently experienced these emotions, which are not without their pleasure when the object is deserving of them and of the admiration of every one besides. Your son pleases extremely; there is something inexpressibly smart and agreeable in his countenance; the eye does not pass lightly over him as over others in general, but rests attentively. Madame de la Fayette tells me she has written to Madame de Montespan that she had engaged her honor that you and your son would have reason to be satisfied with her. I know no one who would be more happy to serve you than Madame de la Fayette.

But is it not extraordinary that we have not yet had a word together on the death of the King of England? He was by no means an old man, and he was a monarch; this shows that death spares no one. It will be a great happiness if he was a Catholic in his heart, and died in the faith of our holy religion. England appears to me a theater that is about to furnish some very extraordinary scenes: the Prince of Orange, the Duke of Monmouth, an infinite number of Lutherans, and a confirmed aversion to all Catholics; but time will discover in what way Providence will direct the performance, after this tragical event;[218] however, it seems it will not put a stop to the diversion at Versailles, since I find you are to return there on Monday. You say a thousand kind things of the concern it would give you to leave me behind at Paris, if I were there, but as this, to my great regret, is not the case, make the most of this opportunity, follow the court: no one is formed to make a better figure there, and I think every thing seems to tend toward the completion of your wishes. Mine, though made at such a distance, are not less ardent and sincere than if I were with you. I feel, though less delicately, the truth of a remark you made to me one day, and which I then laughed at: that you were so much mistress of my imagination and my heart that I had you always present with me; this is very true, my child, but I must own I had rather enjoy a little more of reality.

Madame de Sévigné speaks of the state of England in the character of a well-informed person. The rebellion of Monmouth and his tragical end in the same year, and James II. dethroned and driven out of the kingdom three years afterward by his son-in-law, justified but too well her predictions.

LETTER XCII.

The Rocks, Wednesday, Aug. 11, 1685.

You see, my dear, that we are now come to reckon by days only, not by months! not even by weeks! But, alas! what you say is very true: there could not be a more cruel damp to our pleasures than the thought that we might be obliged to part again almost as soon as we met; this is a painful idea; it occurs to me but too often; day or night I am not free from it; it came in my head the last time I was writing to you, and I could not forbear saying to myself, Surely this evil ought to be sufficient to secure me from the danger of experiencing a greater; but I dare not dwell upon this melancholy reflection, and shall now divert it by the thought that I am soon to see you at Baville. I shall not be at all ashamed of my equipage; my children have very elegant ones, and I have had the same; but now the times are altered; I have only two horses of my own, and shall hire four horses from the postmaster of Mans; and in that manner I shall make my entrance into Paris without the least concern. You will find my leg in a state of perfection, which will make you love Charlotte all your life; she has fancied you from hence more beautiful than the day, and this idea has given her an extreme desire to restore this leg to you, worthy of your admiration, when you know from what a situation it has been extricated. All this is past, and so is the visit of little Coulanges; he set out on Monday morning with your brother. I accompanied them as far as the gate that leads to Vitré; there we stopped to await the arrival of your letters from Paris, which came as expected, and were read with the usual pleasure. As you only mentioned that M. d’Ormesson’s wife was at the point of death, I have not dared to write to him; but as soon as you let me know she is buried, I will venture to send him a line or two by way of condolence and comfort; but indeed, considering the state she was in, what could be more desirable for herself and her family than her death? Ah, my dear child, how humiliating it is to be obliged to drag about the lees of life and understanding! how much preferable would it be, could we have our wish, to leave behind us a remembrance worthy of being preserved, rather than spoil and disfigure it by the infirmities and weakness of old age! I should like to be an inhabitant of that country where they kill their parents out of kindness, when they become old and helpless, if such a practice could be reconciled to Christianity.

Our gentlemen sung Gaudeamus on Monday evening at Marbeuf’s. Your brother is not quite recovered of his slight disorder. I have had some delightful conversations with Coulanges on the subject he is so much at a loss to comprehend: scenes have passed between us not inferior to some of Molière’s. When do you expect Saint Grignan?

N.B. No more letters are found from Madame de Sévigné to her daughter till toward the end of 1688, both having passed the intermediate time together at Paris.

LETTER XCIII.

Paris, Friday, October 8, 1688.

What a tremendous rain, just, my child, as you are going to descend that frightful mountain of Rochepot! How numberless are the vexations of those who love with any degree of fervor! We know not how to love heroically, notwithstanding the example of heroism below:[219] but there is no knowing you without being attached to you with the greatest tenderness. Our poor hero is still dreadfully afflicted with the gout; it is a perfect martyrdom. There are several persons of wit and learning, as St. Romain,[220] the Abbé Bigorré, Crosailles,[221] who visit him with a view to divert his painful moments with the news of the day, and other topics; but still he suffers greatly.

Our young marquis could not have been at the opening of the trenches, for M. de Vauban could not wait the arrival of the dauphin on account of the rains; we are still persuaded that in a very few days your mind will be at ease.

The Prince of Orange has declared himself protector of the religion of the Church of England, and has demanded the young prince,[222] that he may be brought up in that faith. This is a great event: several of the English nobility have joined him. You know that La Trousse has taken Avignon.[223] Madame de Coulanges, who overflows with money, has lent Mademoiselle de Méri a thousand francs; we expect that lady here every day. M. de la Trousse (her brother) will very readily repay the loan.

I am much pleased, my dear child, that you approve the coming of the good Abbé de Bigorré; his company will prove no small amusement to me. We entertain ourselves below stairs with frequent conversations upon the state of our affairs; I find there all the consolation that a sound understanding and a generous heart can afford me; for the more the chevalier is known the more he must be esteemed and loved. I have no need to ask him if you love me; for I am convinced of it by a thousand instances: but without questioning him upon the subject, he gave me the most charming proofs of it. We eat together, and keep a very good table. The philosophy of Corbinelli is to come to-night. We have written in all our apartments, Fais ce que tu voudras; vive la sainte liberté![224]

I have seen Madame de Fontenilles: she has lately lost her mother, and seems overwhelmed with grief. You will judge what impression this made upon me. Her mother died in a shocking way, crying out in all the agonies of despair, and terrified with the thought of taking the last sacraments: she received them, however, but with a gloomy and dreadful silence. Her son and Alliot arrived just two hours after her death.

LETTER XCIV.

Paris, Tuesday, October 26, 1688.

Oh! what a letter, my child! It well deserves that I should come here on purpose to receive it, as I did. At length, then, you are arrived safe at Grignan, and are in perfect health; and such is my fate that, though you are removed at the distance of half the globe from me, I must rejoice at it. Perhaps it may please Heaven that ere long I shall embrace you again: let me live in that hope. You make a very pleasing portrait of Paulina. I know her again; she is not at all altered, as M. de Grignan would have made us believe she was. She is a sweet creature, and worthy of being loved. She adores you, and her absolute submission to your will, even in the midst of her joy at seeing you, if you decide that she should leave you again, at once engages my pity and concern; nor can I help admiring the power she has over herself. Were I in your place I should be loth to part with such an agreeable companion, who will at once furnish you with amusement and occupation. I would make her work at her needle, and read works of taste: I would argue with her, and sound the depth of her capacity. I would talk to her with affection and confidence; for, believe me, you will never be tired of her society, on the contrary, she may be of great use to you. In short, I would make the most of her, and would not punish myself by depriving myself of such a comfort.

I am very glad the chevalier speaks well of me; my vanity is concerned in preserving his good opinion. If he is fond of my company, I, in return, can never have too much of his, and I think it a proof of good taste to be desirous of cultivating his esteem. I know not how you can say that your humor is a cloud which hides or obscures the affections you have for me. If such may have been the case formerly, you have for many years past totally removed the vail, and you no longer conceal from me any part of the most perfect and tender affection that one person can entertain for another. Heaven will reward you for it in your own children, who will love you, not in the same way, as perhaps they may not be capable of it, but at least to the utmost of their abilities, and we can desire no more.

LETTER XCV.

Paris, All-Saints’ day, 1688, nine o’clock at night.

Philipsburg is taken, and your son is well! I have only to turn this phrase in every possible way, for I will not change my text. Learn then again from this note, that your son is well, and that Philipsburg is taken! A courier is just arrived at M. de Villacerf’s, who says that the dauphin’s courier reached Fontainebleau while Father Gaillard was preaching; and that the sermon was immediately interrupted, and thanks returned to God for this brilliant achievement. No further particulars are known, except that there was no assault, and that M. du Plessis was right when he said the governor had ordered wagons to carry away his equipage. Recover your breath, then, my dear child, and let the first thing you do be to return thanks to God. No other siege is talked of; rejoice that your son has witnessed that of Philipsburg; it is an admirable period for him; it is the dauphin’s first campaign. Would you not have been grieved if he was the only person of his age who was not present on the occasion, in which all the rest glory? But let us not look back; every thing has happened as we could have wished. It is you, my dear count, we may thank for it. I congratulate you on the joy you must experience, and beg my compliments also to the coadjutor; you are all relieved from great anxiety. Sleep soundly, then, my dearest, sleep soundly on the assurance we give you; if you are covetous of grief, as we formerly said, seek some other occasion, for God has preserved your dear child to you. We are in raptures, and in this feeling I embrace you with an affection that I believe you can not doubt.

LETTER XCVI.

Paris, Monday, November 8, 1688

This is the day, my dear child, on which you are to begin your journey; we follow you step by step. The weather is delightful; the durance will not be so terrific as it sometimes is. It looks as if you were resolved to remove further and further from us out of mere spite; you will find yourself at last on the sea-shore. But it is the will of God that we should meet with periods in our life which are difficult to bear; and we must endeavor to repair, by a submission to his will, the too great sensibility we feel toward earthly things. In this respect it is impossible to be more culpable than I am.

The chevalier is much better. It is painful to reflect that the weather which agrees with him is precisely what may dethrone the King of England; whereas he suffered dreadfully a few days ago, when the wind and tempests were dispersing the fleet of the Prince of Orange: he is unhappy at not being able to make his health accord with the good of Europe; for the sentiment of joy is universal at the failure of the prince, whose wife[225] is a perfect Tullia; ah, how boldly would she drive over the body of her father! She has empowered her husband to take possession of the kingdom of England, of which she calls herself the heiress; and if her husband is killed, for her imagination is not very delicate, M. de Schomberg[226] is to take possession of it for herself. What say you to a hero, who so sadly disgraces the close of a glorious life? He saw the admiral’s ship sink in which he was to have embarked; and as the prince and he were the last in following the fleet, which was under weigh in the finest weather possible, they were obliged, by a tremendous storm that suddenly arose, to return to port, the prince being very much indisposed with his asthma, and M. de Schomberg as much vexed. Only twenty-six sails returned with them; the rest were all dispersed, some toward Norway, others toward Boulogne. M. d’Aumont has sent a courier to the king, to inform him that vessels had been seen at the mercy of the winds, and that there were many appearances of shipwreck. A vessel armed en flute, in which were nine hundred men, sunk in sight of the prince of Orange. In short, the hand of God is visible upon this fleet: many ships may return, but it will be long before they will be able to do any mischief, for the dispersion has certainly been great, and has happened at a time when it was least expected: this is certainly a stroke of Providence. I need not say so much to you of this great news, for the papers are full of it; but as we are so too, and as we can talk of nothing else, it flows naturally from my pen.

Shall I give you another instance of wounds that were not received at the siege of Philipsburg? It relates to the Chevalier de Longueville: the town was taken; the dauphin had just inspected the garrison, the little chevalier mounted the back of the trenches to look at something, when a soldier, aiming at a woodcock, shot this poor child, and he died in consequence the next day: his death is as singular as his birth.[227]

Marshal de Schomberg had ancient leagues with the Princes of Orange. He had, besides, much cause to complain of the court, and even of Turenne, during the war with Holland. See a curious account of this general in the Fragmens Historiques de Racine.

LETTER XCVII.

Paris, Friday, December 3, 1688.

I have to inform you to-day that the king made yesterday seventy-four knights of the order of the Holy Ghost, of which I send you the list. As he has done M. de Grignan the honor to include him, and as you will receive a hundred thousand congratulations upon the occasion, wiser heads than mine advise you neither to say nor write any thing that may give offense to any of your companions in this honor. The best way, perhaps, would be to write to M. de Louvois, and to say that the honor he had done you of inquiring after you by your courier gives you the privilege of thanking him; and that wishing to believe, on the subject of the favor the king has just granted to M. de Grignan, that he has contributed toward it by his approbation at least, you return him thanks also for this. You will give this a better turn than I can do; and it will do no injury to the letter M. de Grignan should write. The particulars of what passed are these: The king said to M. le Grand:[228] “The count de Soissons[229] and you must agree among yourselves with respect to rank.” You must know, that M. le Grand’s son is in the promotion, which is contrary to the general rules. You must know, also, that the king said to the dukes that he had read their memorial, and that he found that the house of Lorraine had taken precedence of them on several occasions; and so it is decided.[230] M. le Grand then spoke to the Count de Soissons; they proposed to draw lots, “provided,” said the count, “that if you win I pass between you and your son.”[231] M. le Grand would not consent to this, and so the Count de Soissons is not a chevalier. The king asked M. de la Tremouille how old he was? he replied that he was thirty-three; the king excused him two years. This favor, it is said, which has given some offense to the principality, has not been estimated as it ought to have been. However, he is the first duke, according to the precedence of his dukedom.[232]

LETTER XCVIII.

Paris, Monday, December 6, 1688.

Your last letter has an air of gayety and expansion of heart which convinces me that Franckendal is taken, and that he is safe, I mean the marquis. Enjoy this pleasure, my beloved child; your son sleeps to-night at Claie; you see he will pass through Livri, and to-morrow he will sup with us. The chevalier, who is indeed an excellent creature in all respects, is returned from Versailles; he has thanked the king, and it has all passed off well. You will assume the blue ribbon on the second of January in the midst of Provence, over which you have the command, and where there are only you and M. d’Arles your uncle. This distinction and remembrance of his majesty, when you the least expected it, are highly gratifying; even the compliments you receive on all sides are not like those which are paid to others; it is to little purpose to say, “Ah this! ah that!” for my party I say on this subject, as on many others, “What is good, is good;” you will lose nothing; and when we think of those who are in despair, we consider ourselves very fortunate to be in the recollection of a master who does not forget the services that are rendered him both by ourselves and our children. I own to you I feel this joy thoroughly, without appearing to do so. The chevalier has a great desire to send word of it this evening to our marquis at Claie, who will not be insensible to it. He wishes also to send you your blue ribbon with two Saint Esprits, because the time draws on: he believes you to have your grandfather’s[233] cross at Grignan; if you have not, you would be at a loss for one. I own that if the chevalier had not forestalled me, I should have made you this pretty little present; but I give place to him in every thing. The favor is complete by the permission of not attending the installation. I am charged with a hundred compliments; Madame de Lesdiguières, Madame de Mouci, Madame de Lavardin, M. de Harlai, and I know not how many others I could name; for they are in long lists, as when you gained your lawsuit. Think not, my dear child, that you have been out of luck for the last three months; I begin with your gaining your cause; then the preservation of your son; his early reputation; his contusion; the beauty of his company, to which you contributed; and I conclude with the business of Avignon and the blue ribbon: think well of this, and be thankful to God.

LETTER XCIX.

Paris, Friday, December 10, 1688.

I can not answer your letters to-day, as they came so late, and I answer two on a Monday. The marquis[234] is a little rustic, but not enough so to render him ridiculous; he will not have so fine a figure as his father, nor is it to be expected; in other respects he does very well, answering pertinently to every thing that is asked him, like a man of good sense, who has made observations and sought information during his campaign; his conversation is tinctured with modesty and rectitude that charm us. M. du Plessis is worthy of the esteem you bear him. We take our meals together very socially, amusing ourselves with the unjust proceedings we sometimes adopt against one another; make yourself easy upon this score, and think no more about it; let it be my part to blush at thinking that a wren is a heavy burden to me: I own I am grieved at it, but we must submit to the great justice of paying our debts: no one understands this better than yourself; you have also kindness enough for me to believe that I am not naturally avaricious, and that I have no intention to hoard. When you are here, good madam, you tutor your son so well, that I am compelled to admire you; but, in your absence, I undertake to teach him the common rules of conversation, which it is important to know; there are some things of which we ought not to be ignorant. It would be ridiculous to appear astonished at certain events which are the topics of the day; I am sufficiently acquainted with these trifles. I also strongly recommend to him attention to what others say, and the presence of mind by which we quickly comprehend and answer; this is a principal object in our intercourse with the world. I repeat to him instances of miracles of this kind which Dangeau related to us the other day; he admires them, and I lay great stress upon the charms, and even utility, of this sort of alertness of mind. In short, I obtain the chevalier’s approbation: we converse together on books, and the misfortune of being troubled with listlessness and want of employment: we call this laziness of the mind, which deprives us of a taste for good books and even romances; as this is an interesting subject, we frequently enter upon it. Little Auvergne[235] is very fond of reading; he was never happy, when with the army, unless he had a book in his hand. God knows whether M. du Plessis and we can turn this fine and noble passion to account; we are willing to believe the marquis susceptible of the best impressions; we suffer no opportunity to pass unimproved that can tend to inspire him with so desirable a taste. The chevalier is of more use to this dear boy than can easily be imagined; he is continually striking the full chords of honor and reputation, and takes an interest in his affairs, for which you can not sufficiently thank him: he enters into every thing, attends to every thing, and wishes the marquis to regulate his own accounts and incur no unnecessary expenses; by this means, he endeavors to give him a habit of regularity and economy, and to make him lay aside the air of grandeur, of “what does it signify,” of ignorance, and indifference, which is the direct path to every kind of injustice, and, at length, to the workhouse: can there be any obligation equal to that of training up your son in these principles? For my part, I am charmed with it, and think this sort of education far more noble than any other. The chevalier is a little afflicted with the gout: he will go to-morrow, if he can, to Versailles, and will inform you of the situation of his affairs. You already know that you are a knight of the order, which is a very desirable thing in the center of your province, and in actual service, and will admirably become M. de Grignan’s fine figure: there will, however, be no one to dispute it with him in Provence, for he will not be envied by his uncle,[236] as this title does not go out of the family.

La Fayette is just going from hence; he has been holding forth a full hour about one of the little marquis’s friends. He has related so many ridiculous things of him that the chevalier thinks himself obliged to mention them to his father, who is his friend; he thanked La Fayette for his intelligence, for, in fact, there is nothing of so much consequence as being in good company, and it often happens that, without being ridiculous ourselves, we are rendered so by those we associate with. Make yourself easy upon this subject, the chevalier will set matters right. I shall be very much mortified if he can not present his nephew on Sunday; this gout is a great drawback upon our happiness. With respect to Paulina, can you, my dear child, expect her to be perfect? She is not mild in her own apartment; many persons who are very much beloved and respected, have had the same fault. I think you may easily correct it; but take particular care not to scold and humiliate her. All my friends load me with a thousand compliments and a thousand regards to you. Madame de Lavardin called upon me yesterday, to tell me she esteemed you too highly to send you compliments; but that she embraced you with all her heart, and the great Count de Grignan—these were her words. You have great reason to love her.

What I am going to relate is a fact. Madame de Brinon, the very soul of St. Cyr, and the intimate friend of Madame de Maintenon, is no longer at St. Cyr;[237] she quitted that place four days ago; Madame Hanover, who loves her, brought her back to the Hôtel de Guise, where she still remains. There does not seem to be any misunderstanding between her and Madame de Maintenon, for she sends every day to inquire after her health; this increases our curiosity to know the subject of her disgrace. Every one is whispering about it without knowing more. If this affair should be cleared up, I will inform you of the circumstances.