Part 1 — The Duchess of Fontagne to the Cumean Sibyl.
Reading edition
I Desir’d Mercury to call, en passant, at your cave; and as he has wings at his feet, and complaisance in heart, so he will, I don’t doubt, go a little out of his way to oblige me, by delivering you this letter: I have from my infancy had you in my mind, and heard my nurse, when I lay squawling in shitten clouts in my cradle, tell frightful stories of you. As soon as I began to prattle, my maids taught me to call all old wrinkled women wither’d sibyls; and the idea of the den you were confin’d in, fill’d me with fear. But since I have been inform’d of the truth of your history, that fear is chang’d into veneration, and I now look upon your cell as a sacred place. To assure you of my respect and the confidence I repose in you, I will consult you about some future events, and tell you one part of my griefs. I am nobly born, handsome and young enough to inspire and receive the softest love. The French king, who had spoil’d the shape, and wore out the charms of several mistresses, long before I appear’d at his court, had a mind to do the same by me. Being naturally proud and wanton, and tempted by the fine compliments of a great and vigorous prince, and title of duchess, (a temptation none of us women can resist) I soon yielded to his desires; which so mortify’d the haughty Montespan, that she, with a ragoo a-la-mode d’Espagne, dispatch’d me out of the world, before I could get a true taste of greatness, or the pleasures of a royal bed. Alas! What a mighty difference there is between you and me; your years are innumerable; you are still mentioned in history; your voice still remains, and you enjoy the divine faculty of prediction; but I was murther’d in my bloom, when ripe and juicy as the luscious grape; and that ungrateful perjur’d man, who rifled my virgin treasures, has not so much as thought or spoke of me since. He dotes on nothing but old age; and could you appear in something more solid than air, I do not doubt but he’d make his addresses to you: I believe his being born with teeth presag’d he would always be a tyrant to his people, and in his latter days the cully of such a tough piece of carrion as Mrs. Maintenon. Morbleu! Have I barbarously been sacrific’d; and must a miss of threescore and fifteen live unpunish’d, and be treated better than I was in the greatest heighth of that prince’s passion, and warmth of my desires, when capable both of receiving and giving joy? It really distracts me! And I conjure you, in the name of Apollo, who never refus’d you any thing, to let me know by one of your oracles, if I shall never return to France again. You came hither, I know, with the brave Æneas, (but stay’d no longer than you lik’d the place) and I have heard some people say, that knight-errant diverted himself extremely upon the road, and made a great deal of hot love to you; but I take that to be a meer story, because Virgil, who would not have let slip so pleasant a passage, has said nothing of it. However, could I return but a short time to dislodge Maintenon, and take a frisk with my former lover, if he be not too old for that business; or were I but your shadow, provided I liv’d, I should be pretty well pleas’d; for ’tis a melancholy thing to think that the fates should spin such a long thread for an old lascivious ape [46], who never was to be compared with me; and that there should remain no more of poor Fontagne, than an unfortunate name, over which oblivion will in a little time triumph. At the writing of this, in came a courier from Versailles, who brings us word, that Lewis the Great has undertook such a piece of work, that the weight and consequence makes him sick of the world: that Mrs. Maintenon has wore out his teeth; that legions of vermin devour him, and that we may suddenly expect him in these dominions; which, if true, will be some satisfaction to me; and tho’ he be toothless, worm-eaten and rotten: I will grant him the same liberty he often took with me on a couch at the Trianon, to get him again under my empire, that I may at leisure revenge myself for his forgetfulness.
Oh! wou’d it not provoke a maid, By softest vows and oaths betray’d, Her virgin treasures to resign, And give up honour’s dearest shrine? Then when her charms have been enjoy’d, To be next moment laid aside. But why do I lament in vain, And of my destiny complain? Had I been wife as those before me, I should have made the world adore me; Not to one lover’s arms confin’d, But search’d and try’d all human kind.
But I believe this foolish constancy was only owing to my want of experience; and if I had liv’d a little longer, I should have had the curiosity to try the variety of human performance, like the rest of my neighbours. You have been, my dear demi-goddess, in love, and have been belov’d; therefore, I beseech you, give me some healing advice, or consolation, as my case requires.