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Title: The letters of Madame de Sévigné
To her daughter and friends
Author: marquise de Marie de Rabutin-Chantal Sévigné
Editor: Sarah Josepha Buell Hale
Release date: May 2, 2026 [eBook #78579]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1878
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78579
Credits: Claudine Corbasson, Hans Pieterse and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ ***
[Transcription note: Obvious typographical errors and some spelling
inconsistencies have been silently corrected. The translator writes
consistently Livri and Vichi instead of Livry and Vichy: we have
respected this choice, but we have corrected “Usèz” into “Uzès”.
Footnotes have been numbered and placed after the corresponding
paragraph.
The portrait of Madame de Sévigné on the cover was borrowed
from our publication of her Letters in French, PG ebook 43901.
It belongs to the public domain.
A Table of Contents has been added.]
THE LETTERS
OF
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
TO
HER DAUGHTER AND FRIENDS.
EDITED BY
MRS. HALE,
AUTHORESS OF “WOMAN’S RECORD,” “NORTHWOOD,” “VIGIL OF LOVE,”
“MANNERS,” ETC.
“There is none
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother’s heart.”--MRS. HEMANS.
REVISED EDITION.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1878.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
ROBERTS BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRESSWORK BY JOHN WILSON AND SON.
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.
The Editress has set forth so fully, in the introductory sketch of
Madame de Sévigné’s Life and Times, her object in offering this book to
the American public, that any further prologue may seem superfluous;
yet there are one or two things to be said which seem to find their
most proper expression in a Preface. Since the date of the first
edition, the changes in the manners and feelings of the time have been
rapid and continuous; and they have operated in a twofold manner.
In the first place, we have become as a nation more thoroughly
acquainted with French literature, and better able to appreciate
that world of the past in which the great letter-writer lived.
Madame de Sévigné was a woman who lived in and for others,--for her
daughter, her friends, and, at a greater distance, for the brilliant
circle of distinguished men and women of which she herself was so
important a figure. Her letters are made up of incident, of meetings,
of conversations: they are full of references to the topics then
uppermost; they draw half their charm from the personality of the
writer. Literature of this sort cannot stand alone. To enjoy it to
the full we must know with some minuteness the history of the times
in which it was written, and of the people to whom it was written.
The knowledge of these things is now spreading wider every year,
as we become familiar, through originals or translations, with the
masterpieces of foreign languages. For instance, probably the best
French sketch of Madame de Sévigné is from the pen of M. Sainte-Beuve,
the great critic whom Mr. Arnold acknowledges for his master. This
sketch has been translated by Miss Preston, and published within the
last year.[1] Our limits forbid quotation; but to every one who can
enjoy a criticism at once delicate and profound, we recommend this
incomparable study.
[1] Sainte-Beuve’s Portraits of Celebrated Women.
Again, the times themselves in which we live call for the exercise of
just such an influence upon the mind and style as might be wielded by
these letters. We in America are almost all educated up to a certain
point; few of us, unfortunately, are educated beyond it. The national
character is pushing, energetic, ambitious; setting great value upon
money and material luxuries, but without appreciation of the refined
enjoyments that consist with a moderate purse, or the delicacy of
feeling that marks a sensitive but well-balanced mind. The vortex of
politics or of business draws into it all our energies; we have nothing
to spare for reflection, for the observances of friendship, for the
amenities of social intercourse. A life so vulgarizing alike to the
mind and to the style, finds its best antidote in the letters of Madame
de Sévigné. Here is a beautiful existence centred in home and friends;
here are thoughts occupied by love for the dear ones around, and by
sympathy with their joys and sorrows. The tumult of the outer world is
heard faintly. The writer’s mind is busied in a calmer sphere, and the
exquisite tenderness of her heart gives that transparent grace to her
style that has been the wonder and the despair of two centuries.
We are a letter-writing people; and no better models for letters exist
than Madame de Sévigné’s. We are a practical and energetic people;
and no better complement to such virtues can be found than the tender
affection and delicate refinement of Madame de Sévigné.
PHILADELPHIA, Nov. 26, 1868.
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ AND HER TIMES.
An honorable celebrity has been universally accorded to Madame
de Sévigné. For nearly two centuries her “Letters” have been the
admiration of all lovers of elegant literature. The natural grace, the
“_curiosa felicitas_” of these epistles have rendered them remarkable
as to style, and the artist-like pictures of manners, the lively
accounts of cotemporaneous incidents give them very great value as aids
to the study of history. Then they are trustworthy documents; every
word, every circumstance is read with particular satisfaction, because
the character and position of the writer assure us of her perfect
intent to communicate truth.
Madame de Sévigné lived in what the French consider their Augustan
Age. Great men in arts, in arms, in literature gave glory to the most
splendid monarch that ever sat on the throne of France. At the same
time the position of women was both active and brilliant. The social
existence of the women of the higher classes was one that gave scope
to talent and opportunity to energy. In those days the great dame was
occupied with the administration of her property and the exaltation of
her family. Far from being absorbed in a narrow routine of personality,
she considered the sacrifice of private feelings to family greatness a
positive duty, and the sacrifice of family greatness to the king--that
is, the state--a still more imperative obligation.
As our views of moral responsibility extend, the intellectual horizon
enlarges. The woman who was accustomed to dwell upon considerations
beyond mere fireside comforts or fashionable display, who went from
the individual to the family, and from the family to the state, must
of necessity have enlarged her understanding in proportion to the
elevation and extent of her views. It is only by a just development of
the intellectual faculties that the heart can be properly regulated,
and nowhere is this truth more strikingly illustrated than in the life
of Madame de Sévigné.
Her passionate love for her daughter was always made to yield to the
dictates of a wise prudence and just propriety. Though born with
excessive sensibility, great vivacity, amiable instincts, and warm
imagination, that is to say, with the qualities and feelings most
likely to lead their possessor astray or into indiscretions, yet this
youthful widow managed her estate and her children with admirable
wisdom, and so regulated her own conduct as to be above the slightest
censure in a court of relaxed morals and of many temptations. This
was accomplished because her brilliant qualities rested on the solid
basis of serious and valuable acquirements, a practical knowledge of
business, and a trusting and sincere piety.
To make the example of this excellent woman more widely and familiarly
known in America is the main object of this volume. As a model in
private life, her conduct and character deserve to be studied. Her
“Letters” are referred to by the best authorities, as the most charming
specimens of epistolary art extant, yet no edition has ever been issued
in this country. Nor would one be profitable, because the complete work
is too large. Still it is desirable to have access to this treasury
of beautiful sentiments and entertaining sketches; and we have here
selected such portions of her correspondence as will make her virtues
known and give those lessons of practical goodness her life so happily
illustrated.
In order to do this we have arranged the correspondence on a new plan.
Hitherto the “Letters” have been thrown together according to date, and
the reader was compelled to change from one correspondent to another,
even on the same page, often finding similar details in several
consecutive epistles. In this volume each person addressed has his or
her own department--thus the Letters to Madame de Grignan, the soul of
the correspondence, form one unbroken series. Much care has been taken
to keep the fine and often sparkling threads of narrative inwoven in
the Letters continuous, and errors in the only English translation
we have seen (published in London, in 1811) have been corrected by
comparing it with the best French editions of the “Letters.”[2] And now
we will endeavor to sketch the life of this lovely and lovable woman,
though the events are in no wise remarkable, and the truest portrait of
her character and genius must be sought in her letters.
[2] The explanatory notes, which afford useful particulars
concerning personages and events mentioned in the Letters, are
partly from the French, and partly by the English translator and
the present Editor.
MARIE DE RABUTIN-CHANTAL
was born February 5th, 1627, in the ancestral château of Bourbilly,
between Semur and Epoisses. Her father was Celse-Bénigne de Rabutin,
Baron of Chantal; her mother, Marie de Coulanges, was daughter of a
Secretary of State, and belonged to a family celebrated for wit, and,
generally, remarkable for integrity. The baron was slain during the
siege of Rochelle, fighting against the English in their descent on
the island of Rhé; and it was thought he was killed by the hand of
Cromwell. The little Marie was then but eighteen months old, and soon
afterward was, by the death of her mother, left an orphan indeed. The
Baroness de Chantal, her grandmother, seemed the person naturally
destined to have the guardianship of the child, but that lady was
occupied in religious duties (she was afterward a canonized saint, and
known as the “Blessed Mother of Chantal,” and seems to have deserved
the distinction, according to the feeling of those days, as she
founded eighty-seven religious houses), and, therefore, permitted her
granddaughter to pass into the hands of her mother’s relations. She was
first taken by her grandfather, M. de Coulanges; when he died, shortly
afterward, the orphan, then about nine years of age, passed into the
family of her uncle, Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de Livry. This was
a fortunate event for the young girl. She was brought up and educated
with her cousin, Philippe Emanuel de Coulanges, enjoying the advantages
of the most intellectual society of the age; her learned uncle was
her companion, and encouraged her to cultivate her talents. This
last advantage can hardly be estimated now, when feminine education
is common and popular; but then the instruction of young ladies was
usually limited to the accomplishments of reading, writing, dancing,
and embroidery. Marie de Rabutin had the _entrée_ to her uncle’s
library and his encouragement, if not personal instruction, in her
literary pursuits. She was taught Latin, Italian, and Spanish; her
instructors were Menage and Chapelain, and other professors of polite
literature. The result is before the world--that the woman’s mind is
as susceptible of cultivation as that of the man’s, and that she is
made happier, better, more lovely, and more capable of doing good by a
liberal and careful cultivation of her intellectual powers.
In person and manners Mademoiselle de Rabutin is represented as very
attractive, if not positively beautiful. M. Ph. A. Gourville, her French
biographer, thus describes her:
“An exact portrait of her person would savor of romance, and would
be out of place; we may, however, represent the young Rabutin to
our imagination as a truly handsome woman, with more character of
countenance than beauty; with features more expressive than commanding;
an easy figure, a stature rather tall than short, a redundancy of fine
light hair, excellent health, a fine color, a brilliant complexion,
eyes, the vivacity of which gave additional animation to her language
and agility to her movements, a pleasing voice, as much knowledge of
music as existed in those days, and of dancing, in which she excelled
for the times. This is the idea that her portraits, her friends, or
herself give of her. And certainly her nose, tending a little toward
the square, which she herself ridicules, could not spoil her whole
appearance as much as the age of eighteen embellished it, when, in
1644, she married Henry, Marquis de Sévigné, of an ancient family of
Brittany. To this appendage of merit and charms she added a dower of a
hundred thousand crowns, which, at that period, were not of less value
than seven hundred thousand francs.”
The Marquis de Sévigné was also rich, moreover he was young, handsome,
and gay. Her good uncle doubtless believed he had secured the happiness
of his niece by this connection; but the sequel proved otherwise.
The marquis soon showed himself to be weak, vain, extravagant, and,
finally, a profligate. Though he always admitted the charms and merits
of his wife, yet, after a year or two, he began to neglect her for
unworthy associates. The siren of that age, Ninon de l’Enclos, drew
him to her side, and for that wanton the happiness of his home was
sacrificed.
Bussy de Rabutin, cousin of Madame de Sévigné’s father, an unprincipled
man, but distinguished for wit and talent, had always admired and
loved, or pretended to be in love with his fascinating cousin, and
she had always laughed at his flattery and rejected his suit. He took
advantage of her husband’s infidelity to offer an insulting proposal,
that she should take her revenge. He was reproved in such terms of cold
and calm severity as put a final repulse to his gallantry toward her.
Though their intercourse continued friendly through life, yet, judging
from the tone of her letters to him, always constrained, and confined
chiefly to his own affairs, we feel that, though she acknowledged their
relationship, she never esteemed the man.
Her husband was killed in a duel, about seven years after marriage,
and Madame de Sévigné, at the age of twenty-five, was left a widow,
with two children, the eldest, her son, the youngest, that idolized
daughter, who made the light of her mother’s life.
In spite of the faults and vices of the Marquis de Sévigné, his sudden
and shocking death greatly afflicted his wife. She was, for a time,
nearly overwhelmed with sorrow, but soon found devolving upon her the
hard and painful duty of endeavoring to extricate her estate from utter
ruin. The follies and waste of her husband came near making her and
the children penniless. She retired to the country, and, aided by the
counsel and encouragement of her uncle the abbé, entered on her new
duties. We quote from one of her French biographers, who seems to have
searched out her history with great care:
“Madame de Sévigné’s good sense, natural rectitude, and laudable pride,
gave her a taste for economy, and the advice of her uncle taught her to
understand it. Her mind, notwithstanding the habit of sacrificing to
the Graces, had no repugnance to business. She well knew how to sell or
let estates, receive her rents, direct her workmen, etc. She did not
trust to her beauty alone for gaining law-suits. Ménage relates, that
one day, recommending an affair with great ease and simplicity to the
President de Bellièvre, she felt herself at last a little embarrassed
with the terms to be used, when she said, ‘At least, sir, I know the
air perfectly, but I forget the words.’
“With regard to education, not only do the merit of her son and
daughter, as well as their virtues, show the extent of her capacity in
this respect, but it would be easy to extract from her letters a series
of maxims upon the subject, by which it would be seen that, far from
adhering to the false methods in vogue in her days, she had foretold
many of the improvements of which we are justly vain in ours.”
Though she devoted herself seduously to the duties of her family, yet
Madame de Sévigné did not long live a recluse. She saved her property,
returned to society, and passed much of her time in Paris, where she
was the idol of her circle, people of the first rank in letters and
worth of character, as well as stars in the fashionable world. She was
also a frequent visitor at court, where the king, Louis XIV, always
received her with respect.
Madame de Sévigné had many adorers, among whom were the Seigneur
Turenne and the Prince de Conti, and her friends were most
devoted--Fouquet was one of them, and she was true to him in his great
misfortune, as her letters show. But she appears never to have had
the least intention of a second marriage; to promote the happiness of
her children and the enjoyment of her friends, was the object of her
life. Her son, the Marquis de Sévigné, who entered the army, was very
frivolous, weak, and dissipated in his youth; his mother’s watchful
care and patient forbearance saved him from utter degradation. About
middle age he married an amiable wife of noble family, left the army,
and cultivated a taste for literature. To effect this marriage, and
thus secure the reformation of her son, Madame de Sévigné gave up
to him so large a portion of her estate that she was afterward in
comparatively straitened circumstances.
But the daughter, Margaret Frances, was her mother’s glory, the idol
that seemed to claim the worship of the mother’s soul. Passion rather
than affection possessed Madame de Sévigné when writing to or of her
“infinitely dear child.” That the daughter did not reciprocate this
love in its full flow has been urged to prove that Madame de Grignan
was cold in temperament or selfish in feeling. We do not find evidences
to support this charge. The mother, ambitious for her daughter, and
wishing to keep her in Paris had married her to the Count de Grignan,
who was rich, and of the high nobility, and had a place at court. But
he was also Lieutenant-Governor of Provence, and ordered, soon after
his marriage, to his government. His wife had to follow him; she seems
to have loved and respected her husband, as was her duty. She had
children; she was at the head of a great establishment, and she could
not give the whole of her heart, thoughts, and time to her mother, as
the latter did to her daughter.
The separation was a terrible privation to Madame de Sévigné, but
it was the cause of her moral and literary improvement, as well as
of the series of “Letters to Madame de Grignan,” which, of their
kind, are unequaled in any language. The mother’s genius lives in
this correspondence; her pen gives importance to the most trifling
occurrences, and makes hard facts as interesting as fairy stories.
Among other advantages of life, Madame de Sévigné retained her good
looks, as she did her cheerful disposition, to the last; hence the
name of _Mère Beauté_ (Mother Beauty) given her by M. de Coulanges.
Her constitution was good, and she managed it with great judgment.
In thirty years the only disorder she had known was rheumatism.
Happy all her life by the exercise of natural affections, Madame de
Sévigné thought less of the ravages of time; and when death terminated
her existence in 1696, her illness, the result of the fatigue and
uneasiness she had endured for some months on her daughter’s account,
took her by surprise, and was announced by no symptom. It was short.
In her last moments she was resigned, and perfectly calm. Thus died
Madame de Sévigné, aged about seventy years, and was interred in the
Collegiate Church of Grignan, leaving to posterity in the record of her
blameless life, as in her exquisite writings, the brightest and purest
model which her age affords.
S. J. H.
LETTERS OF MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ,
FROM 1655 TO 1669.
ADDRESSED TO THE COUNT DE BUSSY.[3]
[3] The Count Bussy de Rabutin, first cousin to the father of
Madame de Sévigné, was, on account of his relationship, always on
terms of intimacy with her. He was a famous wit and satirist, as
his Letters and Memoirs show, but not of principles or character
to excite love or esteem in the soul of such a woman as Madame
de Sévigné. However, they were cousins, and though she refused
his suit, she seems to have felt a deep interest in his welfare.
She corresponded with him occasionally till her death, but her
letters to him have less interest than those she wrote to others,
especially to her daughter. We give a few of her first and best
letters to Count de Bussy, as preliminary to the real work of her
heart and mind, her correspondence with Madame de Grignan.
LETTER I.
IN THE COUNTRY, June 26, 1655.
I had no doubt that you would take some opportunity of bidding me
adieu, either at my own house or from the camp at Landrecy. As I am not
a woman of ceremony, I am content with the latter; and have not even
thought of being angry, that you failed in coming to me before you set
out.
I have not stirred from this desert, since your departure; and, to
speak frankly, I am not much afflicted to find that you are with the
army. I should be an unworthy cousin of so brave a cousin, if I were
sorry to see you, during the present campaign, at the head of the
finest regiment in France, and in so glorious a post as the one you
hold. I dare say you would disown any sentiments less worthy than
these; I leave weaker and more tender feelings to the true bagnio
gentry. Every one loves in his own way. I profess to be heroic as well
as you, and am proud to boast of these sentiments. Some women, perhaps,
would think this a little in the old Roman style, and _would thank God
they were not Romans_,[4] that they might still preserve some feelings
of humanity. But on this subject I can assure them I am not so inhuman
as they suppose; and, with all my heroism, I wish your safe return as
passionately as they can do. I trust, my dear cousin, you will not
doubt the truth of this, nor that I fervently pray your life may be
spared. This is the adieu you would have received from me in person,
and which I now beg you to accept from hence, as I have accepted yours
from Landrecy.
[4] Verse from Corneille’s tragedy of the Horatii.
LETTER II.
PARIS, July 14, 1655.
Will you always disgrace your relations? Will you never be weary of
making yourself the subject of conversation in every campaign? Do
you imagine it can give us pleasure to hear that M. de Turenne has
sent word to court that you have done nothing worthy of notice at
Landrecy?[5] This is really very mortifying to us, and you may easily
comprehend how deeply I feel the affronts you bring upon your family.
But I know not why I thus amuse myself, for I have no leisure to carry
on the jest. I must tell you, therefore, that I am delighted with the
success which has attended your exploits. I wrote you a long letter
from the country, which I fear you have not received. I should be sorry
it were lost, for you would laugh heartily at its contents.
[5] Mere jesting. Bussy had merited and obtained the praises of
Turenne.
I was yesterday at Madame de Montglas’s; she had just received a letter
from you, as also had Madame de ----. I expected one likewise, but was
disappointed. I suppose you were unwilling to effect too many wonders
at once. I am not sorry, however, and shall some day claim a whole
cargo for myself. Adieu, my cousin. The gazette speaks of you but
slightly, which has given offense to many, and to me especially, for no
one can be so much interested in your affairs as myself.
LETTER III.
PARIS, July 19, 1655.
This is the third time I have written to you since you left Paris,
a sufficient proof that I have nothing upon my mind against you. I
received your farewell letter from Landrecy while I was in the country,
and answered it immediately. I see plainly that my letter has never
reached you, and I am extremely vexed at it; for, besides its being
written with becoming affection, it was in my opinion a very pretty
composition; and as it was designed for you only, I am wroth that
another should have the pleasure of reading it. I have since written
to you by the servant you dispatched hither with letters to some of
your favorites. I did not amuse myself by quarreling with you for
not remembering me at the same time, but wrote you a line or two
at full speed, which, however incoherent, would inform you of the
pleasure I received from the success of your regiment at Landrecy.
This intelligence came to us in the most acceptable manner possible,
by some of the court, who assured us that Cardinal Mazarin had spoken
very handsomely of you to the king, who afterward joined with the whole
court in extolling your conduct. You may conceive that my joy was not
inconsiderable at hearing all this; but to return to my story. This was
the subject of my second letter, and five or six days after I received
one from you, full of complaints against me. You see, however, my poor
cousin, with how little justice you complain; and hence I draw this
fine moral reflection, that we should never condemn a person unheard.
This is my justification. Another, perhaps, would have expressed the
same thing in fewer words. You must bear with my imperfections, in
consideration of my friendship. Every one has his peculiar style; mine,
as you see, is by no means laconic.
LETTER IV.
PARIS, November 25, 1655.
You affect great things, M. le Comte: under the pretense that you write
like a second Cicero, you think yourself entitled to ridicule people.
The passage you remarked, in reality, made me laugh heartily; but I
am astonished that you found no other equally ludicrous; for, in the
way I wrote to you, it is a miracle that you comprehended my meaning;
and I see plainly that either you have a greater share of wit, or that
my letter is better, than I imagined. I am glad, however, you have
profited by my advice.
I am told that you have asked leave to stay at the frontiers. As you
know, my poor count, that mine is a blunt and honest sort of love, I
am desirous your request may be granted. This is the road, it is said,
to preferment, and you know how interested I am in your welfare; but I
shall be pleased either way. If you remain, true friendship shall find
its account; if you return, affectionate friendship shall be satisfied.
Madame de Roquelaure is returned so handsome that she yesterday
completely challenged the Louvre; this kindled such jealousy in the
beauties that were present, that they have resolved, out of spite, she
shall not be a party at any of the _after-suppers_, and you know how
gay and pleasant they are. Madame de Fiennes would have retained her
there yesterday, but it was understood by the queen’s answer that her
presence would be dispensed with.
Adieu, my dear cousin; believe me to be the most faithful friend you
have in the world.
LETTER V.
PARIS, May 20, 1667.
I received a letter from you, my dear cousin, when I was in Brittany,
in which you talked of our ancestors, the Rabutins, and of the beauty
of Bourbilly. But as I had heard from Paris that you were expected
there, and as I had hoped myself to arrive much sooner, I deferred
writing to you; and now I find you are not coming at all. You know that
nothing is now talked of but war. The whole court is at camp, and the
whole camp is at court; and every place being a desert, I prefer the
desert of Livri forest, where I shall pass the summer,
En attendant que nos guerriers
Reviennent couverts de lauriers.[6]
[6] Waiting the return of our warriors covered with laurels.
There are two lines for you, but I do not know whether I have heard
them before, or have just made them. As it is a matter of no great
importance, I shall resume the thread of my prose. My heart has been
very favorably inclined toward you, since I have seen so many people
eager to begin, or rather to revive, a business in which you acquired
so much honor during the time you were able to engage in it. It is a
sad thing for a man of courage to be confined at home when there are
such great doings in Flanders.[7] As you feel, no doubt, all that a
man of spirit and valor can feel, it is imprudent in me to revive so
painful a subject. I hope you will forgive me, in consideration of the
great interest I take in your affairs.
[7] Bussy was exiled to his estates.
It is said you have written to the king. Send me a copy of your letter,
and give me a little information respecting your mode of life, what
sort of things amuse you, and whether the alterations you are making in
your house do not contribute a good deal toward it. I have spent the
winter in Brittany, where I have planted a great number of trees, and
a labyrinth, that will require Ariadne’s clew to find the way out of
it. I have also purchased some land, to which I have said, as usual, “I
shall convert you into a park.” I have extended my walks at a trifling
expense. My daughter sends you a thousand remembrances. I beg mine to
all your family.
LETTER VI.
PARIS, June 3, 1668.
I wrote to you the last; why have you not answered my letter? I have
been expecting to hear from you, and have at length found the Italian
proverb true: _chi offende non perdona_--the offender never pardons.
Madame d’Assigny has informed me that part of a cornice has fallen upon
your head, and hurt you considerably. If you were well, and I dared
exercise a little wicked wit upon the occasion, I should tell you that
they are not trifling ornaments like these that injure the heads of
husbands in general; and that it would be a fortunate circumstance for
them if they met with no worse evil than the fall of a cornice. But I
will not talk nonsense; I will first know how you are, and assure you
that the same reason which made me languid when you were bled, gives me
the headache from your accident. The ties of relationship can not, I
think, be carried further than this.
My daughter was on the point of marriage. The affair is broken off,
I hardly know why. She kisses your hand; I do the same to your whole
family. Have you done any thing yet with regard to the court? Pray let
me know how you stand there.
LETTER VII.
PARIS, July 26, 1668.
I begin by thanking you, my dear cousin, for your letters to the king.
They would afford me pleasure even if they were written by a stranger.
They have awakened in me sentiments of pity, and I should think they
must produce the same effect on our sovereign. It is true, he does not
bear the name of Rabutin, as I do.
The prettiest girl in France sends her compliments to you. This title
is due to her; I am, however, weary of doing the honors of it. She is
more worthy than ever of your esteem and friendship.
You do not know, I believe, that my son is gone to Candia with M. de
Roannes, and the Count de Saint Paul. He consulted M. de Turenne,
Cardinal du Retz, and M. de Rochefoucault upon this: most important
personages! and they all approved it so highly that it was fixed upon,
and rumored abroad, before I knew any thing of the matter. In short,
he is gone. I have wept bitterly, for it is a source of great grief to
me. I shall not have a moment’s rest during his voyage. I see all its
dangers, and terrify myself to death; but alas, I am wholly out of the
question; for, in things of this nature, mothers have no voice. Adieu.
LETTER VIII.
PARIS, September 4, 1668.
Rise, count; I will not kill you while prostrate at my feet, and
take your sword to resume the combat. But it is better that I should
give you life, and that we should live in peace.[8] I exact but one
condition: that you own the thing as it has happened. This is a very
generous proceeding on my part; you can no longer call me a little
brute.
[8] Bussy and his cousin had frequent quarrels: the reason has
before been given. The new difference to which she alludes seems
to have been a slight one.
M. de Montausier has just been appointed governor to the Dauphin.
Je t’ai comblé de biens, je t’en veux accabler.[9]
[9] I have loaded thee with favors, I will add to the burden.
Adieu, count. Now I have conquered you, I shall every where proclaim
that you are the bravest man in France; and whenever extraordinary
duels are mentioned, I shall relate ours. My daughter sends her
compliments. The idea you express of her good fortune in the late
affair is some consolation to us.
LETTER IX.
PARIS, December 4, 1668.
Have you not received the letter, sir, in which I gave you life,
disdaining to kill you at my feet? I expected an answer to this
noble action; but you have thought it unworthy your notice: you have
contented yourself with rising from the ground, and taking your sword
as I commanded you. I hope you will never again employ it against me.
I must tell you a piece of news that will, I am sure, give you
pleasure. It is, that the prettiest girl in France is going to be
married, not to the handsomest youth, but to one of the worthiest men
in the kingdom--to M. de Grignan, whom you have long known. All his
wives died to give place to your cousin; and, through extraordinary
kindness, even his father and mother died too; so that knowing him to
be richer than ever, and finding him besides, by birth, situation,
and good qualities, every thing we could wish, we have not trafficked
with him, as is customary, on the occasion, but confided in the two
families that have gone before us. He seems very well pleased with the
alliance, and, as soon as we have heard from his uncle, the Archbishop
of Arles, his other uncle, the Archbishop of Uzès, being on the spot,
the business will be finished--probably before the end of the year.
As I am a lover of decorum, I could not fail asking your advice and
approbation. The public seem pleased. This is a great deal, for we are
such fools as to be almost always governed by its opinion.
LETTER X.
PARIS, January 7, 1669.
It is as true that I did not receive an answer to the letter in which
I gave you life, as that I was in pain, lest, with the best intention
possible to pardon you, I had unintentionally killed you, being little
accustomed to wield a sword. This was the only good reason I could
assign to myself for your silence. In the mean time you had written,
though your letter had never reached me. Allow me still to regret the
circumstance. You always write pleasantly; and if I had wished to
lose any portion of your correspondence, it would not have been that
letter. I am glad you approve of the marriage with M. de Grignan; he
is a very good man, and very gentlemanly--has wealth, rank, holds a
high office, and is much esteemed and respected by the world. What more
is necessary? I think we are fortunate, and as you are of the same
opinion, sign the deed I sent you; and be assured, my dear cousin, that
if it depended on me, you should be first at the entertainment. How
admirably well you would act your part! Since you left us, I have heard
no wit equal to yours, and I have said to myself a thousand times,
“Good heavens, what a difference!” War[10] is talked of, and it is said
the king will take the field in person.
[10] It was a vague report. No idea was yet entertained of
breaking the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, concluded only seven
months before. But it was in contemplation to interfere in the
quarrel between the Count Palatin and the Duke of Lorraine, and
force the latter to lay down his arms.
LETTERS TO MADAME DE GRIGNAN[11]
FROM 1671 TO 1690.
[11] Margaret de Sévigné, only daughter of Madame de Sévigné,
was born in 1649, a short time before her father was killed.
The education and happiness of this “lovely and infinitely
dear child,” was the occupation, delight, and anxiety of the
mother’s long life. For her, Madame de Sévigné thought, read,
observed, and wrote. The following letters are not only charming
as specimens of epistolary style, but also full of interest and
instruction to those who would study the human mind in its most
sacred development of maternal love.
LETTER I.
PARIS, Monday, February 9, 1671.
I receive your letters in the same way in which you received my ring.
I am in tears while I read them. My heart seems ready to burst.
Bystanders would think that you had treated me ill in your letters,
or were sick, or that some accident had happened to you; whereas
every thing is the reverse. You love me, my dear child; you love me,
and you tell me so in a manner that makes my tears flow in torrents.
You continue your journey without any disagreeable accident.[12] To
know this, is the thing I could the most desire; and yet am I in this
deplorable condition! And do you then take a pleasure in thinking
of me? in talking of me? and have more satisfaction in writing your
sentiments to me than in telling them? In whatever way they come, they
meet with a reception, the warmth of which can only be known to those
who love as I do. In expressing yourself thus, you make me feel the
greatest tenderness for you that is possible to be felt; and if you
think of me, be assured that I, on my side, am continually thinking of
you. Mine is what the devotees call an habitual thought; it is what we
ought to have for the Divine Being, were we to do our duty. Nothing
is capable of diverting me from it. I see your carriage continually
driving on, never, never to come nearer to me; I fancy myself on the
road, and am always in apprehensions of the carriage overturning. I am
almost distracted at the violent rains we have had the last three days,
and am frightened to death at the thoughts of the Rhône. I have at this
instant a map before me; I know every place you sleep at. To-night you
are at Nevers, Sunday you will be at Lyons, where you will receive this
letter. I could only write to you at Moulins by Madame de Guenegaud.
I have had but two letters from you; perhaps a third is on the road;
they are my only comfort. I ask for no other. I am utterly incapable of
seeing much company at a time; I may recover the feeling hereafter, but
it is out of the question now. The Duchesses of Verneuil and Arpajon
have used all their endeavors to divert me, for which I am much obliged
to them. Never, surely, were there better people than in this country.
I was all the day on Saturday at Madame de Villars,[13] talking of you,
and weeping; she takes a great share in my sorrow. Yesterday I heard
Monsieur d’Agen[14] preach, and was at Madame de Puisieux and Madame du
Pui-du-Fou’s, who both send you a thousand remembrances. This evening I
shall sup _tête-à-tête_[15] in the Fauxbourgs. These are my carnivals. I
have a mass said for you every day. This is no superstitious devotion.
I have seen Adhémar[16] but for a moment; I am going to write to him
and thank him for his bed, for which I am more obliged to him even than
you are. If you would give me real pleasure, take care of your health,
sleep in that little snug bed, eat broth, and exert that courage which
I want. Continue to write to me. The friendships you left behind you
here are all increased, and I should never have done with compliments
if I were to tell you how much every one is concerned about your health.
[12] In January, 1670, this idolized daughter of Madame
de Sévigné was married to the Count de Grignan, who was
Lieutenant-General of the Government of Provence, where he found
it necessary to reside. The separation of mother and daughter,
which took place early the following year, was the occasion for
the world-renowned correspondence, which has immortalized the
genius of one, and the names of both.
[13] Marie de Bellefond, Marchioness of Villars, mother to the
late marshal of that name.
[14] Claude Joli, a celebrated preacher, afterward Bishop of Agen.
[15] With Madame de la Fayette.
[16] Joseph Adhémar de Monteil, brother to M. de Grignan,
known at first by the name of Adhémar, was, after the death
of Charles Philip d’Adhémar, his brother, which happened the
6th of February, 1672, called the Chevalier de Grignan; but
being afterward married to N*** d’Oraison, he resumed the name
of Count Adhémar. In 1675 he was colonel to a regiment of
horse, at the head of which he signalized himself on several
occasions, particularly at the battle of Altenheim. He was
made field-marshal in 1688, and, had not repeated attacks of
the gout prevented him from continuing in the service, he
would, doubtless, from his reputation, merit, and illustrious
birth, have obtained the most considerable military honors. He
died without issue the 19th of November, 1713, at the age of
sixty-nine.
LETTER II.
PARIS, Wednesday, February 11, 1671.
I have received but three of those delightful letters that so affect
my heart. One is still on the road. If I were not so fond of them, and
loth to lose any thing that you write me, I should not think I had
lost much; for nothing can be wished for beyond what I find in those
I have already received. In the first place, they are well written,
and are besides so tender, so natural, that it is impossible not to
believe every thing contained in them. Distrust itself would here
stand convinced. They wear that air of truth which, as I have always
maintained, carries authority with it; while falsehood and lies skulk
under a load of words, without having the power of persuasion; the
more they attempt to show themselves, the more they are entangled.
Your expressions are sincere, and they appear so; they are used only
to explain your meaning, and receive an irresistible force from their
noble simplicity. Such, my dear child, do your letters appear to me. As
for me, I appear to myself quite divested of every thing that made me
agreeable; I am ashamed to appear in society; and notwithstanding the
endeavors that have been used to bring me back to it, I have latterly
been like one just come out of the woods; nor could I be otherwise. Few
are worthy of understanding what I feel; I have sought those chosen
few, and avoided all others. I fancy you are at Moulins to-day; if so,
you will receive one of my letters. I did not write to you at Briare;
if I had, it must have been on that cruel Wednesday, the very day you
set off; and I was so overwhelmed with grief that I was incapable
even of tasting the consolation of writing to you. This is the third
letter; my second is at Lyons. Be sure you let me know if you receive
them. When at a distance, we no longer laugh at a letter beginning
with, “I received yours,” etc. The thought of your going still further
and further from me, and of seeing the carriage continually driving
on, is what harrows me most. You are always going on, and at last,
as you say, you will find yourself at two hundred leagues’ distance
from me; resolved, therefore, not to suffer such injustice without
repaying it in my turn, I shall set myself about removing further off,
too, and shall do it so effectually as to make it three hundred. A
very pretty distance you will say. And would it not be a step highly
worthy the love I have for you, to undertake to traverse all France to
find you out? I am delighted at the reconciliation between you and the
coadjutor; you know how necessary I always thought it to the happiness
of your life. Preserve this treasure with care. You own yourself
charmed with his goodness: let him see you are not ungrateful. I shall
soon finish my letter; perhaps when you get to Lyons you will be so
giddy with the honors you will receive there, that you will not find
time to read it; find enough, however, I beseech you, to let me hear of
you, and whether you embark upon that horrible Rhône.
Wednesday night.
I have this moment received yours from Nogent; it was given me by a
very honest fellow, whom I questioned as much as I could; but your
letter is worth more than any thing that could have been told me.
It was but justice, my dear, that you should be the first to make
me smile, after having caused me so many tears. What you tell me of
Monsieur Busche is quite original; it is what may be called a genuine
stroke of eloquence. I did laugh then, I own, and I should have been
ashamed of it had I done any thing else than cry for this week past.
I met this Monsieur Busche in the street, when he was bringing your
horses for you to set out; I stopped him, and all in tears asked him
his name, which he told me. “Monsieur Busche,” said I, sobbing all the
while, “I recommend my daughter to your care; do not, dear Monsieur
Busche, do not overturn her; and when you have taken her safely to
Lyons, if you will call upon me with the agreeable news, I will give
you something to drink.” I shall, therefore, certainly do so. What you
say of him has greatly added to the respect I had for him before.
LETTER III.
PARIS, Thursday, February 12, 1671.
This is only a line precursory, for I shall not write to you till
to-morrow; but I wish you to know what I have just heard.
Yesterday the president, Amelot, after having made a great number of
visits, toward night found himself a good deal out of order, and was
soon afterward seized with a violent apoplectic fit, of which he died
about eight o’clock this morning. I would have you write to his wife;
the whole family are in the greatest affliction.
The Duchess de la Vallière sent a letter to the king, the contents
of which have not transpired, and then a message by the Marshal de
Bellefond, to say, “that she would have quitted the court, after having
lost the honor of his good opinion had she been able to prevail with
herself to see him no more, but that her weakness on that head had been
so great that she was scarcely capable, even now, of making a sacrifice
of it to her God; she was resolved, however, that the remains of the
passion she had felt for him should constitute part of her penance,
and, as she had devoted her youth to him, it could not be thought much
if the rest of her life were spent in cares for her own salvation.”
The king wept bitterly, and sent Monsieur Colbert to Chaillot, to beg
her to come directly to Versailles, that he might speak to her once
more. Monsieur Colbert accordingly conducted her thither. The king had
a whole hour’s conversation with her, and wept a great deal. Madame de
Montespan ran with open arms, and tears in her eyes, to receive her.
We do not rightly understand all this. Some say she will remain at
Versailles, and continue about the court; others that she will return
to Chaillot. We shall see.
LETTER IV.
PARIS, Tuesday, March 3, 1671.
If you were here, my dear child, you would certainly laugh at me. I am
set down to write beforehand, but from a very different reason to that
which I once gave you for writing to a person two days before I could
send my letter: it was a matter of indifference to me, when I wrote, as
I knew I should have no more to say to him at the two days’ end than I
had then. But here the case is otherwise. I do it now from the regard
I have for you, and to satisfy the pleasure I take in writing to you
every moment, which is the sole comfort I have now left. To-day I am
shut up by myself in my room, through excess of ill-humor. I am weary
of every thing. I took a pleasure in dining here, and still a greater
one in writing to you out of season. Alas! you have none of these
leisure moments! I write quite at my ease, but can hardly suppose you
will be able to read what I write in the same manner. I do not see how
it is possible for you to be a minute by yourself. On one side I behold
a husband who adores you, who is never tired of being with you, and who
scarcely knows the end of his happiness; on the other side, harangues,
compliments, visits, and honors paid you without end; all this must be
answered. Indeed, you have enough upon your hands. I could not bear it
myself in my little circle. But what became of your favorite Indolence
amid all this noise and bustle? It suffers now; it retires into a
corner, just dead with apprehension of losing its place in your heart
forever; it seeks some vacant moment to put you in remembrance, and
just drop a word to you by the by. “Alas!” it says, “and have you then
forgotten me? Remember, I am your oldest acquaintance; the friend that
has never abandoned you; the faithful companion of your happy hours,
who made you amends for the want of every pleasure, and for whose sake
you have sometimes hated them. It was I that prevented your dying of
the vapors while you were in Brittany. Sometimes, indeed, your mother
would break in upon our joys, but then I knew where to have you again.
Now I know not what will become of me. These shows, all this pageantry,
will be my death, unless you take some care of me.” Methinks I hear
you speak a kind word to it as you go by; you give it some hopes of
possessing you when at Grignan; but you are gone in an instant, and
can not find time to say more. Duty and reason are with you, and allow
you not a moment’s repose; I, who have always so highly honored these
personages, am now quite out with them, and they with me. How then will
they permit you to waste your time in reading such trifles as these?
I assure you, my dear child, I am continually thinking of you; and I
experience every day the truth of what you once told me, that there are
certain thoughts which are not to be dwelt upon, but passed over as
lightly as possible, unless we would be forever in tears. This is my
case: for there is not a place in the house which does not give a stab
to my heart when I see it; but your room especially deals a deadly blow
from every part of it. I have placed a screen in the middle of it, that
I may at least take something from the prospect. As for the window from
which I saw you get into D’Hacqueville’s coach, and then called you
back again, I shudder every time I think how near I was throwing myself
out of it after you. I was likely enough to have done it, for at times
I am not in my senses. The closet where I held you last in my arms,
without knowing what I did; the Capuchins, where I used to go to mass;
the tears that fell so fast from my eyes that they wetted the ground,
as if water had been thrown on it; Saint Mary’s, Madame de la Fayette,
my return to the house, your room, that night, the next morning, your
first letter, and every one since, and still every day, and every
conversation of those who feel with me, are so many remembrancers of my
loss. Poor D’Hacqueville holds the first rank; I shall never forget the
compassion he showed me. These are the thoughts incessantly uppermost;
yet these are to be passed over, it seems; we are not to abandon our
selves to our thoughts, and the emotions of our heart. I had rather,
however, continue my reveries on the kind of life you are leading. It
occasions a sort of diversion, without making me abandon my principal,
my beloved object. I do then think of you. I am always wishing for
letters from you. One wish of this nature, when gratified, is followed
by another continually. I am in this state of expectation now, and
shall go on with my letter when I have received one from you.
LETTER V.
PARIS, Wednesday, March 18, 1671.
I have received two packets at once, which have been delayed for a
considerable time. By these I am at length informed from yourself,
of your entry into Aix, but you do not mention whether your husband
was with you, or in what manner Vardes honored your triumph; but
you describe the triumph itself very humorously, as well as the
embarrassment you were under, and your many misplaced civilities. I
wish that I had been with you; not that I should have done better than
yourself, for I have not so good a gift of fixing names upon faces--on
the contrary, I daily commit a thousand blunders in that way--but I
think I could have been of some assistance to you, at least I should
have made courtesies enough. It is true, that such a multiplicity of
ceremonies and attentions is very tiresome. You should, nevertheless,
endeavor not to be deficient in any of these points, but accommodate
yourself, as much as possible, to the customs and the manners of those
among whom you are to live.
An event has just taken place, which engrosses the whole conversation
of Paris. The king has ordered Monsieur de S---- to resign his post,
and to quit Paris immediately. Can you guess the reason? For having
cheated at play, and won upward of five hundred thousand crowns with
false cards! The man who made these cards was examined by the king
himself; he denied the fact at first; but, upon his majesty’s promising
him a pardon, he confessed that he had followed the trade for a long
time. It is said that the affair will not stop here, for that there
are several houses which he used to furnish with these cards. It was
some time before the king could prevail upon himself to disgrace a man
of Monsieur de S----’s quality; but as, for several months past, every
body that had played with him had been in a manner ruined, he thought
he could not in conscience do less than bring such a scene of villainy
to light. S---- was so perfectly master of his adversaries’ game, that
he always made _sept et le va_ upon the queen of spades, because he
knew the spades lay all in the other packs. The king as constantly lost
one-and-thirty upon clubs, and used to say, clubs never win against
spades in this country. This man had given thirty pistoles to Madame
de la Vallière’s _valets de chambre_ to throw all the cards they had
in the house into the river, in the pretense that they were not good,
and had introduced his own card-maker. He was first led into this fine
way of life by one Pradier, who has since disappeared. Had S---- known
himself innocent, he would immediately have delivered himself up, and
insisted upon taking his trial; but, instead of this, he took the road
to Languedoc, as the surest way of the two; many, however, advised him
to take a journey to La Trappe,[17] after such a misfortune.
[17] _La Trappe_ is a society of religious monks, remarkable for
the austerity of their lives, and the severe discipline practiced
among them.
Madame d’Humieres has charged me with a thousand good wishes for you.
She is going to Lille, where she will receive as many honors as you
did at Aix. Marshal Bellefond, through a pure motive of piety, has
settled with his creditors. He has given up to them the principal part
of his property, besides half the profits of his post,[18] to complete
the payment of the arrears. This is a noble action, and shows that his
visits to La Trappe have not been without effect. I went the other day
to see the Duchess of Ventadour; she was as handsome as an angel. The
Duchess of Nevers came in, with her head dressed very ridiculously. You
may believe me, for you know I am an admirer of fashion. Martin had
cropped her to the very extremity of the mode.
[18] That of chief maître d’hôtel, or master of the household, to
the king.
Your brother is at St. Germain; he divides his time with Ninon, a young
actress,[19] and, to crown the whole, Despréaux. We lead him a sad life.
[19] Called la Champêlée.
LETTER VI.
PARIS, Friday, April 1, 1671.
I returned yesterday from St. Germain with Madame d’Arpajon. Every
one at court inquired after you; among the rest, it will not be
amiss, I think, to distinguish the queen, who accosted me, and asked
how my daughter was after her affair upon the Rhône. I returned her
majesty thanks for the honor she did you in remembering you. She then
desired me to tell her in what manner you had like to have been lost;
I accordingly gave her an account of your crossing the river in a
storm of wind, and that a sudden gust had thrown you under an arch,
within an inch of one of the piles, which if you had once touched,
all the world could not have saved you. But, says the queen, “Was her
husband with her?” “Yes, madam, and the coadjutor too.” “Really,” said
she, “they were greatly to blame.” She gave two or three alasses!
while I was talking to her, and said many obliging things of you.
Afterward a number of ladies came in, and among the rest the young
Duchess of Ventadour, very fine and very handsome; it was some time
before they brought her the divine tabouret;[20] “Ah,” said I, turning
to the grand master,[21] “why do they not give it to her, she has
purchased it dearly enough?”[22] He was of my opinion. In the midst
of a silence in the circle, the queen turned to me, and asked me who
my granddaughter was like? “M. de Grignan, madam,” replied I. Upon
which her majesty exclaimed, “Indeed! I am sorry for it;” and added,
in a low tone of voice, “She had better have resembled her mother or
grandmother.” So you see how much I am indebted to you in making my
court. Marshal Bellefond made me promise to distinguish him from the
crowd. I made your compliments to Monsieur and Madame Duras, and to
Messieurs de Charôt and Montausier, and _tutti quanti_, not to forget
the dauphin and mademoiselle, who both talked a great deal to me about
you. I likewise saw Madame de Ludre; she accosted me with an excess
of civility and kindness that surprised me, and talked in the most
affectionate manner of you, when all on a sudden, as I was going to
make her a suitable answer, I found she was not attending to me, and
saw her fine eyes wandering round the room. I presently perceived it,
and those who saw I took notice of it were pleased with me, and could
not help laughing.
[20] The tabouret is a stool to sit on in the presence of the
queen, a privilege never enjoyed but by ladies of the first
quality.
[21] The Count de Lude, grand master of the artillery.
[22] Monsieur de Ventadour was not only very ugly and deformed,
but, at the same time, a great debauchee.
I have been extremely diverted with our hurly-burly headdresses; some
of them looked as if you could have blown them off their shoulders.
Ninon[23] said that La Choiseul was as like the flaunting hostess of
an inn, as one drop of water to another; a most excellent simile! But
that Ninon is a dangerous creature; if you only knew how she argues
upon religion it would make you shudder. Her zeal to pervert the minds
of young people is much the same as that of a certain gentleman of
St. Germain, that we saw once at Livri. She says your brother has all
the simplicity of the dove, that he is just like his mother; but that
Madame de Grignan has all the fire of the family, and has more sense
than to be so docile. A certain person would have taken your part, and
put her out of conceit with you on that head, but she bid him hold
his tongue, and told him that she knew more of the matter than he
did. What a depravity of taste! Because she knows you to be handsome
and witty, she must needs saddle you with the other qualification,
without which, according to her rule, there is no being perfect. I am
greatly concerned for the harm she does my son in this point; but do
not take any notice of it to him. Madame de la Fayette and I use all
our endeavors to disengage him from so dangerous an attachment. Besides
her, he has a little actress,[24] and all the players of the town
upon his hands, to whom he gives suppers; in short, he is perfectly
infatuated. You know what a joke he makes of Mascaron. I fancy your
Minim[25] would suit him. I never read any thing more diverting than
what you wrote to me about that man; I read it to Monsieur de la
Rochefoucault, who laughed heartily at it. He desires me to tell you,
that there is a certain apostle who is running up and down after his
rib, which he would fain appropriate to himself, as a part of his goods
and chattels; but, unluckily for him, he is not clever at enterprise. I
fancy Mellusina is fallen into some pit, we do not hear a single word
about her. M. de la Rochefoucault says besides, that if he was only
thirty years younger, he should certainly have a great inclination for
M. de Grignan’s third rib.[26] That part of your letter, where you say
he has already had two of his ribs broken, made him laugh heartily; we
always wish for some oddity or other to divert you, but we very much
doubt whether this has not turned out rather more to your satisfaction
than ours. After all, we pity you extremely, in not having the word
of God preached in a suitable manner. Ah, that Bourdaloüe! his sermon
on the Passion was, they say, the most perfect thing of the kind that
can be imagined; it was the same he preached last year, but revised
and altered with the assistance of some of his friends, that it might
be wholly inimitable; how can one love God, if one never hears him
properly spoken of? you must really possess a greater portion of grace
than others. We went the other day to hear the Abbé Montmort;[27] I
never heard a prettier sermon for so young a beginner. I wish you had
such a one in the room of your Minim. He made the sign of the cross,
and gave out his text; he did not anathematize his audience, he did
not load us with abuse; he told us not to be under any apprehensions
concerning death, since it was the only passage we had to a glorious
resurrection with Jesus Christ. We agreed with him in this, and every
one went away contented. He has nothing offensive in his manner;
he imitates Monsieur d’Agen without copying him; he has a modest
confidence, is learned, and pious. In short, I was highly pleased with
him.
[23] Ninon de l’Enclos, famous for her wit and free-thinking.
[24] La Champêlée.
[25] The priest who preached at Grignan.
[26] That is, to Mme. de Grignan, who was M. de Grignan’s third
wife.
[27] Afterward Bishop of Bayonne.
LETTER VII.
PARIS, Friday, April 10, 1671.
I wrote to you on Wednesday by the post, yesterday by Magalotti, and
to-day again by the post; but last night I lost a charming opportunity.
I went to walk at Vincennes, _en Troche_,[28] and by the way met with
a string of galley-slaves; they were going to Marseilles, and will be
there in about a month. Nothing could have been surer than this mode
of conveyance, but another thought came into my head, which was to go
with them myself. There was one Duval among them, who appeared to be a
conversible man. You will see them when they come in, and I suppose you
would have been agreeably surprised to have seen me in the midst of the
crowd of women that accompany them. I wish you knew of what importance
the words Provence, Marseilles, Aix, are become to me; even the Rhône,
that devilish Rhône, and Lyons, are something to me. Brittany and
Burgundy appear like places under the pole, in which I take no sort
of interest. I may say with Coulanges, “O, the surprising power of my
orvietan!” Really, my child, it was admirable in you to desire the
abbé[29] to prevent my sending you any more presents! What nonsense!
Do I in reality make you any? You call the newspapers I send you by
that name. You never can divest me of the desire of thus giving; it is
the most sensible pleasure I can enjoy. You should rather rejoice with
me, if I indulged myself more frequently in it. The method you took of
thanking me was highly pleasing to me.
[28] With her friend, Madame de la Troche.
[29] The Abbé de Coulanges, who lived with his niece, Madame de
Sévigné.
Your letters are excellent; one might venture to say they were not
dictated by the good ladies of the country where you reside. I find
that M. de Grignan, to his other connections with you, adds that of
being your companion; he seems to me the only one who understands you.
Be careful to preserve the happiness of his heart by the tenderness of
yours, and consider that if you do not both love me, each according to
your proper degree of estimation, you will be the most ungrateful of
beings. The new opinion, that there is no such thing as ingratitude in
the world, appears to me, for the reasons which we have so frequently
discussed, like the philosophy of Descartes, and the contrary one
like that of Aristotle. You know the deference I always paid to the
authority of the latter; it is the same with respect to my opinion of
ingratitude. I should pronounce you then, my child, to be a little
ungrateful wretch; but, happily, and the idea constitutes all my
comfort, I know you to be incapable of such conduct, and I therefore
yield without reserve to the feelings of my heart. Adieu, my dearest
love, I am going to close this letter. I shall write you another
to-night, in which I shall give you an account of the occurrences of
the day. We are every day in hopes of letting your house; you may
suppose I can forget nothing that relates to you; I am as interested in
your affairs as the most selfish being ever was in his own.
LETTER VIII.
Friday night, April 10, 1671.
I make up my packet at Monsieur de la Rochefoucault’s, who embraces you
very heartily; he is delighted with your answer about the canons and
Father Desmares. There is some pleasure in sending you these trifles,
you answer them so prettily. He begs you to be assured that you still
live strongly in his remembrance, and that if he hears any thing worth
your notice he will certainly communicate it to you. He is at his Hôtel
de Rochefoucault, having no longer any hopes of recovering the use of
his feet; he talks of going to the waters; I am for sending him to
Digne, others to Bourbon. I dined _en Bavardin_[30] and in so complete
a style that I thought we should have died. We did not talk, merely, as
we used to do; we did nothing but chatter.
[30] That is, at Madame de Lavardin’s, who was extremely fond of
news.
Brancas was overturned the other day into a ditch, where he found
himself so much at his ease, that he asked those who came to help
him out if they had any occasion for his services. His glasses were
all broken, and his head would have been so, too, if he had not been
more lucky than wise; but all this did not seem to have destroyed his
reverie in the least. I wrote this morning to let him know he had been
overturned, and was very near breaking his neck, as I supposed he was
the only person in Paris who was ignorant of it; and that I took the
opportunity of expressing the concern it gave me. I expect his answer.
LETTER IX.
From MONSIEUR DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULT’S,
Friday evening, April 24, 1671.
Here, then, I make up my packet. I had intended to tell you that
the king arrived yesterday evening at Chantilly: he hunted a stag
by moonlight; the lamps did wonders; the fire-works were a little
eclipsed by the brightness of our serene friend, the moon; but the
evening, the supper, and the entertainment, went off admirably well.
The weather we had yesterday gave us hopes of an end worthy of so
fine a beginning. But what do you think I learned when I came here? I
am not yet recovered, and hardly know what I write. Vatel, the great
Vatel, late maître-d’hôtel to M. Fouquet, and in that capacity with
the prince, a man so eminently distinguished for taste, and whose
abilities were equal to the government of a state--this man, whom I
knew so well, finding, at eight o’clock this morning, that the fish he
had sent for did not come at the time he expected it, and unable to
bear the disgrace that he thought would inevitably attach to him, ran
himself through with his own sword. Guess what confusion so shocking
an accident must have occasioned. Think, too, that perhaps the fish
might come in just as he was expiring. I know no more of the affair
at present, and I suppose you think this enough. I make no doubt the
consternation was general; it must be very disagreeable to have so
fatal an event break in upon an entertainment that cost fifty thousand
crowns.
Monsieur De Menars is to be married to Mademoiselle De la
Grange-Neuville; but I do not know how I can have the heart to speak to
you about any thing but Vatel.
LETTER X.
PARIS, Sunday, April 26, 1671.
This is Sunday, April 26th, and this letter will not go out till
Wednesday; but it is not so much a letter as a narrative that I
have just learned from Moreuil, of what passed at Chantilly with
regard to poor Vatel. I wrote to you last Friday that he had stabbed
himself--these are the particulars of the affair: The king arrived
there on Thursday night; the walk, and the collation, which was served
in a place set apart for the purpose, and strewed with jonquils, were
just as they should be. Supper was served, but there was no roast meat
at one or two of the tables, on account of Vatel’s having been obliged
to provide several dinners more than were expected. This affected
his spirits, and he was heard to say, several times: “I have lost my
honor! I can not bear this disgrace!” “My head is quite bewildered,”
said he to Gourville. “I have not had a wink of sleep these twelve
nights; I wish you would assist me in giving orders.” Gourville did
all he could to comfort and assist him; but the failure of the roast
meat (which, however, did not happen at the king’s table, but at some
of the other twenty-five), was always uppermost with him. Gourville
mentioned it to the prince, who went directly to Vatel’s apartment, and
said to him: “Every thing is extremely well conducted, Vatel; nothing
could be more admirable than his majesty’s supper.” “Your highness’s
goodness,” replied he, “overwhelms me; I am sensible that there was a
deficiency of roast meat at two tables.” “Not at all,” said the prince;
“do not perplex yourself, and all will go well.” Midnight came: the
fire-works did not succeed, they were covered with a thick cloud; they
cost sixteen thousand francs. At four o’clock in the morning Vatel went
round and found every body asleep; he met one of the under-purveyors,
who was just come in with only two loads of fish. “What!” said he,
“is this all?” “Yes, sir,” said the man, not knowing that Vatel had
dispatched other people to all the sea-ports around. Vatel waited
for some time; the other purveyors did not arrive; his head grew
distracted; he thought there was no more fish to be had. He flew to
Gourville: “Sir,” said he, “I can not outlive this disgrace.” Gourville
laughed at him. Vatel, however, went to his apartment, and setting the
hilt of his sword against the door, after two ineffectual attempts,
succeeded in the third, in forcing his sword through his heart. At
that instant the carriers arrived with the fish; Vatel was inquired
after to distribute it. They ran to his apartment, knocked at the
door, but received no answer, upon which they broke it open, and found
him weltering in his blood. A messenger was immediately dispatched
to acquaint the prince with what had happened, who was like a man in
despair. The duke wept, for his Burgundy journey depended upon Vatel.
The prince related the whole affair to his majesty with an expression
of great concern; it was considered as the consequence of too nice a
sense of honor; some blamed, others praised him for his courage. The
king said he had put off this excursion for more than five years,
because he was aware that it would be attended with infinite trouble,
and told the prince that he ought to have had but two tables, and not
have been at the expense of so many, and declared he would never suffer
him to do so again; but all this was too late for poor Vatel. However,
Gourville attempted to supply the loss of Vatel, which he did in great
measure. The dinner was elegant, the collation was the same. They
supped, they walked, they hunted; all was perfumed with jonquils, all
was enchantment. Yesterday, which was Saturday, the same entertainments
were renewed, and in the evening the king set out for Liancourt,
where he had ordered a _media-noche_;[31] he is to stay there three
days. This is what Moreuil has told me, hoping I should acquaint you
with it. I wash my hands of the rest, for I know nothing about it. M.
D’Hacqueville, who was present at the scene, will, no doubt, give you a
faithful account of all that passed; but, because his hand-writing is
not quite so legible as mine, I write too; if I am circumstantial, it
is because, on such an occasion, I should like circumstantiality myself.
[31] _Media-noche_ is a flesh-meal just after midnight, among the
Roman Catholics.
LETTER XI.
Monday, May 18, 1671
Just going to set out.
At last, my dear child, I am just ready to step into my carriage:
there!--I am in--adieu! I never shall use that word to you without real
grief. I am now on my way for Brittany. Is it possible that any thing
can increase the distance between us, when we are already separated
from each other more than two hundred leagues? But so it is; I have
found a way to complete it; and as you thought your town of Aix not
quite far enough from me, I also, look upon Paris as too much in your
neighborhood. You went to Marseilles to fly me, and I, to pay you in
your own coin, am going to Vitré. But to be serious, my dear, our
correspondence will suffer by this; it used to be a great source of
consolation and amusement to me. Alas! what shall I have to say to
you from the midst of my woods? I shall have nothing to entertain you
with but accounts of Mademoiselle du Plessis and Jaquine;[32] charming
subjects these! I am very happy in what you tell me of your health,
but, in the name of God, if you have any love for me, take care of
yourself; do not dance, do not fall, take a good deal of rest, and,
above all things, arrange your plans so as to lie-in at Aix, where
you may have the best and the most timely assistance. You know how
expeditious you are on those occasions; be sure to have every thing
ready rather too soon than too late. Good Heavens! what shall I not
suffer at that period!
[32] A pretty servant girl of Madame de Sévigné’s at her house in
Brittany.
You relate the dispute you had with our friend Vivonne very agreeably.
I think the fault lies entirely on his side. You laid a famous trap in
which you caught him completely. His confusion made me sweat for him,
and he did so himself, I dare say; but in the end you made it up and
embraced him! a great[33] undertaking that, for one in your situation.
If your quarrels must end thus, you ought to have no quarrels nor
enemies upon your hands.
[33] Monsieur de Vivonne was remarkable for his great bulk.
LETTER XII.
FROM THE ROCKS,[34] Sunday, May 31, 1671.
[34] The name of Madame de Sévigné’s estate in Brittany.
At last, my child, I am at the Rocks. Can I behold these walks, can I
view these ornaments, this little closet, these books, these rooms, and
not die with grief? Some recollections are agreeable, but there are
others again so lively and so tender that they are hardly supportable;
such are mine with respect to you. And you may easily guess the effect
this is likely to produce in a heart like mine.
If you continue pretty well, my dear child, I believe I shall not come
to you till next year. Brittany and Provence are not very compatible;
long journeys are strange things. If we were always to continue in
the same mind we are in at the end of a journey, we should never stir
from the place we were then in; but Providence, in kindness to us,
causes us to forget it. It is much the same with lying-in women. Heaven
permits this forgetfulness that the world may be peopled, and that
folks may take journeys to Provence. Mine, therefore, will afford me
the greatest joy I ever received in my life, but how cruel a thought
is it to see no end to your stay there! I more and more admire and
applaud your prudence, though, to tell you the truth, I am greatly
affected with this impossibility; but I hope time will make us see
things in a different light. We must always live in hope; without that
consolation there would be no living. I sometimes pass such melancholy
moments in the woods, that I return as changed as one just out of a
fever. I fancy you pass your time pretty well at Marseilles. Do not
fail to tell me how you were received at Grignan. The people here had
designed to make a kind of triumphal entry for my son; Vaillant had
drawn out near fifteen hundred men under arms, very well dressed, with
new ribbons round their necks, and had marched them within a league of
the Rocks. But guess what happened! Our abbé had written word that we
should be there on Tuesday, and afterward forgot to mention it to us.
Accordingly these poor people were waiting under arms the whole day
till ten o’clock at night, when they returned home very much chagrined
at their disappointment; and behold the next day, which was Wednesday,
we came in as quiet and peaceable as lambs, without dreaming that a
little army had been drawn out to receive us! We were a good deal
vexed at this mistake, but there was no remedy; so much for our first
setting out. Mademoiselle du Plessis is just as you left her. She has
formed a new acquaintance at Vitré that she plumes herself mightily
upon, because she is a great genius, has read all the romances, and,
more than that, has had two letters from the Princess de Tarante. I
was wicked enough to set Vaillant upon telling her that I was jealous
of this new friend of hers, and that, when I heard of their intimacy,
it had given me the greatest uneasiness, though I had taken no notice
of it to her. It requires the pen of a Molière to describe all she
says upon the occasion; and it is highly amusing to see how artfully
she manages me, and with what care she avoids speaking of my supposed
rival before my face; I too play my part very well. My little trees
are grown surprisingly; Pilois[35] is raising their stately heads to
the clouds. In short, nothing can be more beautiful than these walks,
which you first saw planted. You may remember I once gave you a little
device which was thought very suitable. Here is a motto I wrote the
other day upon a tree, which I intend for my son, who is just returned
from Candia. _Vago di fama_.[36] Is it not pretty, notwithstanding
its conciseness? Yesterday I had another inscribed in honor of the
idlers, _Bella cosa far niente!_[37] Ah! my dear child, what a wild
romantic air my letters have! What is become of the time when I used
to talk of Paris like other people? Now you will hear of nothing but
myself; and, to show you what confidence I have in your affection, I am
persuaded this will be the most agreeable intelligence I can give you.
I am highly pleased with my company here. Our abbé is at all times an
excellent companion. La Mousse and my son are satisfied with me, and
I with them. We always seek one another; and if business at any time
takes me from them, they are at their wit’s end, and think it very odd
in me to prefer a farmer’s account to a tale of La Fontaine’s. They
are all passionately in love with you. I fancy you will hear from them
soon. I choose however to be beforehand with them, for I do not love
talking to you in a crowd. My dearest child, will you always love me?
my life depends upon your affection! That, as I told you the other day,
constitutes all my joy and all my sorrow.
[35] The gardener at the Rocks.
[36] Anxious for fame.
[37] What a fine thing it is to do nothing.
LETTER XIII.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, June 10, 1671.
I am going to entertain you to-day, my dear child, with what is called
rain and fine weather. I had not your letters till Friday, and I
answered them the Sunday following. I begin then with the rain, for
fair weather is out of the question. For this week past it has rained
incessantly; I say incessantly--for the rain has only been interrupted
by storms. I can not stir abroad, my workmen are all dispersed, and I
am devoured with melancholy; La Mousse, too, is very low-spirited. We
read, indeed, and that just keeps us alive. My son is gone to Rennes,
whither we thought it necessary to send him, to pay a visit to the
first president, and several other friends that I have there; if he
has time, I shall prevail on him to go and see Monsieur de Coëtquen;
he is old enough now for these things. There was a ball at Vitré again
on Sunday. I very much fear that my son will become too fond of the
company of ten or a dozen men that supped with him the other night
at the castle of Sévigné; they may be borne with, but he should be
very cautious of forming too great an intimacy with them. A dispute
arose between two of the party about some trifle or other; the lie was
given; to it they went; the company endeavored to part them; there
was a great deal of talk and very little sense; however, monsieur le
marquis[38] had the honor of making up the difference, and afterward
set out for Rennes. There have been great cabals at Vitré: Mademoiselle
de Croqueoison complains that, at a ball the other day, Mademoiselle du
Cerni did not offer her part of some oranges she had. We must hear what
Mademoiselle du Plessis and the Launayes have to say on this subject,
as they know all the circumstances relating to it. As to Mademoiselle
du Plessis, she lets all her affairs at Vitré run to ruin, because she
will not stir in them, from the fear of making me jealous on account
of her new friend; and it was but the other day that, to make me quite
easy, she said as many ill-natured things of her as she could. When it
is fine weather, this nonsense makes me laugh, but when it is bad and
gloomy, I could give her a box on the ear, as you once did. Madame de
Coulanges writes me word that she has heard nothing of Brancas, except
that out of his six coach-horses he has only one left, and that he was
the last person to discover it. I hear no news. Our little Alégre is at
her mother’s, and it is thought that M. de Seignelai is to be married
to her. I suppose you are in want of persons to furnish you with
intelligence; for my part, I despise trivial occurrences; I am only
for those that surprise and astonish; such a one I met with this very
morning while the abbé and I were in his study together. We found, in
reckoning with those counters of his which are so good, that with all
that has fallen to me, I ought to be worth 530,000 livres.[39] Do you
know that what our dear abbé has left me will not amount to less than
80,000 francs? And do you think I am not impatient to be in possession?
And 100,000 francs from Burgundy; this has come since you were married,
the rest, viz.: 100,000 crowns by my marriage; 100,000 crowns since by
M. de Chalons, and 20,000 francs, in little legacies, from one or two
of my uncles; but do you not wonder whither my pen is running with me?
I should do much better to tell you what I suffer every day, when I
reflect in what places Providence has destined us to pass our lives.
This is a continual source of uneasiness to me, but let it not be so
to you; you have not the same reason; you are with a husband that
adores you, and in the midst of honors and splendor; but endeavor, if
possible, to work some miracle in your affairs, so that your return
to Paris may be retarded only by the duties of your post, and not
from necessity. It is very easy to talk thus; I wish it was as easily
carried into execution, and wishes are not forbidden us. They write
me word that Madame de Valavoire is at Paris, and that she is forever
talking of your beauty, politeness, wit, talents, and, in short, of the
new head-dress you have invented, which it seems you have executed in
as good a style as if you had been in the midst of the court. Madame de
la Troche and I have at least the honor of having described it so well
as to put you in the way of performing these wonders. She is at Paris
still, that La Troche. She is going to her own house about the latter
end of this month. As for me, I do not know what the States intend
doing; but I fancy I shall run away for fear of being ruined. It is a
mighty pretty thing to put myself to the expense of near a thousand
crowns in dinners and suppers, and all for the honor of keeping a
summer-house for M. and Madame de Chaulnes, Madame de Rohan, M. de
Lavardin, and half Brittany, who, without knowing any thing of me,
will, to be in the fashion, honor me with their company. Well, we shall
see how it will turn out. I shall only regret leaving M. d’Harroüis
and this house, before I have half finished my business. But, my dear
child, the greatest inclination I have at present is to be a little
religious. I plague La Mousse about it every day. I belong neither to
God nor to the devil. I am quite weary of such a situation, though,
between you and me, I look upon it as the most natural one in the
world. I am not the devil’s, because I fear God, and have at the bottom
a principle of religion; then, on the other hand, I am not properly
God’s, because his law appears hard and irksome to me, and I can not
bring myself to acts of self-denial; so that altogether I am one of
those called lukewarm Christians, the great number of which does not
in the least surprise me, for I perfectly understand their sentiments
and the reasons that influence them. However, we are told that this
is a state highly displeasing to God; if so, we must get out of it.
Alas! this is the difficulty. Was ever any thing so mad as I am, to be
thus eternally pestering you with my rhapsodies? My dear child, _I ask
excuse_, as they say here; but I must chat with you, it is so truly
delightful to me. Be sure, however, not to return me an answer, only
let me hear of your health, with a little spice of your sentiments,
that I may see that you are happy, and that you like Grignan; that is
all. Love me; though we have turned the world into ridicule, it is
natural, it is good.
[38] Meaning her son, the Marquis of Sévigné.
[39] Upward of 20,000_l._ sterling, reckoning a livre at 10_d._
halfpenny.
LETTER XIV.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, June 28, 1671.
You have amply made up to me my late losses; I have received two
letters from you which have filled me with transports of joy. The
pleasure I take in reading them is beyond all imagination. If I have
in any way contributed to the improvement of your style, I did it in
the thought I was laboring for the pleasure of others, not for my own.
But Providence, who has seen fit to separate us so often, and to place
us at such immense distances from each other, has repaid me a little
for the privations in the charms of your correspondence, and still
more in the satisfaction you express in your situation, and the beauty
of your castle; you represent it to me with an air of grandeur and
magnificence that enchants me. I once saw a similar account of it by
the first Madame de Grignan; but I little thought, at that time, that
all these beauties were one day to be at your command. I am very much
obliged to you for having given me so particular an account of it. If
I could be tired in reading your letters, it would not only betray a
very bad taste in me, but would likewise show that I could have very
little love or friendship for you. Divest yourself of the dislike you
have taken to circumstantial details. I have often told you, and you
ought yourself to feel the truth of this remark, that they are as dear
to us from those we love, as they are tedious and disagreeable from
others. If they are displeasing to us, it is only from the indifference
we feel for those who write them. Admitting this observation to be
true, I leave you to judge what pleasure yours afford me. It is a fine
thing, truly, to play the great lady, as you do at present. I perfectly
comprehend Monsieur de Grignan’s feelings in seeing you so much admire
his castle; had you appeared insensible, or even indifferent, on the
occasion, it would have given him a chagrin that I can conceive better
perhaps than any other; and I share in the pleasure he has in seeing
you pleased. There are some hearts which sympathize for each other
so truly, that they judge by themselves what others feel. You do not
mention Vardes[40] often enough to me, nor poor Corbinelli. Was it not
very agreeable to you to be able to speak their language? How goes
on Vardes’ love for the fair T----? Tell me whether he is much hurt
by the infinite length of his banishment, or whether his philosophy,
and a little dash of misanthropy, can support his heart against these
vicissitudes of love and fortune. The books you read are well chosen.
Petrarch must certainly give you a good deal of pleasure, especially
with the notes you have. Those of Mademoiselle de Scuderi on some of
his sonnets, rendered them very agreeable. As for Tacitus, you know
how much I was charmed with it, when we read it together here; and how
often I used to interrupt you, to make you observe the periods, where
I thought the harmony particularly striking. But if you stop half way
I shall scold you; it will be doing great injustice to the dignity of
the subject, and I shall say to you, as a certain prelate did to the
queen mother, “This is history; you know what stories are already.” A
reluctance, in this respect, is only pardonable in romances, which I
know you do not like. We read Tasso with pleasure, and I am a pretty
good proficient in the language, from the excellent masters I have had.
My son makes La Mousse read Cleopatra,[41] and I listen to him, whether
I will or not, and am amused. My son is going to Lorraine; we shall be
very dull in his absence. You know how it vexes me to see the breaking
up of an agreeable party, and how transported I am when I see a train
of carriages driving off that have wearied me to death for a whole day;
upon which we made this just observation, that bad company is more
desirable than good. I recollect all the odd things we used to say when
you were here, and all you said yourself, and all you did; your idea
never leaves me; and then again, on a sudden, I think where you are; my
imagination represents to me an immense space, and a great distance;
on a sudden your castle bounds the prospect, and I am displeased at
the walls that inclose your mall. Ours is surprisingly beautiful, and
the young nursery is delightful. I take pleasure in rearing their
little heads to the clouds, and frequently, without considering
consequences or my own interest, cut down large trees, because their
shade incommodes my young ones. My son views all these proceedings,
but I do not allow him to interfere. Pilois[42] continues to be a very
great favorite with me, and I prefer his conversation to that of many
who have the title of chevalier in the parliament of Rennes. I am grown
rather more negligent than you; for the other day I let a coachful
of the Fouesnelle family go home through a tremendous rain, for want
of pressing them with a good grace to stay; but I could not get the
compliment to pass my lips. It was not the two young women, but the
mother, and an old woman from Rennes, and the two sons. Mademoiselle
du Plessis is exactly as you represent her, only if possible, more
impertinent. What she says and does every day to keep me from being
jealous, is perfectly original, and I am quite provoked, sometimes,
that I have nobody to laugh at it with me. Her sister-in-law is very
pretty, without being ridiculous, and speaks Gascon in the midst of
Brittany. I think you are very happy in having Madame de Simiane[43]
with you; she has a fund of knowledge that will relieve you from all
kinds of restraint; this is a great deal. You will have, too, a very
agreeable companion in her.
[40] The Marquis de Vardes was banished to Provence in 1665, for
having been concerned in some court intrigues, and remained in
exile till the year 1682. He was a man of amiable manners.
[41] A famous romance of La Calprenede’s.
[42] The gardener.
[43] Magdelen Hai-du-Châtelet, wife to Charles Louis, Marquis of
Simiane; she was afterward mother-in-law to Paulina de Grignan.
I now return to you, that is, to the divine fountain of Vaucluse!
How beautiful! Well might Petrarch make such frequent mention of
it! But, remember, I shall some day see all these wonders with my
own eyes; I, who have such a veneration for antiquities. I shall
certainly be transported with them, and the magnificence of Grignan.
The abbé will find employment enough there. After the Doric orders and
splendid titles of your house, nothing is wanting but the order you
are going to establish there; for, let me tell you, without something
substantial at the bottom, all is bitterness and anxiety. I have great
pity for those who ruin themselves; it is the only affliction in life
that is felt alike by all, and which is increased, instead of being
diminished, by time. I have frequent conversations on this subject
with a certain friend of ours. If he has a mind to benefit by them,
he has had opportunity enough to lay in a good stock, and of such a
nature he need not forget them. I am glad that you are to have two of
your brothers-in-law with you this autumn. I think you have planned
your journey well. We can travel a great way without being fatigued,
provided we have something to amuse us by the way, and do not lose our
courage. The return of fine weather has brought all my workmen back
again, which is a great amusement to me. When I have company, I work at
that fine altar-piece you saw me drawing when you were at Paris; when
I am alone, I read, I write, or am with the abbé in his closet upon
business. I wish him with you sometimes, but it is for two or three
days only.
I consent to the commerce of wit which you propose. The other day I
made a maxim off-hand, without once thinking of it, and I liked it so
well that I fancied I had taken it out of M. de la Rochefoucault’s.
Pray tell me whether it is so or not, for in that case my memory is
more to be praised than my judgment. I said, with all the ease in the
world, that “ingratitude begets reproach, as acknowledgment begets new
favors.” Pray where did this come from? Have I read it? did I dream
it? is it my own idea? Nothing can be truer than the thing itself,
nor than that I am totally ignorant how I came by it. I found it
properly arranged in my brain, and at the end of my tongue. As for that
sentence, “_bella cosa far niente_,” you will not think it so dull when
I tell you it is intended for your brother: remember last winter’s
disaster. Adieu, my dearest child; take care of yourself, continue
handsome, dress well, amuse yourself, and take proper exercise. I
have just been writing to Vivonne,[44] about a captain of a troop of
Bohemians, whose confinement I have begged him to render as easy as
possible, without detriment to the king’s service. You must know that
there was among the troop of Bohemians[45] that I was mentioning to
you the other day, a young girl who danced extremely well, and put me
very much in mind of your manner. I was pleased with her. She begged
me to write to Provence in favor of her grandfather. “Where is he?”
said I. “He is at Marseilles,” said she, with as much composure and
unconcern as if she had said, “He is at Vincennes.” He was a man of
singular merit, it seems, in his way;[46] in short, I promised her
to write about him; I immediately thought of Vivonne. I send you my
letter; if you are not sufficiently upon terms with him to allow of
my jesting with him, you may burn it; if it is an ill-written letter
you may burn it; but if you are friendly with his corpulency, and my
letter will save you the trouble of writing one, seal it and send it
to him. I could not refuse this request to the poor girl, and to the
best-danced minuet that I have seen since the days of Mademoiselle de
Sévigné. She had just your air, was about your height, has good teeth,
and fine eyes. Here is a letter of so enormous a length that I can
easily forgive your not reading it through. Monsieur de Grignan can
not conceive how one can possibly read such long letters; but, in good
earnest, can you read them in a day?
[44] General of the galleys.
[45] Gipseys.
[46] And had been condemned to the galleys for having
distinguished himself rather too much in his Bohemian faculty.
LETTER XV.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, July 5, 1671.
It is a great proof of your love, my dear child, that you can bear
with all the nonsense I send you from hence. You defend Mademoiselle
de Croqueoison extremely well. In return, I assure you there is not
a single word in your letters that is not dear to me. I am afraid
to read them for fear of ending them, and if it were not for the
consolation that I can read them over as often as I please, I should
make them last much longer; but then, on the other hand, my impatience
makes me ready to devour them. What should I do if your writing was
as illegible as D’Hacqueville’s? Would the greatness of my affection
help me to decipher it? Really, I am afraid not; but I have heard of
such instances. In short, I greatly esteem D’Hacqueville, and yet I can
not accustom myself to his handwriting; I never can read his letters;
I hunt out word by word; I puzzle myself with guessing at them; I say
one word for another, and at last, when I can make neither head nor
tail of it, away I fling the letter in a rage. But I tell you this as
a secret, for I would not have him know that his letters give me all
this trouble. He thinks, poor man, his hand is like print; but you, who
know the contrary, tell me how you manage. My son set out yesterday,
greatly concerned at parting with us. I endeavored to inspire him with
every good, just, and noble sentiment that I was mistress of, and to
confirm all the good qualities I had remarked in him. He received my
advice with all imaginable sweetness and marks of approbation; but
you know the weakness of human nature; I leave him, therefore, in the
hands of Providence, reserving to myself the comfort of having nothing
to reproach myself with in regard to him. As he has a fund of wit and
humor, we shall necessarily miss him extremely. We are going to begin a
moral treatise of Nicole’s. If I were at Paris I would send it to you;
I am sure you would admire it. We continue to read Tasso with pleasure.
I am almost afraid to tell you that I am returned to Cleopatra; and,
by good fortune, the short memory I have makes it still pleasing to
me. I have a bad taste, you will say; but you know I can not affect a
prudery which is not natural to me, and as I am not yet arrived at a
time of life that forbids the reading such works, I suffer myself to be
amused with them, under the pretense that my son brought me into it. He
used to read us some chapters, too, out of Rabelais, which were enough
to make us die with laughing; in return, he seemed to take a good
deal of pleasure in talking with me; and, if he is to be believed, he
will remember what I have said to him. I know him well, and can often
discern good sentiments through all the levity of his conversation. If
he is dismissed this autumn, we shall have him again.
I have mentioned Launaye to you; she was bedaubed the other day like
a twelfth-day taper; we thought she resembled the second volume of a
sorry romance, or the Romance of the Rose, exactly. Mademoiselle du
Plessis is always at my elbow; when I read the kind things you say of
her, I am as red as fire. The other day La Biglesse played Tartuffe to
the life. Being at table, she happened to tell a fib about some trifle
or other, which I noticed, and told her of it; she cast her eyes to the
ground, and with a very demure air, “Yes, indeed, madam,” said she, “I
am the greatest liar in the world; I am very much obliged to you for
telling me of it.” We all burst out a-laughing, for it was exactly the
tone of Tartuffe: “Yes, brother, I am a wretch, a vessel of iniquity.”
She attempts sometimes to be sententious, and gives herself airs of
understanding which sit still worse upon her than her own natural way.
There! I think you know every thing about the Rocks.
LETTER XVI.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, July 12, 1671.
I have received but one letter from you, my dear child, which vexes me;
I used generally to have two. It is a bad thing to use one’s self to
such dear and tender cares as yours; there is no being happy without
them. If M. de Grignan’s brothers come to you this summer, they will
be good company for you. The coadjutor has been a little indisposed,
but is now perfectly recovered; he is incredibly lazy, and is the more
to blame, as he can write extremely well when he sets about it. He
has a great regard for you, and intends visiting you about the middle
of August--he can not before. He protests, but I believe it is false,
that he has no branch to rest upon, which hinders him from writing, and
makes his eyes ache. This is all I know about Seigneur Corbeau. How odd
it is of me to tell you all this, when I do not know myself how I stand
with him! If you should know any thing of the matter, pray inform me.
I reflect every hour of the day upon the times when I used to see you
always about me, and am perpetually regretting the loss of those happy
moments. Not that I can reproach my heart with having been insensible
of the pleasure of your company; for I solemnly protest to you, I never
looked on you with the indifference or coolness that grows upon long
acquaintance; no, I can not reproach myself with that. What I regret
is, that I did not see you so constantly as I could now wish I had,
but suffered cruel business sometimes to tear me from you. It would
be a fine thing to fill my letters with what fills my heart; alas! as
you say, we should glide over many thoughts, without seeming to regard
them. Here then I rest, and conjure you, if I am at all dear to you, to
be particularly careful of your health. Amuse yourself, do not study
too much, carry yourself safely through your pregnancy; after that,
if M. de Grignan really loves you, and is resolved not to kill you
outright, I know what he will do, or rather what he will not do.
Have you cruelty enough not to finish Tacitus? Can you leave Germanicus
in the midst of his conquests? If you really intend to serve him so
paltry a trick, let me know where you leave off, and I will finish
for you, which is all I can do to serve you at present. We have gone
through Tasso, and with a great deal of pleasure; we found beauties in
him, that are unknown to those who are only half read in the language.
We have begun our _morality_,[47] it is of much the same nature as
Pascal’s. Talking of Pascal, I have taken into my head to almost adore
those gentlemen, the postillions who are incessantly carrying our
letters backward and forward. There is not a day in the week, but they
bring one either to you or to me; there is one every day, and every
hour of the day, upon the road. Kind-hearted people, how obliging it is
of them! What a charming invention is the post, and what a happy effect
of Providence is the desire of gain! I sometimes think of writing to
them to show my gratitude; and I believe I should have done it before,
had I not remembered that chapter in Pascal, and been afraid that they
might have perhaps thought proper to thank me for writing to them,
as I thanked them for carrying my letters. Here is a fine digression
for you. But to return to our reading. It was without prejudice to
Cleopatra that I laid a wager I would read it through; you know how
I support my wagers. I often wonder how I could like such ridiculous
stuff; I can hardly comprehend it. You may perhaps remember enough of
me to know how much a bad style displeases me; that I have some taste
for a good one, and that no person is more sensible to the charms
of eloquence. I well know how wretched La Calprenedre’s style is in
many places, on account of its long-winded periods, and bad choice of
words. I wrote a letter to your brother in that style the other day,
which was pleasant enough. However, though I find such glaring faults
in Calprenedre, though I know how detestable that way of writing is,
yet I can not leave it. The beauty of the sentiments, the violence
of the passions, and the miraculous success of their redoubtable
swords, entices me away like a child; I become a party in all their
designs, and if I had not the example of M. de la Rochefoucault and
D’Hacqueville to comfort me, I should be ready to hang myself for being
guilty of such a weakness. You appear before me, and cry “Shame!” yet
still I go on. I shall have great honor in being intrusted by you with
the care of preserving you in the abbé’s friendship. He loves you
tenderly; you are often the subject of our conversation, with your
state, your grandeur, and so forth. He would not willingly die without
having first taken a trip to Provence, and rendered you some service.
I am told, that poor Madame de Montluet is on the point of losing her
senses; she has been raving hitherto without once shedding a tear,
but now she has a violent fever, and begins to cry. She says she will
be damned, since her dear husband is inevitably so. We go on with our
chapel. The weather is very hot; but the mornings and evenings are
delightful in the woods, and under the shade of the trees before the
house. My apartment is extremely cool. I am afraid you suffer from the
heat in Provence.
[47] M. Nicole’s Moral Essays.
LETTER XVII.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, August 19, 1671.
You describe very humorously the disorder my perfumed paper occasioned
you. Those who saw you read my letters must have thought I was dead,
and could never imagine that they contained nothing but chit-chat. I
am very far from correcting myself in the way you imagined. I shall
always run into extremes in what is for your good, if it depends on me.
I already began to think that my paper might do you harm, but I did not
intend to change it till about November. However, I begin from this
day, and for the future you will have nothing to guard against but the
smell.
You have a tolerable number of the Grignans with you; the Lord
deliver you from the aunt,[48] I feel her troublesome even here. The
chevalier’s sleeves must have had a curious effect at table; but though
they draw every thing along with them, I much question whether they
would draw me; fond as I am of fashion, I have a great aversion to
slovenliness. Vitré would be a famous place for him. I think I never
saw such profusion before. There is not a table at court that can come
up to the meanest of the twelve or fifteen that are constantly kept up
here; and, indeed, there is occasion for all this, for there are no
less than three hundred people to be provided for, who have nowhere
else to eat. I left this good town last Monday, after having made your
compliments to Mme. de Chaulnes and Mme. de Murinais. Nothing could
be more cordially received, or more warmly returned. All Brittany was
drunk on that day. We dined apart. Forty gentlemen dined in a lower
room, each of whom drank forty toasts; the king’s was the first, and
then the glasses were broken. All this was done under pretense of
extreme joy and gratitude for a hundred thousand crowns which his
majesty had remitted out of the free gift the province had made him, as
a recompense for their having so cheerfully complied with his request.
So now there is only two millions two hundred thousand livres, instead
of five hundred thousand. The king, too, has written a letter with
his own hand, full of the kindest expressions to his good province of
Brittany. This letter the governor read to the States assembled, and
a copy of it was registered. Upon this they shouted _Vive le roi!_
and immediately fell to drinking; and drink they did, God knows! M.
de Chaulnes did not forget the gouvernante of Provence; and a Breton
gentleman going to toast you by your name, and not well remembering
it, got up, and, in a loud voice, exclaimed, “Here is to Madame de
_Carignan_.” This ridiculous mistake made M. de Chaulnes laugh till the
tears came into his eyes. The Bretons drank it, thinking it was right;
and, for a week to come, you will be nothing but Madame de Carignan;
some called you the Countess of Carignan. This was the state of things
when I left them.
[48] Ann d’Ornano, Countess of Harcourt, aunt to M. de Grignan.
I have shown Pomenars what you say of him. He is highly delighted with
it; but I assure you he is so hardened and impudent, that once or twice
in a day he makes the first president leave the room, to whom he is a
mortal enemy, as well as to the procurator-general. Madame de Coëtquen
had just received the news of the death of her little girl, and fainted
away. She is in great affliction, and says she shall never have so
pretty a one. Her husband is quite inconsolable; he is just returned
from Paris, after having made matters up with Le Bordage. This was a
most extraordinary affair; he has transferred all his resentments to
M. de Turenne.[49] I suppose you know nothing of this, but it fell
unintentionally from my pen. There was a pretty ball on Sunday. We saw
a girl of Lower Brittany who, they said, bore away the palm. She was
the most ridiculous creature I ever saw, and threw herself into such
attitudes as made us die with laughing. But there were other dancers,
both men and women, that were really admirable.
[49] Glory, which is the last passion of the sage, was not the
only passion of Turenne; for, at the age of sixty, he was in love
with Madame de Coëtquen.
If you ask me how I like my Rocks after all this hurry, I shall tell
you that I am delighted to be here again. I shall stay for a week or
ten days at least, in spite of their endeavors to get me back. I want
rest more than I can describe to you. I want to sleep; I want to eat,
for I am starved at these fêtes. I want the fresh air; I want silence,
for I was attacked on all sides, and my lungs were almost worn out with
talking. In short, my dear, I found our abbé, La Mousse, my dog, my
mall, Philois, and my masons, all as I left them, and they are the only
things that can do me any good in my present condition.
LETTER XVIII.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, August 23, 1671.
You were with the president of Charme’s lady, then, when you wrote to
me. Her husband was the intimate friend of Monsieur Fouquet. Am I right
in this? In short, my dear, you were not alone; and M. de Grignan acted
wisely in making you leave your closet to entertain your company. He
might, however, have spared his capuchin’s beard, though he did not
appear much the worse for it in your eyes, for when he was at Livri,
with _his bushy tuft_,[50] you thought him handsomer than Adonis. I
often repeat these four verses with admiration. It is surprising what
an impression the remembrance of any particular time makes upon the
mind, whether good or bad. Sometimes I think of that delicious autumn;
and then again, when I reflect on the latter part of it, I sweat with
horror;[51] yet we ought to be thankful to Providence, who delivered
you out of the danger you were in.
[50] _Sa touffe ébouriffée_. Part of a _bout rimé_, filled up by
Madame de Grignan.
[51] On account of a miscarriage that Madame de Grignan had at
Livri, the 4th November, 1669.
Your reflections upon the death of M. de Guise are admirable; they have
made me plow up my mall with my eyes; for it is there I meditate with
most pleasure. Poor La Mousse has been afflicted with the tooth-ache,
so that for a long time I have walked alone till night, and thought
of--God knows what I have not thought of. Do not be under apprehensions
of my growing weary of solitude: set aside the ills that arise from
my own heart, and against which I have not strength to struggle, and
I am not to be pitied in any respect. I am of a happy temper; I can
accommodate myself to, and be pleased with any thing; and I prefer my
retirement here to all the noise and pageantry of Vitré. I have been
here a week, and the tranquillity I have enjoyed has cured me of a
dreadful cold. I have drank nothing but water; have talked very little;
have left off suppers; and by this method, without having shortened my
walks, I am quite well again. Madame de Chaulnes, Madame de Murinais,
Madame Fourché, and a very fine girl from Nantes, came here last
Thursday. Madame de Chaulnes told me, as she came into my room, that
she could exist no longer without seeing me; that she had the weight of
all Brittany upon her shoulders, and should die with fatigue. She then
flung herself upon my bed; we sat round her, and she was fast asleep in
a minute, from mere fatigue, though we continued talking. At last she
awoke, highly charmed with the ease and freedom we enjoy at the Rocks.
We then took a walk. Afterward she and I sat down to rest ourselves in
the center of the wood, and while the rest were diverting themselves
at mall, I made her tell me how she came to marry M. de Chaulnes; for
I always love to fish out something by way of amusement; but in the
midst of our entertainment there came on just so treacherous a shower
like the one you may remember at Livri, that we were nearly drowned.
The water ran from our clothes in streams; it came through the trees in
a moment, and we were instantly wet to the skin. We ran as fast as we
could, some screaming, others sliding, others falling. At last we got
in, a roaring fire was made, we changed our dress from head to foot, I
furnishing the whole wardrobe. We dried our shoes, and were ready to
die with laughing all the while. In this manner was the gouvernante
of Brittany treated in her own government. After this we had a slight
repast, and then the poor woman left us, more vexed, I dare say, at the
part she had to play when she got home, than at the affront she had
received here. She made me promise to relate this adventure to you, and
to come and assist her to-morrow in entertaining the States, which will
break up in about a week. I engaged to do both; of the one I now acquit
myself, and of the other I shall acquit myself to-morrow, as I can not
help showing her this civility.
LETTER XIX.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, September 16, 1671.
I am wicked to-day, my child. I am just in the same humor as when you
used to say, “_You are wicked_.” I am very dull and spiritless: I have
not heard from you. “Warm affections are never tranquil;” _a maxim_.
It rains; we are quite alone; in short, I wish you a pleasanter day
than I am likely to have. What greatly perplexes the abbé, La Mousse,
and the rest of my party, is, that there is no remedy for the evil.
I want it to be Friday, that I may have a letter from you, and it is
but Wednesday. This puzzles them. They do not know what to do for me
in this case, for if, in the excess of their friendship, they were to
assure me it was Friday, that would be still worse; for if I had not
a letter from you then, I should be lost to all reason. I am obliged
to have patience; though patience, you know, is a virtue that I am not
much in the habit of practising; but I shall be easy before three days
have passed. I am very anxious to know how you are after your alarm.
These alarms are my aversion; for though I am not with child myself,
they make me become so, that is, they put me in a condition that
entirely destroys my health. However, my uneasiness does not at present
reach so far; for I am persuaded you have been prudent enough to keep
your bed, and that will have set all matters right again. Do not tell
me, that you will not let me know any thing about your health; that
would make me desperate, and having no longer any confidence in what
you say, I should be always in the way I am in at present. We are, it
must be owned, at a fine distance from each other, and if either of us
had any thing upon the mind that required immediate relief, we should
have plenty of time to hang ourselves in.
I thought it necessary yesterday to take a small dose of morality,
and I found myself a great deal the better for it; and still more so
for a little criticism on the Bérénice of Racine, which I thought
very diverting and ingenious. It is by the author[52] of the sylphs,
gnomes, and salamanders. There are a few words which are not quite so
good as they should be, and even unbecoming a man who knows the world;
these grate the ear; but, as they occur only here and there, they
ought not to prejudice us against the whole, which, I assure you, upon
examination, I found a very well-written critique. As I fancied this
trifle would have diverted you, I heartily wished for you by my side in
the closet, provided you could return again to your magnificent castle
as soon as you had read it. And yet I own I should have felt some pain
in letting you go so soon. I know too well what the last parting cost
me. It would partake of the humor I have just been complaining of. I
can not think of it even now without shuddering; but you are safe from
this inconvenience. I hope this letter will find you cheerful; if so,
I beg you will burn it directly, for it would be very extraordinary if
it should be agreeable to you, considering the horrid humor I write it
in. It is very happy for the coadjutor that I do not answer his letter
to-day.
[52] The Abbé Villars, author of the Count de Gabalis.
I have a great inclination to ask you a thousand questions by way of
finishing this performance worthily. Have you many grapes? you tell
me only of figs. Is the weather very hot? you do not say a word about
it. Have you such charming cattle as we have at Paris? Has your aunt
D’Harcourt been with you long? You see that, having lost so many of
your letters, I am quite ignorant how matters stand, and have entirely
lost the thread of your discourse. Ah! how I long to beat somebody!
and how much I should be obliged to any Breton that would come and say
something very silly, to put me in a passion! You told me the other day
that you were glad I was returned to my solitude that I might think
of you. Very pretty that! as if I did not think sufficiently of you
in every other place. Farewell, my dear--this is the best part of my
letter. I finish, because I think I talk foolishly, and I must preserve
my credit.
LETTER XX.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, Sept. 30, 1671.
I believe the _Leonic_ opinion is now the most ascertained. He
understands the subject completely, can tell whether matter reasons or
not, what kind of intelligence God has given to the brute creation,
with other subjects that occupied his thoughts. You may perceive by
this that I suppose him in heaven, _O che spero!_[53] He died on Monday
morning; I was then at Vitré and saw him, but I wish I had not seen
him. His brother seems inconsolable; I invited him to my woods that he
might weep at liberty, but he told me he was too deeply afflicted to
seek consolation. The poor bishop was only five and thirty years of
age; he was well provided for, and had an admirable taste for science;
this was, in fact, the cause of his death, as it was of Pascal’s--he
wore himself out with study. You are not much interested in this
detail; but it is the news of the place, and you must, therefore, bear
with it. Death, in my opinion, is the concern of every one, and its
consequences strike home to our bosoms.
[53] O, how I wish it!
I read M. Nicole with a degree of pleasure that lifts me above the
earth. I am particularly charmed with his third treatise on the
means of preserving peace and harmony among mankind. Read it, I
beseech you, and with attention; you will see how clearly he develops
the intricacies of the human heart, in which every sect is alike
included--philosophers, Jansenists, Molinists, in short, all mankind:
this may truly be called searching to the bottom of the heart with a
lantern. He discovers to us sensations that we feel daily, but which we
have neither the wit to comprehend nor the sincerity to acknowledge.
In a word, I never read any thing like it, except Pascal. Were it not
for the amusement of our books we should be moped to death for want
of employment. It rains incessantly. I need say no more to make you
conceive how dull our situation is. But you who enjoy a sunshine which
is so much the object of my envy, how do I pity you to be torn from
Grignan, while the weather is delightful, in the middle of autumn, and
from an agreeable society, and all this to be shut up in a little dirty
town! I can not bear the idea. Could not M. de Grignan have put off the
assembly a little longer? Is he not master in this respect? And poor
Coulanges, what will become of him? Our recluse mode of life has so
turned our brains that we make matters of consequence of every thing.
Receiving and answering letters takes up some of our time, indeed, but
we have always enough left upon our hands. You make our abbé proud
by the kind things you say of him in your letters. I am satisfied
with him on your account. As for La Mousse, he catechises Sundays and
holidays; he is resolved to go to heaven. I tell him it is only out of
curiosity, to see whether the sun is a heap of dust, continually in
motion, or a globe of fire. The other day he assembled all the children
of the village about him, and was catechising them, but after several
questions they had so confounded things, that when he asked them who
the Blessed Virgin was, they all with one accord answered, “The Creator
of heaven and earth.” His faith was not shaken by the children, but
finding the men and women, and even the old people, all in the same
story, he began to doubt, and at length joined in the opinion; in
short, he did not know what he was about, and if I had not luckily come
to his aid he would never have got out of the scrape. This new opinion
would certainly have been productive of more mischief than that of the
motion of atoms. Farewell, my dear child, you see we tickle ourselves
in order to laugh, to so low an ebb are we reduced.
LETTER XXI.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, October, 7, 1671.
You know I am always carried away by what I read, so that it is for
the interest of those I converse with, that I should read none but the
best books. I can think of nothing at present but M. Nicole’s Moral
Reflections. His treatise on the means of preserving peace among men,
delights me. I never met with any thing so truly practical, yet so full
of fire and imagination. If you have not yet read it, I beg you will.
If you have read it, read it again with additional attention. For my
part, I think all mankind are included in it. I am persuaded it was
made for me, and hope to profit by it; at least I shall endeavor to do
so. You know I could never bear the old saying, “I am too old to mend;”
I could much sooner pardon the young for saying, I am too young. Youth
is in itself so amiable, that were the soul as perfect as the body,
we could not forbear adoring it; but when youth is past, it is then
we ought to think of improvements, and endeavor to supply the loss of
personal charms by the graces and perfections of the mind. I have long
made this the subject of meditation, and am determined to work every
day at my mind, my soul, my heart, and my sentiments. I am full of
this at present, and therefore fill my letter with it, having besides
nothing of greater consequence to tell you.
I suppose you are at Lambesc, but I can not see you clearly from hence;
there is a mist about my imagination that conceals you from my sight. I
had formed an idea of Grignan, I saw your apartment, used to walk upon
your terrace, and went to mass at your beautiful church. But now I am
quite at a loss; I wait with great impatience for intelligence from
your new quarters. I will write no more to-day, though I have a great
deal of time upon my hands; for I have nothing but trifles to tell
you, which would be an affront to the lady-lieutenant of a province,
who is holding the States, and, consequently, has weighty affairs upon
her hands. It may do well enough when you are in your little palace
of Apollo. Our abbé and La Mousse are very much yours; and I, my dear
child, need I tell you what I am, or what you are to me?
LETTER XXII.
THE ROCKS. Wednesday, November 4, 1671.
Let us talk of M. Nicole, it is a long time since we have said a
word about him. There is a great deal of justice in your observation
respecting the indifference he requires us to show to the opinion of
the world; I think with you, that philosophy will hardly be found
sufficient of itself, without the assistance of grace. He lays so great
a stress on preserving peace and good fellowship with our neighbor,
and recommends so many things to us in order to attain these, that it
is next to an impossibility, after this, to be indifferent to what
the world thinks of us. Guess what I am doing; I am beginning this
treatise again--methinks I could wish to swallow it, like Ezekiel’s
roll. I am delighted with what he says on the subject of pride and
self-love, which enter into all disputes, under the feigned name of the
love of truth. In short, this treatise will apply to more than one in
the world; but I can not help thinking that he had me principally in
view when he wrote it. He says, eloquence, and a flow of words, give a
_luster_ to the thoughts. I greatly admire that expression; I thought
it beautiful and new. The word _luster_ is extremely apposite there, do
you not think so? We must read this book together at Grignan. I pass
my time in having masses said for you every day, and in a multitude
of disagreeable thoughts, which can be of no service to you, but
which, however, it is impossible to avoid. I have at present ten or
twelve workmen in the air, raising the timbers of our chapel. They run
backward and forward upon the outside of it like so many rats; they
hold by nothing, and are every instant in danger of breaking their
necks, and make my back ache with endeavoring to help them below. One
can not but admire the wonderful effects of Providence in the desire of
gain, and be thankful such people are created, who are willing to do
for a shilling what others would not do for a hundred thousand pounds.
“O, thrice happy they who plant cabbages! when they have one foot on
the ground, the other is not far off.” I have this from a very good
author.[54] We have planters too with us, who are forming new avenues.
I hold the young trees myself while they set them in the ground, unless
it rains so that there is no being abroad; but the weather almost
drives me to despair, and makes me wish for a sylph to transport me
to Paris. Madame de la Fayette says, that since you tell the story of
Auger in so serious a manner, she is persuaded nothing can be more
true, and that you are by no means jesting with me. She thought at
first that it had been a joke of Coulanges’, and it looks very like it.
If you write to him upon the subject, pray let it be in that style.
[54] Panurge, in Rabelais.
LETTER XXIII.
PARIS, Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1672.
For Heaven’s sake, my dear child, what do you mean? What pleasure can
you take in thus abusing your person and understanding, vilifying your
conduct, and saying, that one must have great good-nature to think of
you sometimes? Though I am certain you can not believe all you say, yet
it hurts me to hear it; you really make me angry with you; and though,
perhaps, I ought not to answer seriously things that are only said in
jest, yet I can not help scolding you before I go any further. You are
excellent again, when you say you are afraid of wits. Alas! if you knew
how insignificant they are when you are by, and how encumbered they
are with their own dear persons, you would not value them at all. Do
you remember how you used to be deceived in them sometimes? Do not let
distance magnify objects too much; but it is one of its common effects.
We sup every evening at Madame Scarron’s; she has a most engaging wit,
and an understanding surprisingly just and clear. It is a pleasure to
hear her sometimes reason upon the horrid confusion and distractions of
a country with which she is very well acquainted. The vexations that
Heudicourt undergoes in a place that appears so dazzling and glorious;
the continual rage of Lauzun; the gloomy chagrin and cares of the court
ladies, from which the most envied are not always exempt; are things
which she describes in the most agreeable and entertaining manner. Such
conversations as these lead us insensibly from one moral reflection to
another, sometimes of a religious, sometimes of a political kind. You
are frequently one of our subjects; she admires your wit and manners;
and, whenever you return hither, you are sure of being highly in favor.
But let me give you an instance of the king’s goodness and generosity,
to show you what a pleasure it is to serve so amiable a master: He
sent for Marshal Bellefond into his closet the other day, and thus
accosted him: “Monsieur le maréchal, I insist upon knowing your reasons
for quitting my service. Is it through a principle of devotion? Is it
from an inclination to retire? Or is it on account of your debts? If
it be the latter, I myself will take charge of them, and inform myself
of the state of your affairs.” The marshal was sensibly affected with
this goodness: “Sire,” said he, “it is my debts; I am overwhelmed
with them, and can not bear to see some of my friends, who assisted
me with their fortunes, likely to suffer on my account, without
having it in my power to satisfy them.” “Well, then,” said the king,
“they shall have security for what is owing to them: I now give you a
hundred thousand francs on your house at Versailles, and a grant of
four hundred thousand more, as a security in case of your death. The
hundred thousand francs will enable you to pay off the arrears, and so
now you remain in my service.” That heart must be insensible indeed,
that could refuse the most implicit obedience to such a master, who
enters with so much goodness and condescension into the interest of his
servants. Accordingly the marshal made no further resistance; he is now
reinstated in his place, and loaded with favors. This is all strictly
true.
Not a night passes at St. Germain without balls, plays, or masquerades.
The king shows an assiduity to divert this madame that he never did for
the other. Racine has brought out a new piece called Bajazet, which
they say carries every thing before it: indeed it does not go _in
emperando_, as the others did. Monsieur de Tallard says, that it as
much exceeds the best piece of Corneille’s, as Corneille’s does one of
Boyer’s; this now is what you may call praising by the lump; there is
nothing like telling truth; however, our eyes and ears will inform us
more fully; for
Du bruit de Bajazet mon âme importunée[55]
obliges me to go immediately to the play; we shall see what it is.
[55] A line in Despréaux.
I have been at Livri. Ah, my dear child, how well did I keep my word
with you, and how many tender thoughts of you filled my breast! It was
delightful weather, though very cold; but the sun shone finely, and
every tree was hung with pearls and crystals, that formed a pleasing
diversity of colors. I walked a great deal. The next day I dined at
Pomponne. It would not be an easy matter to recount all that passed
during a stay of five hours; however, I was not at all tired with my
visit. Monsieur de Pomponne will be here in three or four days. I
should be very much vexed if I was obliged to apply to him about your
Provence affairs; I am persuaded he will not hear me. You see I give
myself airs of knowledge. But really nothing comes up to M. d’Uzès; I
never saw a man of better understanding, nor one more capable of giving
sound advice. I wait to see him, that I may inform you of what he has
done at St. Germain.
You desire me to write you long letters; I think you have now
sufficient reason to be contented; I am sometimes frightened at the
length of them myself; and were it not for your agreeable flattery, I
should never think of venturing them out of my hands. Madame de Brissac
is excellently provided for the winter, in M. de Longueville and the
Count de Guiche; but nothing is meant but what is fair and honorable,
only she takes a pleasure in being adored. La Marans is never seen
now, either at Madame de la Fayette’s or at M. de la Rochefoucault’s;
we can not find out what she is doing; we are apt to judge a little
rashly now and then; she took it into her head this summer, that she
should be ravished, as if she wished it; but I am of opinion that she
is in no great danger. Good Heavens, what a mad creature she is, and
how long have I looked on her in the same light as you do now! But now
let me tell you, my dear, it is not my fault that I do not see Madame
de la Valavoire.[56] I am sure there is no occasion to bid me go and
see her, it is enough that she has seen you, for me to run after her;
but then she is running after somebody else; for I might forever desire
her to wait at home for me; I can not get her to do me that favor.
Your jest applies admirably to M. le Grand, and a very good one it is.
Poor Châtillon is every day teasing us with the most wretched ones
imaginable.
[56] A lady of quality in Provence, who was just then come to
Paris.
LETTER XXIV.
PARIS, Wednesday, June 20, 1672.
I send you M. de Rochefoucault’s Maxims, revised and corrected, with
additions; it is a present to you from himself. Some of them I can make
shift to guess the meaning of; but there are others that, to my shame
be it spoken, I can not understand at all. God knows how it will be
with you. There is a dispute between the archbishop of Paris and the
archbishop of Rheims about a point of ceremony: Paris will have Rheims
ask leave of him, as his superior, to officiate, which Rheims will not
consent to. It is said that these two right reverends will never agree
till they are thirty or forty leagues asunder; if that is the case,
they are both of them likely to continue as they are. The ceremony
it relates to is the canonization of one Borgia, a Jesuit. The whole
opera band is to exert itself on the occasion; the streets will be
illuminated, even to the Rue St. Antoine; the people are all mad about
it: old Mérinville, however, has died without having seen it.
Do not deceive yourself, my child, by entertaining too good an
opinion of my letters. The other day an impertinent fellow, seeing
the monstrous length of a letter I was writing to you, asked me very
seriously, if I thought any body could possibly read it all: I trembled
at the thought of it, but without any intention of amendment; for the
correspondence I have with you is my existence, the sole pleasure
of my life; and every other consideration is but mean, when put in
competition with it. I am uneasy about your brother; poor fellow! The
weather is very cold: he lies in camp, and is still on the march to
Cologne, for the Lord knows how long! I was in hopes of seeing him this
winter, and see where he is now! After all, I find little Mademoiselle
Adhémar must be the comfort of my old age: I wish you could but see
how fond she is of me; how she cries after me, and hangs about me. She
is not a beauty, but she is very pleasing--has a delightful voice, and
a skin as clear and white ... In short, I doat on her. You, it seems,
doat on your boy; I am very glad of it; we can not have too many things
to amuse us; real or imaginary, it does not signify.
To-morrow there is to be a ball at Madame’s. I saw a heap of jewels
tossing about at mademoiselle’s, which put me in mind of past troubles:
and yet, would to Heaven we were at the same work again! For how can I
be unhappy while you are with me? Alas! my whole life is one continued
scene of sorrow and disappointment. Dear Monsieur Nicole! have pity
on me; and teach me to bear, with patience, the dispensations of
Providence. Farewell, my dearest child, I dare not say I adore you; but
I can not conceive any degree of love superior to mine: the kind and
pleasing assurances you give me of yours, at once lighten and increase
my sorrows.
LETTER XXV.
PARIS, Wednesday, March 16, 1672.
You talk to me of my departure: alas! my dear, I languish in the
pleasing hope of it; nothing now stops me, but my poor aunt,[57] who
is dying with violent pain and dropsy: it breaks my heart to see her
sufferings, and to hear the tender and affecting manner in which she
talks to me: her courage, patience, and resignation, are all together
admirable. M. d’Hacqueville and I observe her distemper from day to
day; he sees my inmost heart, and knows what grief it is to me not to
be at liberty at present: I am entirely guided by him, and we shall
see, between this and Easter, whether her disorder increases as much
as it has done since I came hither; if it does, she will die in our
arms; but if she receives any relief, and is likely to languish for any
length of time, I shall then set out as soon as M. de Coulanges comes
back. Our poor abbé is as vexed at this as myself; but we shall be able
to judge how it will turn out by next month. I can think of nothing
else: you can not wish to see me so much as I do to embrace you; so put
some bounds to your ambition, and do not hope ever to equal me in that
respect.
[57] Henrietta de Coulanges, Marchioness de la Trousse.
My son tells me, they lead a wretched life in Germany, and are working
all in the dark. He was greatly concerned at the death of the poor
chevalier. You ask me if I am as fond of life as ever: I must own
to you that I experience mortifications, and severe ones too; but I
am still unhappy at the thoughts of death: I consider it so great a
misfortune to see the termination of all my pursuits, that I should
desire nothing better, if it were practicable, than to begin life
again. I find myself engaged in a scene of confusion and trouble: I
was embarked in life without my own consent, and know I must leave it
again: that distracts me; for how shall I leave it? in what manner? by
what door? at what time? in what disposition? Am I to suffer a thousand
pains and torments that will make me die in a state of despair? Shall I
lose my senses? Am I to die by some sudden accident? How shall I stand
with God? What shall I have to offer to him? Will fear and necessity
make my peace with him? Shall I have no other sentiment, but that of
fear? What have I to hope? Am I worthy of heaven? or have I deserved
the torments of hell? Dreadful alternative! Alarming uncertainty!
Can there be greater madness than to place our eternal salvation in
uncertainty? Yet what is more natural, or can be more easily accounted
for, than the foolish manner in which I have spent my life? I am
frequently buried in thoughts of this nature, and then death appears
so dreadful to me that I hate life more for leading me to it, than I
do for all the thorns that are strewed in its way. You will ask me
then, if I would wish to live forever? Far from it; but if I had been
consulted, I would very gladly have died in my nurse’s arms; it would
have spared me many vexations, and would have insured heaven to me at a
very easy rate: but let us talk of something else.
I am quite provoked that you have received Bajazet from any hand but
mine; that fellow Barbin[58] has served me this trick, out of spite,
because I do not write Princesses of Clèves and Montpensier.[59] You
form a very just and true judgment of Bajazet, and you will find that
I am of your opinion: I wish I could send you Champmêlée to enliven
it a little. The character of Bajazet wants life, and the manners of
the Turks are ill preserved: their marriages have less ceremony; the
plot is badly managed; and we are at a loss to account for so much
slaughter: the piece has doubtless its beauties; but there is nothing
superlative; nothing perfect; none of those fine strokes, that, like
Corneille’s, make one tremble. Let us be cautious how we compare Racine
with him; the difference between them is great: the pieces of the
latter are in many places cold and feeble; nor will he ever be able to
surpass his Alexander and Andromache. Many persons consider Bajazet as
inferior to both these, and it is my opinion also, if I may be allowed
to give it. Racine’s plays are written for Champmêlée, and not for
posterity;[60] whenever he grows old and ceases to be in love, it will
be seen whether I am mistaken or not. Long live then our old friend
Corneille; let us forgive the bad lines we occasionally meet with for
the sake of those divine sallies that so often transport us, those
masterly strokes that bid defiance to imitation. Despréaux has said as
much before me; and it is in general the opinion of every one of good
taste; let us therefore maintain it.
[58] A famous bookseller of that name.
[59] Two romances written by Madame de la Fayette, by which
Barbin got a great deal of money.
[60] The event has proved, by Mithridates, Phædra, and Athaliah,
that Madame de Sévigné’s judgment partook of the prejudice of the
times in which she wrote.
I send you a witticism of Madame de Cornuel’s, which has highly
diverted the crowd. Young M. Tombonneau has quitted the long robe,
and taken to the jacket and trowsers: in short, he is resolved to go
to sea; I do not know in what way the land has offended him; however,
somebody told Madame de Cornuel that he was going to sea. “Lord bless
the man!” said she, “has he been bitten by a mad dog?” As this was said
off hand, it raised a great laugh.
LETTER XXVI.
PARIS, Wednesday, May 4, 1672.
It is impossible, my dear child, to tell you how much I pity, how much
I praise, and how much I admire you: thus I divide my discourse into
three heads. First, _I pity you_ in being so subject to the vapors and
low spirits, as they will certainly do you much harm. Secondly, _I
praise you_ for subduing them when there is occasion, especially on M.
de Grignan’s account, whom they must make very uneasy; it is a pleasing
proof of the regard and consideration you have for him. Thirdly and
lastly, _I admire you_ for suppressing your natural inclination, to
appear what you are not: this is really heroic, and the fruit of your
philosophy: you have ample matter in yourself to call it into exercise.
We were saying the other day that there is no real evil in life, except
great pain; all the rest is merely imaginary, and depends on the light
in which we view things. All other evils are curable either by time,
moderation in our wishes, or strength of mind; and may be lightened
by reflection, religion, or philosophy. But pain tyrannizes over both
soul and body. Confidence in God may indeed enable us to bear it with
patience, and turn it to our advantage, but it will not diminish it.
This seems to savor of the Fauxbourg Saint Germain,[61] but it
comes from my poor aunt’s apartment, where I was the leader of the
conversation. The subject arose naturally from her extreme sufferings,
which, she maintains, are infinitely superior to every evil that life
is subject to. M. de la Rochefoucault is of the same opinion: he is
still tormented with the gout; he has lost his true mother,[62] and he
lamented her death so tenderly and affectionately that I almost adored
him: she was a woman of extraordinary merit, and was the only person
in the world, he said, who was unchangeable in her love to him. Fail
not to write to him; both you and M. de Grignan. M. de Rochefoucault’s
affection for his family is unparalleled: he maintains that it is one
of the chains that attach us to one another. We have discovered, and
related, and reconciled many things relative to his foolish mother
(Madame de Marans), which explain to us clearly what you once said,
that it was not what we thought, but quite another thing; yes truly it
was quite another thing, or perhaps better still, it was this and that
too; one was without prejudice to the other; she wedded the lute to the
voice, and spiritual things to coarseness and indelicacy. My child, we
have found a good vein, and one which explains the mystery of a quarrel
you once had in the council-chamber of Madame de la Fayette. I will
tell you the rest in Provence.
[61] That is, from Madame de la Fayette, at whose house M. de
Rochefoucault, and some of the most select company in Paris,
used to meet.
[62] Gabrielle du Plessis Liancourt.
My aunt is in a state which does not seem likely to terminate. Your
journey is exceedingly well-timed, perhaps ours may tally with it. We
have a great desire to pass some part of our Whitsuntide on the road,
either at Moulins or at Lyons. The abbé wishes it no less than myself.
There is not a man of quality (of the sword I mean) in Paris. I went
on Sunday to hear mass at the Minims. “We shall find our poor Minims
quite deserted,” said I to Mademoiselle de la Trousse, “we shall not
find a creature there, except the Marquis d’Alluye.”[63] Well, we went
into the church, where the first and only creature we saw was the
Marquis d’Alluye: I could not help laughing till I fairly cried at the
oddity of the thing; in short he is left behind, and is going to his
government on the sea-coast. The coast must be guarded, you know.
[63] Paul d’Escloubleau, Marquis d’Alluye and de Sourdis,
governor of the city and country of Orleans, and of the Pays
Chartrain.
The lover of her whom you style _the incomparable_,[64] did not meet
her at the first stage, but on the road, in a house of Sanguin’s, a
little beyond that which you know; he remained there two hours. It is
thought he then saw the children for the first time. The fair one stays
there, attended by a guard and a female friend; she is to be there for
four or five months. Madame de la Vallière is at St. Germain. Madame
de Thianges is here with her father; I saw her daughter the other day,
she is beautiful beyond all imagination. Some people pretend that the
king went straight to Nanteuil, but it is certain that the fair one is
at the house called Genitoi. I tell you nothing but the truth; there is
nothing I have a greater aversion and contempt for than idle stories.
[64] The king and Madame de Montespan.
You have taken your departure, then, my dear. Well, I will live in the
hope of hearing from you at every stage. I shall not be behindhand on
my side. I have managed so well as to find a friend at the post-office,
who is very careful of our letters. I have for these several days past
been occupied in adorning my cottage; Saint Aubin has effected wonders.
I shall sleep there to-morrow. I swear to you that the reason I like
it so well is because it is intended for you. You will be very well
accommodated in my apartment, and I shall not be less so. I will tell
you how charmingly every thing is contrived. I am extremely uneasy
about your poor brother; this terrible war makes us tremble for those
we love; whenever I think of it it fills me with horror; but then,
again, I comfort myself with the thought that it may not be so bad as I
apprehend, for I have remarked that things seldom happen as we expect
them to do.
Pray let me know what has happened between the Princess Harcourt and
you.[65] Brancas is dreadfully chagrined that you do not love his
daughter. M. d’Uzès has promised to re-establish peace between all
parties: I should be glad to know what has occasioned the coolness
between you.
[65] Frances de Brancas, wife of Alphonso Henry Chartres, of
Lorrain, Prince of Harcourt, and daughter of Charles de Brancas,
gentleman of honor to Queen Anne of Austria.
You tell me of your son, that his beauty grows less, and his merit
increases: I am sorry for the loss of his beauty, and I am rejoiced
to find that he loves wine; this is a little spice of Brittany and
Burgundy together, which will produce a charming effect with the
prudence of the Grignans. As for your daughter, she is quite the
reverse; her beauty increases, and her merit lessens. I assure you,
she is very pretty, but as obstinate as a demon; she has her little
wills and little designs of her own; she diverts us extremely; she has
a beautiful complexion, blue eyes, black hair, a nose neither handsome
nor ugly; her chin, her cheeks, and the turn of her face are faultless.
I shall say nothing of her mouth, it will do very well. She has a very
sweet voice: Madame de Coulanges thinks it suits her mouth admirably.
I fancy, my dear child, that I shall at last be a convert to your
opinion. I meet with vexations in life that are insupportable, and
find, notwithstanding my fine reasoning at the beginning of this
letter, there are many evils which, though less severe than bodily
pain, are nevertheless equally to be dreaded.
LETTER XXVII.
PARIS, Friday, May 30, 1672.
I had no letter from you yesterday, my poor child. Your journey to
Monaco had put you quite out of sorts. I was afraid some little
disaster of this kind would befall me. I now send you news from M. de
Pomponne; the fashion of being wounded is already begun; my heart is
very heavy with the fears of this campaign. My son writes by every
opportunity; he is at present in good health.
My aunt is still in a deplorable state, and yet we have the courage to
think of appointing a day for our departure, assuming a hope which in
reality we can not entertain. I can not help thinking that many of the
events of life are ill-arranged; they are, as it were, rugged stones
lying across our way, too unwieldy to be removed, and which we must
get over as well as we can, though not without pain and difficulty. Is
not the comparison just? I shall not bring my little girl with me; she
goes on very well at Livri, and is to stay there during the summer. You
never saw Livri in such perfection as it is at present; the trees are
beautifully green, and the honeysuckles are every where in profusion.
I am not yet tired of their perfume. But you despise our shrubberies
since you have been accustomed to your groves of orange-trees.
I have a very tragical history to communicate to you from Livri. Do
you remember that pretended devotee, who walked so steadily without
turning his head that you would have thought he was carrying a glass
of water upon it? His devotion has turned his brain. One night he gave
himself five or six stabs with a knife, and fell on his knees in his
cell, naked, and weltering in his blood. On entering, he was found in
this posture. “Good God! brother, what have you done? Who has treated
you thus?” He replied, very calmly, “Father, I am doing penance.” He
fainted away; he was put to bed; his wounds, which were found very
dangerous, were dressed; with uncommon care and attention he recovered
at the end of three months, and was sent back to his friends.
If you do not think such a head sufficiently disordered, tell me
so, and you shall have the story of Madame Paul,[66] who is fallen
desperately in love with a great booby of five or six and twenty, whom
she had taken to be her gardener. The lady has managed her affairs
admirably; she has married him. The fellow is a mere brute, and has
not common sense; he will beat her soon, he has already threatened to
do it; no matter, she was resolved to have him. I have never seen such
violent love; there is all the extravagance of sentiments imaginable,
were they but rightly applied; but they are like a rough sketch of
an ill painting; all the colors are there, they want only to be
properly disposed. It is extremely amusing to me to meditate on the
caprices of love. I feel frightened for myself when I see such things!
What insolence, to attack Mme. Paul--that is to say, austere, old,
straight-laced virtue herself!
[66] Widow to the gardener at Livri.
LETTER XXVIII.
PARIS, Monday, June 20, 1672.
I can not reflect upon the situation you have been in, without great
emotion; and though I know you are out of danger, yet I can not turn my
eyes on what has passed without a horror that distracts me. Alas, how
much was I in the dark about a health that was so dear to me! If any
one had told me that my daughter was in greater danger than if she had
been in the army, how little should I have believed it! Must I suffer
this useless grief in addition to so many other sorrows that afflict
my heart? The extreme danger my son is in; the war, which rages every
day with greater violence; the couriers, who bring no other news but
the death of some friend or acquaintance, and may bring accounts more
fatal; the fear of hearing ill news, and yet the curiosity of knowing
it; the desolation of those who are in excess of grief, and with whom
I pass a great part of my time; the strange state of health my aunt is
in, and my extreme desire of seeing you; all this afflicts and consumes
me, and forces me to lead a life so contrary to my inclination, that I
have need of more than a common share of health to support it.
You have never seen Paris as it is at present; all the world is in
tears, or fears to be so. Poor Madame de Nogent is almost beside
herself. Madame de Longueville pierces every heart with her complaints.
I have not seen her indeed, but this is what I am told. Mademoiselle de
Vertus returned two days since from Port-Royal, where she resides. They
sent for her and M. Arnauld, to impart to Madame de Longueville the
terrible news. The very sight of Mademoiselle de Vertus was sufficient;
her sudden return was too sure a sign that some fatal accident had
happened. As soon therefore as she appeared--“Ah! mademoiselle, how
is it with my brother?”[67] She did not dare, even in thought, to
inquire further. “Madam, he is recovered of his wound--there has been
a battle--” “And my son?” No answer was made. “Ah! mademoiselle, my
son, my dear child! answer me; is he dead?” “I have no words to answer
you, madam.” “Oh, my dear son! Was he killed on the spot? Had he not
a single moment? Oh, God! what a sacrifice is this!” And she threw
herself upon the bed, and by expressions of the most lively sorrow, by
fainting-fits, by convulsions, by the silence of despair, by stifled
cries, by sudden bursts of passion, by floods of bitter tears, by eyes
uplifted to heaven, and by heart-rending complaints, she exhibited all
the various emotions of grief. She sees a few friends; and, in pure
submission to Providence, consents to receive such nourishment as is
just sufficient to keep life and soul together. She takes no rest;
her health, before in a declining state, is visibly altered for the
worse. For my part, I wish her death earnestly, as I can not think
she can survive such a loss. There is a certain gentleman[68] who is
scarcely less affected. I can not help thinking, that if they had met,
in the first moments of their grief, and had been alone together, all
other sentiments would have given place to sighs and tears, redoubled
without intermission; there would have been a dumb scene of sorrow, a
dialogue of inarticulate sighs and groans. This is a mere thought of my
own. But, my dear, how great affliction is this! The very mistresses
of poor De Longueville do not constrain themselves; his domestics are
disconsolate; and his gentleman, who came yesterday with the ill news,
scarcely appears a reasonable creature. This death effaces the thoughts
of all others.
[67] The Prince of Condé.
[68] M. de la Rochefoucault.
A courier, who arrived yesterday evening, brings an account of the
death of the Count du Plessis,[69] who was killed by a cannon-shot, as
he was giving directions for making a bridge. Arnheim is besieged by M.
Turenne. They did not attack the fort of Skeing, as it was defended by
eight thousand men. Alas! these successful beginnings will be followed
with a tragical end for a great number of families. May Heaven preserve
my poor son! He was not upon this expedition; but the campaign is not
yet finished.
[69] Alexander de Choiseul, Count du Plessis, son of Cæsar de
Choiseul, Marshal of France.
In the midst of our afflictions, the description you have given me of
Madame Colonna and her sister,[70] is really divine; it rouses one
under the most melancholy circumstances. It is an admirable picture.
The Countess de Soissons, and Madame de Bouillon,[71] are quite in
a rage with these fools, and say they ought to be confined. It is
thought that the king will not disoblige the constable[72] (Colonna),
who is certainly one of the greatest men in Rome. In the mean time we
are in expectation of seeing them arrive here like Mademoiselle de
l’Etoile;[73] this comparison is good.
[70] Hortensia Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin.
[71] Sisters to Mesdames de Colonna and Mazarin.
[72] The father of these ladies, and of one of the most powerful
families in Rome.
[73] In Scarron’s comic romance.
The accounts I send you are from the best authority; you will find by
all you receive, that M. de Longueville has been the cause of his own
death, as well as of the death of many others; and that the prince
has showed himself, through the whole of this expedition, more like
a father than the general of an army. I said yesterday, and others
agreed with me, that if the war continues, the duke[74] will certainly
occasion the death of the prince. His love for him surpasses every
other consideration.
[74] Henry Juliers de Bourbon, son of the prince.
La Marans affects to appear overwhelmed with grief. She says that she
sees very plainly there is something in the news from the army which is
concealed from her; and that the prince and the duke are dead, as well
as M. de Longueville. She conjures people, by all that is sacred, to
speak out, and not to spare her; and tells them, that in her deplorable
situation, it is in vain to hide any thing from her. If it were
possible to laugh under these circumstances, we should laugh at her.
Alas! if she knew how little any of us think of concealing any thing
from her, and how much every one is taken up with his own griefs and
his own fears, she would not have the vanity to believe we paid so much
attention to her as to deceive her.
The news I send you comes, as I before said, from good authority; I
had it from Gourville, who was with Madame de Longueville when she
heard of her son’s death. All the couriers come straight to him. M.
de Longueville had made his will before he set out. He leaves a great
part of his property to a son he has, who, as I believe, will take the
title of Chevalier d’Orleans,[75] without expense to his relations.
Have you heard how the body of M. de Longueville was disposed of?
It was laid in the same boat in which he passed the river two hours
before. The prince, who was wounded, ordered him to be placed near
him, covered with a cloak, and, with several others who were wounded,
repassed the Rhine to a town on this side of the river, where they came
to have their wounds dressed. It was the most melancholy sight in the
world. They say the Chevalier de Monchevreuil, who was attached to M.
de Longueville, will not have a wound dressed which he received as he
stood next to him.
[75] He appeared under the name of the Chevalier de Longueville,
and was accidentally killed at Philipsbourg in 1688, by a
soldier, who was shooting at a snipe. See the letter of the 8th
of July following.
I have received a letter from my son: he is very much grieved at the
death of M. de Longueville. He was not in this expedition, but he is
to be in another. What safety can be hoped for in such a profession?
I advise you to write to M. de la Rochefoucault, on the death of the
chevalier, and the wound of M. de Marsillac. This fatal event has given
me an opportunity of seeing his heart without disguise: for constancy,
worth, tenderness, and good sense, he infinitely surpasses any one I
have ever met with; his wit and humor are nothing in comparison. I will
not amuse myself at present with telling you how much I love you. I
embrace M. de Grignan, and the coadjutor.
The same evening, at 10 o’clock.
I made up my packet two hours ago, and on my return to town I
found a letter for me, with the news that a peace was concluded
with Holland. It may easily be imagined that the Dutch are in the
greatest consternation, and glad to submit to any terms; the king’s
success is beyond all that has ever been known. We shall once more
breathe again; but what a cruel addition must this be to the grief
of Madame de Longueville, and all those who have lost children
and near relations! I have seen Marshal du Plessis; he is greatly
afflicted, but demeans himself like a brave soldier. His lady[76]
weeps bitterly; the countess[77] is only disconcerted at not being
a duchess. I think, my dear child, that if it had not been for
the rashness of M. de Longueville, we should have gained Holland
without losing a man.
[76] Columba de Charron.
[77] Maria Louisa le Loup de Bellenave.
LETTER XXIX.
PARIS, Friday, Dec. 8, 1673.
I must begin, my dear child, by telling you of the death of the Count
de Guiche: this is the chief subject of conversation at present. The
poor youth died of sickness and fatigue in M. de Turenne’s army; the
news came on Tuesday morning. Father Bourdaloüe went to acquaint the
Marshal de Grammont with it; who feared it the moment he saw him,
knowing the declining state of his son. He made every one go out of
his chamber, which was a little apartment near the convent of the
Capuchins, and as soon as he found himself alone with Bourdaloüe, he
threw himself upon his neck, saying, that he guessed but too well what
he had to tell him; that it was his death-stroke, and that he received
it as such from the hand of God; that he lost the true, the only object
of his tenderness and natural affection; that he had never experienced
any real joy, or violent grief, but through his son, who was not a
common character. He threw himself on a bed, unable to support his
grief, but without weeping, for this is a situation that denies the
relief of tears. Bourdaloüe wept, but had not yet spoken a word.
At last he began to comfort him with religious discourse, in which
he employed his well-known zeal and eloquence. They were six hours
together; after which Bourdaloüe, to induce him to make a complete
sacrifice, led him to the church of these good Capuchins, where vigils
were said for his son. He entered the church fainting and trembling,
supported more by the crowd that pressed round him on every side, than
by his feet; his face was so much disfigured with grief, that he could
scarcely be known. The duke saw him in this lamentable condition,
and related it to us at Madame de la Fayette’s, with tears. The poor
marshal returned at last to his little apartment, where he remains
like a man under sentence of death. The king has written to him. No
one is admitted to see him. Madame de Monaco[78] is inconsolable, and
refuses to see company. Madame de Louvigny[79] is likewise incapable of
receiving comfort; but it is only because she is not at all grieved. Do
not you wonder at her good fortune? She is in a moment become Duchess
of Grammont. The chancellor’s lady[80] is transported with joy: the
Countess de Guiche[81] behaves admirably well; she weeps when they
tell her all the kind things her husband said, and the excuses he made
to her when he was dying. “He was a very amiable man,” she says; “I
should have loved him passionately, if he had loved me in the slightest
degree; I suffered his contempt with grief, and his death affects me
with pity; I always hoped he would change his sentiments with regard
to me.” This is certainly true; there is not the least fiction in it.
Madame de Verneuil[82] feels real concern on this occasion. I believe
it will be sufficient, if you only desire me to make your compliments
to her; so you need only write to the Countess de Guiche, to Madame de
Monaco, and Madame de Louvigny. The good D’Hacqueville has been desired
to go to Frasé, thirty leagues from hence, to tell the news to Madame
de Grammont, and to carry her a letter written by the poor youth a
little before he died. He made a full confession of the faults of his
past life, asked pardon publicly, and sent to tell Vardes a great many
things which may benefit him. In a word, he ended the comedy well, and
has left a rich and a happy widow.[83] The chancellor’s lady is so
fully sensible, she says, of the little happiness this poor lady must
have had in her marriage, that she thinks of nothing but repairing
this misfortune. We are at a loss for a proper match for her. You will
perhaps name for her M. de Marsillac, as we did; but they do not like
each other: the other dukes are too young. M. de Foix is destined for
Mademoiselle de Roquelaure. Think a little for us, for the affair is
pressing. I have sent you, my dear child, a tedious account, but you
sometimes tell me you like minuteness.
[78] Catherine Charlotte de Grammont, sister to the Count de
Guiche.
[79] Maria Charlotte de Castelnau, sister-in-law to the Count.
[80] Relict of the late Chancellor Seguier, and grandmother to
the Countess de Guiche.
[81] Margaret Louisa Susan de Bethune Sulli.
[82] Charlotte de Seguier, mother to the Countess de Guiche: she
first married the Duke de Sulli, and afterward Henry de Bourbon,
Duke de Verneuil.
[83] She was married afterward to the Duke de Lude, in 1688. The
Count de Guiche had been the lover of Henrietta of England. He
also entered into the intrigues of M. de Vardes. He had made a
brilliant campaign in Poland, and to him was owed the passage of
the Rhine. He was as handsome and witty as he was brave.
LETTER XXX.
PARIS, Monday, Dec. 11, 1673.
I am just returned from St. Germain, where I have been two whole days
with Madame de Coulanges at M. de la Rochefoucault’s. In the evening
we went to pay our court to the queen, who said a thousand obliging
things to me of you; but if I were to enumerate all the how-d’ ye-do’s
and compliments that I had, both from men and women, old and young, who
crowd about me to inquire after you, I should have to name the whole
court. “And how does Madame de Grignan do? and when will she return?”
and so on. In short, only figure me to yourself in the midst of a crowd
of idle people, who, having nothing else to do, would every one ask me
some question, so that I was frequently obliged to answer twenty at
once. I dined with Madame de Louvois: it was who should be the first
to invite me. I would have returned yesterday, but we were stopped by
force to sup with M. Marsillac in his enchanted apartments with Madame
de Thianges, Madame Scarron, the duke, M. de la Rochefoucault, M. de
Vivonne, and a band of heavenly music. This morning, with much ado, we
got away.
A quarrel of a singular nature is the news of the day at St. Germain.
The Chevalier de Vendôme, and M. de Vivonne are the humble servants
of Madame de Ludre. The chevalier expressed a wish of compelling M.
de Vivonne to resign his pretensions. But on what grounds? he was
asked. Why, he would fight M. de Vivonne. They laughed at him. It was,
however, no joke, he said, he would fight him; and he mounted his
horse to take the field. But the best of the story was Vivonne’s reply
to the person who brought him the challenge. He was confined to his
room by a wound in his arm, and, receiving the condolence of the whole
court, ignorant of the threat of his rival: “I, gentlemen,” said he,
“I fight! He may fight if he pleases, but I defy him to make me fight.
Let him get his shoulder broken, let the surgeon make twenty incisions
in his arm, and then”--it was thought he was going to say, _we will
fight_--“and then,” said he, “perhaps we may be friends. But the man
must be jesting to think of firing at me! A pretty project, truly!
He might as well fire at the door of a house.[84] I repent, however,
having saved his life in crossing the Rhine, and will do no more such
generous actions till I have the nativity cast of those I intend to
assist. Would any one have thought, when I was remounting this fellow
on his horse, that a few weeks afterward he would want to shoot me
through the head for my kindness?” This speech, from the tone and
manner in which it was delivered, had so droll an effect, that nothing
else is talked of at St. Germain.
[84] M. de Vivonne was remarkably corpulent.
I found your siege of Orange very much magnified at court. The king
had spoken of it very agreeably, and it was thought highly honorable
to M. de Grignan, that, without the king’s order, and merely to follow
him, seven hundred gentlemen should have assembled upon the occasion;
for the king having said _seven hundred_, every one else said _seven
hundred_; it was added, with a laugh, that two hundred litters also
followed him. But it is thought, seriously, that few governors could
have obtained such a retinue.
I have had two hours’ conversation at two different times with M. de
Pomponne. He exceeds my most sanguine hopes. Mademoiselle de Lavocat
is in our confidence: she is a very amiable girl. She knows all our
affairs--the business of the syndic, of the procurator, our gratuity,
opposition, deliberation, etc., as well as she does the map of the
empire and the interest of princes; that is, she has them at her
finger’s end. We call her the _little minister_. We have interludes in
our conversation, which M. de Pomponne calls flashes of rhetoric to
secure the good humor of the audience. There are some points in your
letters I can not reply to; we often answer ridiculously when we write
from such a distance. You know how grieved we once were at the loss of
some town, when they had been rejoicing for ten days at Paris because
the Prince of Orange had raised the siege; but this is one of the evils
of distance. Adieu, my beloved child; I embrace you very affectionately.
LETTER XXXI.
PARIS, Friday, Dec. 22, 1673.
A piece of political news is just come into my head, and, contrary to
my custom, I shall give it you. You know the King of Poland[85] is
dead. The grand marshal,[86] the husband of Mademoiselle d’Arquien,
is at the head of an army against the Turks; he has lately gained so
complete a victory over them, that fifteen thousand were left dead on
the field of battle, two bashaws are taken prisoners, and he himself
occupies their general’s tent. After so distinguished a victory, it is
not in the least doubted that he will be declared king, especially as
he is at the head of such an army, and that fortune generally declares
in favor of numerous battalions. This piece of news has given me
pleasure.
[85] Michael Koribert Wiesnowieski, who died November 1673.
[86] John Sobieski, elected King of Poland, May 20, 1674. He
married the grand-daughter of Marshal d’Arquien, who, after his
death, returned to France. The victory Sobieski gained in 1685,
under the walls of Vienna, and which saved the emperor and the
empire, is still more celebrated than that which is here spoken
of.
I never now see the Chevalier de Buous. He is enraged at not being made
a _chef d’escadre_.[87] He is at St. Germain, and I am in hopes he will
manage his affairs so well as to obtain his desire at last: I sincerely
wish it. The Archbishop (of Arles) has written to assure me of the
joy the affair of Orange has given him, and that he hopes that of the
Syndicate will end no less happily. He finds himself obliged to own, by
the event, that your vigor was of more service than his prudence, and
that from your example he is become a perfect bravo. This has rejoiced
me exceedingly.
[87] A rank somewhat inferior to that of rear-admiral.
And now, my dear child, when I picture you to myself, pale and thin,
when I think of the agitations you endure, and that the slightest
degree of fever endangers your life, I suffer night and day from
apprehensions for you. What happiness would it be to have you with me,
in a less destructive climate, in your native air, which would again
restore you to health and vigor! I am surprised that loving you as the
Provençals do, they do not urge this remedy to you. I consider you as
having been so useful till now, and as having relieved M. de Grignan
so much in all his affairs, that I dare not regret I did not bring
you with me; but when every thing is finished, why not give me this
satisfaction? Adieu, my dearest child, I am very impatient to hear from
you. You would throw yourself into the fire, you say, to convince me
of your love: my child, I have no doubt of your affection, and without
this extraordinary proof of it, you may give me a much more pleasing
and a much more convincing one.
LETTER XXXII.
PARIS, Friday, December 29, 1673.
M. de Luxembourg is a little pressed near Maestricht, by the army of
M. de Monterei[88] and the Prince of Orange; he dares not venture to
remove his camp, and he must perish where he is, unless they send him
speedy and effectual succor. The prince is to set out four days hence
with the duke and M. de Turenne; the latter is to serve under the two
princes, and there is a perfectly good understanding between the three.
They have twenty thousand foot, and ten thousand horse; the volunteers
and those companies which are not to march, do not go, but all the rest
do. La Trousse and my son, who arrived here yesterday, are to be of
the number; they have scarcely had time to pull off their boots before
they are in the mud again. The rendezvous is appointed at Charleroi,
on the 16th of January. D’Hacqueville has written you word of this,
but you will read it more distinctly in my letter.[89] It is certainly
very important news, and has occasioned a great bustle every where.
We know not what to do for money. It is certain M. de Turenne is not
on terms with M. de Louvois, but it is not generally known; and while
he continues to keep in with M. Colbert, there will be nothing said
about it. This afternoon I had some great folks with me, who desired
their compliments to M. de Grignan, and to _Grignan’s wife_. They were
the grand-master, and the _charmer_.[90] I had besides, Brancas, the
Archbishop of Rheims, Charôt, La Trousse, etc., who all in like manner
desired to be remembered to you. They talk of nothing but war. The
_charmer_ knows all our affairs, and enters admirably into our little
perplexities. He is governor of a province, which is sufficient to give
him an idea of our feelings on those subjects. Adieu, my dearest child.
I participate in all the joys of your conquests.
[88] Governor of the Spanish Low Countries.
[89] M. d’Hacqueville wrote a hand very difficult to be read.
[90] The Count de Lude and the Duke de Villeroi.
LETTER XXXIII.
PARIS, Monday, New Year’s Day, 1674.
I wish you a happy year, my child; and in this wish I comprehend so
many things, that I should never have done if I were to enumerate them.
I have not yet asked leave for you to return to Paris, as you feared;
but I wish you had heard what La Garde said of the necessity of your
coming hither, that you may not lose your five thousand francs, and of
what he thinks proper for M. de Grignan to say to the king. If it were
a suit which you were obliged to solicit against any one who designed
to injure you, you would doubtless come to solicit it; but as it is
to come to a place where you have a thousand other affairs, you are
both guilty of the greatest indolence. Ah, what an enchanting thing
is indolence! you feel its power too much; read La Garde upon this
subject, chapter the first. Consider, in the mean time, that you would
have the pleasure of seeing the king, and receiving his approbation.
The edicts are revoked which gave us so much uneasiness in our
province. The day that M. de Chaulnes declared it to the States,
there was a cry of “Long live the king!” which made every one present
weep for joy. They embraced each other, broke out into the highest
expressions of rapture, ordered Te Deum to be sung, made bonfires; and
the thanks of the public were given to M. de Chaulnes. But do you know
what we are to give the king as a mark of our gratitude? six hundred
thousand livres, and as much more by way of a voluntary gratuity. What
think you of this little sum? You may judge by this of the favor that
has been done us, in taking off the burden of these edicts.
My poor son has arrived here, as you know; he is to return on Thursday,
with many others. M. de Monterei is a very clever fellow; he disturbs
the whole world, he fatigues the army, and puts it out of condition to
take the field, and begin the campaign, till the end of the spring. The
troops were all at ease in winter-quarters; and when, after a tedious
march, they are arrived at Charleroi, he has only a single step to
take to make good his retreat--till when, M. de Luxembourg can not be
extricated. By appearances, the king will not set out so soon as he
did last year. If, when in the field, we had to make an attack on some
great town, or the enemy would come out and oppose our two heroes, as
we should probably beat him, peace might almost be depended upon. This
is what is said by persons of the profession. It is certain that M. de
Turenne is out of favor with M. de Louvois; but as he is in favor with
the king and M. Colbert, it has not made much noise.
Five ladies of the palace are appointed: Madame de Soubise, Madame
de Chevreuse, the Princess d’Harcourt, Madame d’Albret, and Madame
de Rochefort. The maids of honor are to serve no more, and Madame de
Richelieu as a lady of honor, is also discharged. There are to be only
the gentlemen in waiting, and the maîtres-d’hôtel, as formerly. But
that the queen may not be without women, Madame de Richelieu and four
other ladies are to wait constantly behind her chair. Brancas is in
raptures that his daughter[91] is so well provided for.
[91] The Princess d’Harcourt.
The Grand Marshal of Poland has sent a letter to the king, in which
he tells his majesty, that if he has any person in view to raise to
the crown of Poland, he will assist him with all the forces under
his command; and if not, requests his protection and assistance for
himself. The king has promised it to him. However, it is imagined he
will not get himself elected, because he is not of the established
religion of the nation.
LETTER XXXIV.
PARIS, Friday, Jan. 5, 1674.
It is a year ago this very day since we supped with the archbishop: at
this moment perhaps you are supping with the intendant: I am afraid,
my dear child, your mirth is feigned. All you say on this subject
to me, and to Corbinelli, is admirable. My heart thanks you for the
good opinion you have of me, in believing I hold in abhorrence all
villainous proceedings. You are not deceived.
M. de Grignan tells you true; Madame de Thiange has left off paint, and
covers her neck; you would hardly know her in this disguise. She is
frequently with Madame de Longueville, and is the very pink of modish
devotion. But she is still good company, and has not at all the air
of a recluse. I dined with her the other day; a servant brought her a
glass of liquor; she turned to me and said, “The fellow does not know
that I am become a devotee;” this made us all laugh. She spoke very
naturally of her intentions, and of her change. She is very cautious of
saying any thing that may injure the reputation of her neighbor, and
stops short when any thing of that nature escapes her; for my part, I
think her more agreeable than ever. Wagers are laid that the Princess
d’Harcourt will not turn nun these twelve months, now she is become a
lady of the palace, and paints again: this rouge is the law and the
prophets; it is the great point that our new devotion turns upon. As
for the Duchess d’Aumont, her taste is burying the dead.[92] They
say the Duchess de Charost kills people for her, with ill-compounded
medicines, and then buries them in a religious retreat. The Marchioness
d’Huxelles is very good; but La Marans is more than good. Madame de
Schomberg tells me very seriously that she is of the first order for
seclusion and penitence, not admitting any society, and refusing even
the amusements of devotion; in a word, she is a penitent in the true
sense of the word, and in all the simplicity of the primitive church.
[92] If we may believe Bussy, she rendered a service of a
different kind to the living. The Duchess of Charost was the
daughter of the Superintendent Fouquet. She apparently had her
recipe from her grandmother, by whom we have a printed collection
in two volumes, under the title of _Family Recipes by Madame
Fouquet_.
The ladies of the palace are kept in great subjection. The king has
explained himself upon this subject, and will have the queen always
attended by them. Madame de Richelieu, though she does not serve any
longer at table, is always present when the queen dines, with four
ladies, who wait by turns. The Countess d’Ayen[93] is the sixth:
she does not like the confinement of this attendance, and of being
constantly at vespers, sermons, and other religious ceremonies; but
there is no perfect happiness in this world. The Marchioness de
Castelnau is fair, blooming, and perfectly recovered from her grief.
_L’Eclair_, they say, has only changed her apartment at court, not very
much to her satisfaction. Madame de Louvigny does not seem sufficiently
delighted at her good fortune. She is thought unpardonable for not
adoring her husband in the same manner as when she was first married;
this is the first time the public was ever offended at a thing of
this nature. Madame de Brissac is beautiful, and follows the Princess
of Conti like her shadow. La Coëtquen is still the same as ever. She
has a petticoat of black velvet, embroidered with gold and silver,
and a brocade cloak. This dress cost her an immense sum; and when she
thought she made the most splendid figure imaginable, every one said
she was dressed like an actress; and she has been so much rallied in
consequence, that she has thrown it aside. La Manierosa[94] is a little
vexed at not being a lady of the palace. Madame de Duras, who would not
accept this honor, laughs at her. La Troche is, as usual, very much
interested in your affairs; but I can not express how strongly Madame
de la Fayette and M. de la Rochefoucault have your interest at heart.
[93] A feigned name.
[94] Mary Frances de Bournouville, afterward Marchioness de
Noailles.
Madame de la Fayette and I went to see M. de Turenne a few days ago;
he has a slight fit of the gout. He received us with great civility,
and talked much of you. The Chevalier de Grignan has given him an
account of your victories; he would have offered you his sword if there
had been any occasion for it. He intends to set out in three days. My
son went yesterday very much out of humor: I was not less so, at this
ill-judged and in every respect disagreeable journey.
The dauphin saw Madame Schomberg the other day; they told him his
grandfather had been in love with her: he asked in a whisper, “How many
children has she had by him?” They informed him of the manners[95] of
that time.
[95] Madame de Schomberg who is here spoken of, mother of the
marshal then living, captivated Louis XIII. when she was only
a maid of honor, by the name of Mademoiselle d’Hautefort. The
king’s gallantry exacted so little, that she even jested upon the
subject, and said he talked to her of nothing but dogs, horses,
and hunting. She was handsome and discreet. She attached herself
to Queen Anne of Austria, and shared her disgrace during the
life of Louis XIII. She afterward quarreled with her during the
regency, for having spoken too freely against Cardinal Mazarin.
The Duke du Maine[96] has been seen at court, but he has not yet
visited the queen: he was in a coach, and saw only his father and
mother.
[96] The king’s eldest son by Madame de Montespan.
The Chevalier de Châtillon has no longer any thing to seek for; his
fortune is made. Monsieur chose rather to give him the office of
captain of his guards, than Mademoiselle de Grancey that of lady of
the wardrobe. This young man therefore has the post of Vaillac, and
is well provided for: they say Vaillac is to have D’Albon’s, and that
D’Albon is discarded. I told you how our States ended, and that they
repurchased the edicts at two millions six hundred thousand livres, and
gave the same sum as a gratuitous gift, making together five million
two hundred thousand livres; that the air was rent with cries of “Long
live the king!” that we had bonfires, and sung _Te Deum_, because his
majesty was kind enough to accept it. Poor Sanzei is ill with the
measles; it is a disorder that soon passes, but is alarming from its
violence.
I see no reason to ask the king’s pardon for the humane gentleman who
was guilty of assassination; the crime is of too black a nature. The
criminals who were pardoned at Rouen were not of this stamp; it is the
only crime the king refuses to pardon. So Beavron has mentioned it to
the Abbé de Grignan.
I have heard the ladies at the palace spoken of in a way that made me
laugh. I said with Montaigne, “Let us avenge ourselves, by slandering
them.” It is, however, true that they are under extreme subjection.
The report still prevails, that the prince sets out on Monday. The same
day M. de Saint Luc is to espouse Mademoiselle de Pompadour; about this
I am quite indifferent.
Adieu, my dear; this letter is growing too long; I conclude it for
no other reason but because every thing must have an end. I embrace
Grignan, and beg him to forgive me for opening Madame de Guise’s
letter; I was very desirous to see her style: my curiosity is satisfied
forever.
Guilleragues said yesterday, that Pelisson abused the permission men
have to be ugly.[97]
[97] An expression that is become common, but which was new at
that time, or it would not have been worth noticing.
LETTER XXXV.
PARIS, Friday, Jan. 12, 1674.
Well, your peace is then concluded at last. The Archbishop of Rheims
and Brancas received their letters before I did mine; M. de Pomponne
sent to inform me of this important event from St. Germain; I was
ignorant, however, of the particulars, but now I know all. I advise
you, my child, to regulate your conduct by circumstances; and since it
is the king’s will that you should be friendly with the bishop,[98]
endeavor to obey him. But to return to St. Germain: I was there three
days ago; I went first to M. de Pomponne’s, who had not yet applied for
your leave of absence, but is to send for it to-day. From thence we
went to the queen’s; I was with Madame de Chaulnes; there was nobody
to talk but me, and you may be sure I was not deficient. The queen
said without hesitation that you had been absent for more than three
years, and that it was time for your return. From court we went to
Madame de Colbert’s, who is extremely civil and well bred. Mademoiselle
de Blois[99] danced; she is very pleasing and graceful. Desairs says
she is the only one who reminds him of you: he asked me what I thought
of her dancing, for my applause was required, and I gave it with the
greatest readiness. The Duchess de la Vallière was there; she calls
her little daughter _mademoiselle_, and the young princess in return
calls her _pretty mamma_. M. de Vermandois was there too. No other
children have yet made their appearance. We afterward went to pay our
respects to monsieur and madame; the former has not forgotten you, and
I never fail to present your dutiful acknowledgments to him. I met
Vivonne there, who accosted me with, “_Little mamma_, I beg you will
embrace the Governor of Champagne.”[100]--“And pray who is he?” said
I.--“Myself,” replied he.--“You!” said I; “pray who told you so?”--“The
king has just informed me of it.” I instantly congratulated him. The
Countess de Soissons was in hopes of getting this post for her son.
[98] Of Marseilles.
[99] She had been educated by Madame Colbert.
[100] This government was vacated by the death of Eugene Maurice,
of Saxony, Count de Soissons, which happened June 7, 1673.
There is no talk of taking the seals from the chancellor;[101] the good
man was so surprised at this additional honor, that he began to fear a
snake in the grass, and could not comprehend the reason of being thus
loaded with dignities: “Sire,” said he to the king, “does your majesty
intend to take the seals from me?”--“No, no, chancellor,” replied the
king, “go, sleep in peace.” And, indeed, they say he is almost always
asleep; there are many wise conjectures on the subject, and people can
not understand the reason of this augmentation of favors.
[101] Stephen d’Aligre was keeper of the seals in 1672, upon the
death of Chancellor Seguier, who was made Chancellor of France in
1674.
The prince set out the day before yesterday, and M. de Turenne is to
follow to-day. Write to Brancas to congratulate him on his daughter’s
being in the queen’s household, for he is very proud of it. La Troche
returns you many thanks for your kind remembrance of her. Her son
has still nose enough to lose half of it at the next siege, without
the loss being very apparent. It is said that the _Dew_[102] begins
to be less friendly with the _Torrent_, and that after the siege of
Maestricht, they entered into a league of mutual confidence, and saw
the _Fire_ and the _Snow_ every day of their lives. You know all this
could not last long without occasioning great tumult, nor without
being discovered. The _Hail_[103] seems to me, with respect to the
reconciliation between you and him, like a man who goes to confession,
and keeps one great sin upon his conscience--by what other name can you
call the trick he has played you? Still the wise heads say you must
speak, you must ask, you have time, and that is sufficient; but do not
wonder at the faggoting of my letters. I leave one subject, you think
I have done with it, and suddenly I resume it again, _versi sciolti_.
Do you know that the Marquis de Sessac is here, that he will have a
situation in the army, and will probably soon be presented to the king?
This is manifestly predestination.
[102] The _Dew_, the _Torrent_, the _Fire_, and the _Snow_, etc.,
are ciphers between the mother and daughter. These ciphers do not
always mean the same persons. In this place, it seems that Madame
de Montespan is the _Torrent_, Madame de Vallière the _Dew_, the
king is the _Fire_, and the _Snow_ represents the queen.
[103] Apparently the Bishop of Marseilles.
Corbinelli and I talk of Providence every day, and we say, as you know,
from day to day and hour to hour, that your journey is determined.
You are very glad that you have not to answer for this affair, for a
resolution is a wonderful thing for you, quite a wild beast. I have
seen you a long time deciding on a color: it is a proof of a too
enlightened mind, which, seeing at one glance all the difficulties,
remains suspended, as it were, like Mohammed’s tomb: such was M.
Bignon, the greatest wit of the age; I, who am the least of the present
age, hate uncertainty, and love decision. M. de Pomponne informs me you
received your leave of absence to-day; I am consequently ready to do
every thing you wish, and to follow, or not to follow, the advice of
your friends.
It is said here that M. de Turenne has not yet begun his march, and
that there is no further occasion for it, because M. de Monterei has at
last retreated, and M. de Luxembourg is freed, with the assistance of
five or six thousand men, whom M. de Schomberg assembled, and with whom
he so extremely harassed M. de Monterei, that he was obliged to retire
with his troops. The prince is to be recalled and all our poor friends
with him. This is the news of the day.
The ball was dull, and ended at half past eleven. The king led out
the queen; the dauphin, madame; monsieur, mademoiselle; the Prince de
Condé, the great mademoiselle; the Count de Roche-sur-Yon, Mademoiselle
de Blois, handsome as an angel, dressed in black velvet, with a
profusion of diamonds, and an apron and stomacher of point lace. The
Princess d’Harcourt was as pale as the Commandeur in the play Du Festin
de Pierre. M. de Pomponne has desired me to dine with him to-morrow, to
meet Despréaux, who is to read his Art of Poetry.
LETTER XXXVI.
PARIS, Monday, January 15, 1674.
Saturday last I dined with M. de Pomponne, as I told you, and was there
till five o’clock, enchanted, transported, enraptured with the beauties
of Despréaux’s Art of Poetry. D’Hacqueville was there, we often talked
of the pleasure you would have received from it. M. de Pomponne
recollected that one day when you were a very little girl at your Uncle
de Sévigné’s, you got behind a large window with your brother, and
said you were a prisoner, a poor unfortunate princess driven from your
father’s house; your brother, who was as handsome as yourself, and you
were as handsome as an angel played his part extremely well. You were
nine years of age. He made me remember the day perfectly. He never
forgets one moment that he has seen you, and promises himself great
pleasure in seeing you again, which is very gratifying to me. I own to
you, my dear, that my heart is bursting with joy, but I shall conceal
it till I know your resolution.
M. de Villars is returned home from Spain, and has given us a thousand
amusing anecdotes respecting the Spaniards. I have at length seen
La Marans in her cell, for it is nothing else. I found her quite in
dishabille, not a single hair to be seen, with a coarse coif of old
Venice point, a black handkerchief on her neck, a faded gray gown,
and an old petticoat. She seemed very glad to see me; we embraced
each other tenderly. She does not seem at all changed. We began the
conversation by talking of you; she appears to love you as well as she
ever did, and seemed so humble that it is impossible to help loving
her. We then talked of the religious life she had lately embraced. She
assured me it was true that God had vouchsafed her a great portion
of grace, of which she had the most grateful sense; that this grace
consists in great faith, profound love of God, horror of the world
and its vanities, and a thorough distrust of herself, adding, that
if she were to go abroad for only an hour, this divine spirit would
evaporate. In short, she seems to preserve it carefully in her solitude
like a bottle of fine perfume; she believes the world would make her
lose this precious liquor, and she even fears the parade of devotion
might spill it. Madame de Schomberg says she is not to be compared to
Madame de Marans. Her savage disposition is softened into a passion for
retirement; the disposition does not change; she is even exempt from
the folly common to most women, to love their confessor; she does not
approve this tie, and never speaks to him but at confession. She goes
on foot to her parish church, reads all our books of religion, works,
prays, has a fixed time for every thing, takes all her meals in her
own room, sees Madame de Schomberg at a certain hour, hates news as
much as she used to like it, is as charitable to others as she used to
slander them, and loves the Creator as much as she loved the creature.
We laughed a good deal at her former manners, and turned them into
ridicule. She has not the least air of the Collette sisters. She speaks
very sincerely and very agreeably of her situation. I was two hours
with her without being at all dull. She reproached herself even for
this pleasure, but without the least affectation; in short, she is much
more amiable than she ever was. I do not think, my dear child, you can
complain that I have not been particular enough.
I have just received your letter of the 7th. I own to you, my dearest,
that the joy it has given me is so lively that my heart can scarcely
contain it. You know how strongly it feels, and I should hate myself
if I were so warmly interested in my own affairs as in yours. At last,
my child, you are coming; this is the most delightful to me of all.
But I am going to tell you something you do not expect, which is,
that I solemnly swear to you that if M. de la Garde had not deemed
your journey expedient, and that if it really were not so for your
own affairs, I would not have taken into consideration, at least for
this year, the ardent desire I have to see you, nor what you owe
to my infinite affection. I know how to keep within the bounds of
reason, whatever it cost me, and I have sometimes as much strength
in my weakness as those who are wiser. After this sincere confession
I can not conceal from you that I am penetrated with joy, and that,
reason concurring with my wishes, I am, at the moment I write to you,
perfectly satisfied, so that I think of nothing now but of receiving
you. Do you know, the best thing after yourself and M. de Grignan,
would be to bring the coadjutor? You will not perhaps always have La
Garde; and if he fails you, you well know M. de Grignan is not so
zealous in his own affairs as in those of the king, his master. He has
a religious care of those, which can only be compared to his negligence
with regard to his own. When he will take the trouble to speak, no one
does it better, and we can not therefore but wish it. You are not like
Madame de Cauvisson, to act alone; you must wait eight or ten years.
But M. de Grignan, you, and the coadjutor, would do admirably together.
Cardinal de Retz is just arrived, and will be delighted to see you.
What joy, my dear child, will your return occasion! but, above all
things, come prudently. It is to M. de Grignan I give this charge, and
I expect him to be accountable to me. I have written to the coadjutor,
to entreat him to accompany you. He will facilitate our audience
with the two ministers, and will support his brother’s interest. The
coadjutor is bold and fortunate, and you will mutually heighten each
other’s consequence. I could talk till this time to-morrow upon the
subject. I have written to the archbishop. Gain my point with the
coadjutor, and give him my letter.
The prince has come back, after having been thirty leagues on his
journey. M. de Turenne did not go. M. de Monterei has withdrawn
his forces, and M. de Luxembourg is now at liberty. Within these
twenty-four hours the chapel at St. Germain has been robbed of a silver
lamp, worth seventy thousand francs, and six candlesticks of the same
metal, each of them taller than I am. This is a daring insolence.[104]
The ropes they made use of to get in were found by the Richelieu
gallery. No one can conceive how the robbery could have been committed,
for there are guards continually going that way, and patrolling about
all night.
[104] The Duke of Saint-Simon relates a still more extraordinary
robbery that took place at Versailles. In one night all the gold
ornaments and fringes were stolen from the state apartment, from
the gallery to the chapel. Whatever inquiries were made, no trace
could be found of the robber. But five or six days after, the
king being at supper, an enormous packet fell suddenly upon the
table at some distance from him; it contained the stolen fringes,
with a note fastened to it with these words, “Bontems, take thy
fringes again, the pleasure pays not half the pain.” Saint-Simon
was a witness of this.
Do you know that peace is talked of? M. de Chaulnes is since come from
Brittany, and is to set out again immediately for Cologne.
LETTER XXXVII.
PARIS, Monday, February 5, 1674.
It is many years ago, to-day, that there came into the world a creature
destined to love you beyond every other thing in existence.[105] I beg
you not to suffer your imagination to wander either to the right hand
or to the left:--_Cet homme-là, sire, c’était moi-même._[106]
[105] She refers to her birth-day, 5th February, 1626.
[106] A line of Marot, in an epistle to Francis I. _This man,
sire, was myself._
It was yesterday three years that I felt the most poignant grief of my
whole life. You set out at that time for Provence, and you remain there
still. My letter would be very long, if I attempted to express all the
sorrow I then felt, and what I have since felt, in consequence of this
separation. But to leave this melancholy digression. I have received
no letters from you to-day. I know not whether I am to expect any,
and I fear not, as it is so late; I have, however, expected them with
impatience; I wanted to hear of your departure from Aix, and to be able
to compute, with some exactness, the time of your return. Every one
teases me, and I know not what to answer. I think but of you and your
journey. If I receive any letters from you after this is sent away, you
may make yourself perfectly easy; for I will certainly take care to do
whatever you desire me.
I write to-day a little earlier than usual. M. Corbinelli, and
Mademoiselle de Méri, are here, and have dined with me. I am going to a
little opera of Molière’s, that is to be sung at Jellison’s. It is an
excellent composition; the prince, the duke, and the duchess, will be
there. I shall, perhaps, sup at Gourville’s, with Madame de la Fayette,
the duke, Madame de Thianges, and M. de Vivonne, of whom we are to take
our leave, as he sets out from hence to-morrow. If this party is broken
up, I shall, perhaps, go to Madame de Chaulnes, where I am earnestly
invited, as well by the mistress of the house as by Cardinals de Retz
and Bouillon, who made me promise them. The first of these is very
impatient to see you; he loves you dearly.
It was apprehended that Mademoiselle de Blois had the small-pox, but it
does not prove so. There is not a word said of the news from England;
this makes me conclude there is nothing good from thence. There has
been only a ball or two at Paris during the whole carnival; there were
masques at noon, but not many. It is a very dull season. The assemblies
at St. Germain are mortifications for the king, and only show the
falling off of the carnival.
Father Bourdaloüe preached a sermon on the purification of our Lady,
which transported every body. There was such energy in his discourse
as made the courtiers tremble. Never did preacher enforce with so much
authority, and in so noble a manner, the great truths of the Gospel.
His design was to show that every power ought to be subject to the law,
from the example of our Lord, who was presented at the temple. This was
insisted on with all the strength and clearness imaginable; and certain
points were urged with a force worthy of St. Paul himself.
The Archbishop of Rheims, as he returned yesterday from St. Germain,
met with a curious adventure. He drove at his usual rate, like a
whirlwind. If he thinks himself a great man, his servants think him
still greater. They passed through Nanterre, when they met a man on
horseback, and in an insolent tone bid him clear the way. The poor man
used his utmost endeavors to avoid the danger that threatened him, but
his horse proved unmanageable. To make short of it, the coach and six
turned them both topsy-turvy; but at the same time the coach too was
completely overturned. In an instant the horse and the man, instead
of amusing themselves with having their limbs broken, rose almost
miraculously; the man remounted, and galloped away, and is galloping
still for aught I know; while the servants, the archbishop’s coachman,
and the archbishop himself at the head of them, cried out, “Stop that
villain, stop him; thrash him soundly.” The rage of the archbishop was
so great, that afterward, in relating the adventure, he said, “if he
could have caught the rascal, he would have broke all his bones, and
cut off both his ears.”
Adieu, my dear, delightful child, I can not express my eagerness to
see you. I shall direct this letter to Lyons; it is the third; the two
first were to be left with the _chamarier_. You must be got thither by
this time or never.
LETTER XXXVIII.
PARIS, Friday, May 31, 1675.
I have received only your first letter yet, my dear child; but that
is invaluable. I have seen nothing since your absence, and every
fresh person reminds me of it; they talk to me of you; they pity me;
they----but stop; is it not such thoughts as these we should pass
lightly over? Let us then do so.
I was yesterday at Madame de Verneuil’s in my way from St. Maur,
where I had been with Cardinal de Retz. At the Hôtel de Sully, I met
Mademoiselle de Launoi,[107] who is just married to the old Count de
Montrevel; the wedding was kept there; you never saw a bride so pert;
she bustles about the house, and calls _husband_, as if she had been
married for twenty years. This same husband of hers, you must know, is
very much troubled with the ague; he expected his fit the day after
he was married, but missed it; upon which Fieubet said, “We have
found a remedy for the ague, but who can tell us the dose?” Mesdames
des Castelnau, Louvigny, Sulli, and Fiesque, were there. I leave you
to guess what these charming women said to me. My friends are too
solicitous about me; they harass me; but I do not lose a single moment
that I can spend with our dear cardinal. These letters will inform you
of the arrival of the coadjutor; I saw and embraced him this morning.
He is to have a conference this evening with his eminence and M.
d’Hacqueville on the steps he is to take. He has hitherto remained
incog.
[107] Adriana-Philippa-Theresa de Launoi, who had been maid
of honor to the queen, was married to James-Mary de la Baume
Montrevel in 1675, and not in 1672, as it is said by mistake in
the history of the great officers of the crown.
The Duchess has lost Mademoiselle d’Enghien; one of her sons is going
to die besides; her mother is ill; Madame de Langeron is already under
ground; the prince and the duke in the army; ample subjects for tears,
and, as I am told, she is not sparing of them. I leave D’Hacqueville to
tell you the news of the war; and the Grignans to write to you about
the chevalier; if he should return hither, I will take as much care of
him as of my own son. I imagine you are now upon the tranquil Saône;
our minds ought to resemble this calm view, but our hearts perpetually
seduce them; mine is wholly with my daughter. I have already told you,
that my greatest difficulty is to divert my thoughts from you, for they
all tend to the same point.
LETTER XXXIX.
PARIS, Wednesday, June 5, 1675.
I have not received any of your letters since that from Sens; you will
therefore easily conceive how anxious I am to be informed of your
health and safety. I am fully persuaded you have written to me, and
complain of nothing but the management, or rather mismanagement of the
post. According to the calculations of your friends here, you should be
by this time at Grignan, unless you were detained at Lyons during the
holidays. In short, my dear child, I have accompanied you step by step
all the way, and am in hopes the Rhône behaved with proper respect to
you. I have been at Livri with Corbinelli; but returned here with all
the haste I could, that I might not lose a moment in seeing our dear
cardinal. The great affection he has for you, and the long friendship
which has subsisted between him and me, have attached me to him very
sincerely; I see him every evening from eight till ten, and I think he
is very glad to have me with him till his bed-time. Our conversation
is constantly about you; this is a subject we are fond of expatiating
upon, and indeed it seems the master-sentiment of both hearts. He is
for coming hither, but I can not bear this house when you are not in it.
The nuncio informed him yesterday that he had just learned by a courier
from Rome that he was appointed to a cardinalship. The pope[108]
has lately made a promotion of his creatures, as it is called. The
crowns are put off for these five or six years, and consequently M. de
Marseilles.[109] The nuncio told Bonvoulour, who went to congratulate
him on his promotion, that he hoped his holiness would not now accept
Cardinal de Retz’s resignation of his hat; that he should use all his
endeavors to dissuade his holiness from doing so, as he had the honor
of being his colleague: so now we have another cardinal, Cardinal de
Spada. Cardinal de Retz sets out on Tuesday; I dread the day; for I
shall suffer extremely in losing so valuable a friend: his courage
seems to increase in proportion as that of his friend diminishes.
[108] Clement X.
[109] Toussaint de Forbin-Janson, Bishop of Marseilles, and
afterward Bishop of Beauvois, was not made cardinal till 1690, at
the promotion by Alexander VIII.
The Duchess de la Vallière pronounced her vows yesterday.[110] Madame
de Villars promised to take me to see it; but by some misunderstanding
we thought we should not get places. Nothing more, however, was
necessary than to present ourselves at the door, though the queen had
given out that the admission should not be general; and, after all, we
did not go. Madame de Villars was very much vexed at it. The beautiful
duchess performed this action like every other of her life, in the
most charming manner possible: she is surprisingly handsome: but you
will be astonished to hear that M. de Condom’s (Bossuet’s) sermon was
not so good as was expected. The coadjutor was there; he will tell you
how well the affair goes on with respect to M. de Paris and M. de St.
Paul; but he finds the shade of M. de Toulon and the spirit of M. de
Marseilles every where.
[110] For more than three years she had only received at court
insults from her rival and unkindness from the king. She remained
there, she said, merely from a spirit of penitence, and added,
“When the life of a Carmelite appears to me too severe, I have
only to call to mind what those persons made me suffer,” pointing
to the king and to Madame de Montespan.
Madame de Coulanges goes from hence on Monday with Corbinelli: this
deprives me of my companions. You know how good Corbinelli is to me,
and how kindly he enters into all my sentiments. I am convinced of his
friendship, and feel his absence; but, my child, after having lost you,
of what else can I complain? It is true that you are interested in my
complaints, because he is one of those with whom I most enjoyed the
consolation of speaking of you; for you must not imagine, that those to
whom I can not speak freely are as agreeable to me as those who enter
into my feelings. You seem to me to be apprehensive that I make myself
ridiculous, and that I am too apt to divulge my sentiments on this
pleasing subject. No, no, my dear, fear nothing; I am able to govern
the torrent. Trust to me, and let me love you, till it shall please God
to take you out of my heart, in order to place himself there; for you
can yield to none but him. In short, my heart is so entirely occupied
with, and so full of you, that finding myself incapable of any other
thought, I have been restrained from performing the devotions of the
season. Adieu, my dear child, for the present. I shall finish my letter
this evening.
I have just received a letter from Macon; I can not yet read it
without the fountain playing its old tricks: my heart is so extremely
sensible that the least thing that affects it quite overcomes me. You
may imagine that, with this fine disposition, I frequently meet with
opportunities to try it; but, pray, have no fears for my health. I can
never forget the philosophy you inspired me with the evening before we
parted; I improve by it as much as I can; but I have such an habitual
weakness, that in spite of your good lessons, I often yield to my
emotion.
Our cardinal will have left me before you receive this; it will be
a melancholy day to me, for I am extremely attached to his person,
his merit, his conversation, which I enjoy as much as I can, and the
friendship he expresses for me. His soul is of so superior an order
that it is not to be expected that his life should be attended with
only common events. He that makes it a law to himself, to do always
what is most great and heroic, must place his retreat in some proper
part of his life, like a shade beautifully disposed in a piece of
painting, and leave his friends to lament it.
How facetious you are, my child, with the newspaper in your hand!
What! can you derive amusement from it already? I did expect that you
would at least have waited till you had crossed the vile Durance.
The conversation between the king and the prince appears to me very
humorous; I think you would have been entertained with it even here.
I have just received a letter from the chevalier, who is well; he is
with the army, and has only had five attacks of the ague: this is one
subject of uneasiness less; but his letter which is full of friendship,
is in the true German style; for he will not believe a syllable of
the retreat of Cardinal de Retz: he desires me to tell him the truth,
which I shall not fail to do. I shall distribute all your compliments,
and I am sure, they will be well received; every body thinks it an
honor to be remembered by you; M. de Coulanges was quite proud of it.
The coadjutor will relate to you the success of his journey; but he
will not boast that he was on the point of being stifled at Madame
de Louvois’ by twenty women, who each supposed they had a right to
embrace him: this occasioned a confusion, an oppression, a suffocation,
of which the bare idea almost suffocates me, accompanied by the most
high-flown, reiterated, and affected compliments that it is possible to
conceive: Madame de Coulanges describes the scene very drolly. I wish
you may have the company at Grignan you mention. My son is well; he
sends you a thousand remembrances. M. de Grignan will be very willing
for me to embrace him, now that he is no longer occupied with the
bustle of the boat.
LETTER XL.
PARIS, Friday, June 14, 1675.
Instead of visiting you in your apartment, my dear child, I sit down
to converse with you by letter; when I am so unfortunate as not to
have you with me, the most natural consolation I can find is to write
to you, to receive your letters, to speak of you, or to take some step
in your affairs. I passed the afternoon yesterday with Cardinal de
Retz; you can not possibly guess what we talk of when we are together.
I always begin by telling you that you can not love him too well, and
that I think you happy in having so firmly fixed the kindness and
affection he before felt for you. Let me know how you bear the air at
Grignan, and whether it has already begun to prey upon you; how you
enjoy your health and how you look. Your picture is very pleasing, but
far less so than your person, without reckoning that it wants the power
of speech. Be not uneasy about my health; the rule I observe at present
is, to be irregular; I am not sensible of any indisposition; I dine
alone; stay at home till five or six o’clock, and go in the evening,
when I have no business of importance to keep me within, to the house
of one of my friends. I walk or ride according to the distance, but
I make every thing yield to the pleasure of being with our cardinal.
I lose not a moment he can spare me, and he is very obliging in this
respect. I shall feel more sensibly his departure and his absence;
but this does not prevent my indulging myself in the pleasure of his
conversation; I never think of sparing myself; after having endured the
pangs of parting with you, I have nothing to fear from any less tender
attachment. Were it not for him, and for your affairs, I should go a
little to Livri; but I make every consideration yield to these, which
are above all my little pleasures.
The queen went to see Madame de Montespan at Clagny on the day I told
you she took her up in her carriage as she passed; she went into her
room, where she staid half an hour; she then went into M. du Vexin’s,
who was a little indisposed, and afterward took Madame de Montespan
to Trianon, as I informed you. Some ladies have been at Clagny; they
found the fair lady so occupied with the building and enchantments
that are preparing for her, that I fancy her like Dido building
Carthage; but the resemblance will not hold good in any other respect.
M. de la Rochefoucault and Madame de la Fayette have entreated me to
present their compliments to you. We fear you will have too much of
the grand-duchess.[111] A prison is preparing for her at Montmartre,
with which she would be frightened, if she did not hope to change
it; but she will be caught; they are delighted in Tuscany to have
got rid of her. Madame de Sully is gone; Paris is become a desert. I
already wish myself out of it. I dined yesterday with the coadjutor
at the cardinal’s: I have left him in charge to inform you of that
part of ecclesiastical history. M. Joli[112] preached at the opening
of the assembly of the clergy, but as he took an ancient text, and
preached only ancient doctrine, his sermon seemed a piece of antiquity
altogether. It was a fine subject too for reflection.
The queen dined to-day at the Carmelites de Bouloi, with Madame de
Montespan, and Madame de Fontevraud; you will see how this friendship
will end. They say that M. de Turenne, as it were, conducts the enemy’s
troops to their quarters. My heart is much oppressed with the thoughts
of losing the cardinal; the repeated intercourse of friendship and
conversation which has so lately passed between us, redoubles my grief;
he goes to-morrow. I have not yet received your letters. Believe, my
dear, that it is not possible to love you more than I love you; nothing
animates me but what has some relation to you. Madame de Rochebonne has
written to me very affectionately; she told me with what feelings you
received and read my letters at Lyons. I see, my dear, you are grown
weak as well as I.
D’Hacqueville has sent you such a large packet that it would be
ridiculous to pretend to tell you any news now.
[111] Marguerite-Louise d’Orléans, daughter of Gaston de France
Duke of Orléans, and of Marguerite de Lorraine, his second wife.
[112] Claude Joli, Bishop of Agen.
LETTER XLI.
PARIS, Friday, June 28, 1675.
Madame de Vins expressed herself very affectionately about you
yesterday, my dear; that is, in her way, but it is not a bad one; there
seemed no _interlineations_ in what she said.
We have no news. The king’s good star has brought the Duke of Lorraine
and the Prince of Orange across the Meuse again. M. de Turenne has
now elbow-room, so that we are no longer confined in any part. I
am rejoiced that my letters are so pleasing to you; I can hardly
think they are so agreeable as you say they are. I know they have no
stiffness in them. Our good cardinal is gone to solitude; his departure
gave me sorrow, and reminded me of yours. I have long remarked our
cruel separations to the four corners of the world. It is very cold; we
are obliged to have a fire, and so are you, which is more astonishing
still. You judge well respecting _Quantova_;[113] if she can not return
to her old ways, she will push her authority and grandeur beyond
the clouds; but she must prepare to be loved the whole year without
scruple: in the mean time her house is crowded by the whole court,
visits are paid alternately, and her consequence is unbounded. Be not
uneasy respecting my journey to Brittany; you are too good and too
attentive to my health. I will have nothing to do with La Mousse; the
dullness of others weighs me down more than my own. I have no time to
go to Livri. I have made a vow to expedite your affairs. I shall give
your compliments to Madame de Villars and Madame de la Fayette. The
latter has still a little fever upon her. Adieu, my dearest child,
believe me to be most sincerely yours.
[113] Quantova is Mme. de Montespan.
LETTER XLII.
PARIS, Friday, July 5, 1675.
I sit down, my dear, to talk to you a little of our good cardinal. I
send you a letter he has written to you. Pray advise him to write his
history, it is what all his friends press him much to do. He tells
me he is very well pleased with his desert, that he can look upon it
without the least horror, and humbly hopes that God will support him in
his weakness. He expresses the most sincere regard for you, and desires
me not to think of leaving Paris till I have finished all your affairs.
He remembers the time when you had the ague, and that he desired me,
for his sake, to be careful of your health. I answer him in the same
tone. He assures me that the most frightful solitude would not make him
forget the friendship he owes us. He was received at St. Michael’s[114]
with transports of joy; the people were all on their knees, and
received him as a protector sent by God. The troops, who were quartered
there, are taken off, the officers having waited on him for his orders
to send away or to leave as many as pleased. Cardinal Bonzi has assured
me that the pope, without staying to receive our cardinal’s letter, had
sent him a brief, to tell him that he supposes, and even desires, he
will keep his hat; that the preserving his rank and dignity will in no
wise impede the work of his salvation; and it is moreover added, that
his holiness expressly commanded him not to make choice of any other
place of retirement than St. Denis; but I much doubt this latter part
of the report, so I only tell you my author for the former part.
[114] The place of the cardinal’s retreat, a remote village in
the province of Brittany.
I am convinced he thinks no more about the cassolette. If I had desired
him not to send it, it would only have served to put him in mind of it,
so I thought it was best to take no notice of it. There is no news of
importance stirring. Every thing goes on with spirit on M. de Turenne’s
side.
The other day there was a Madame Noblet, of the Vitri family, playing
at basset with monsieur. Mention was made of M. de Vitri, who is very
ill, upon which she said to monsieur, “Ah! sir, I saw him this morning,
poor man! his face looked just like a _stratagem_.” What could she
mean? Madame de Richelieu has received such kind and affectionate
letters from the king, that she is more than repaid for what she has
done.[115] Adieu, my dearest and best-beloved.
[115] The singular attachment of the queen and Madame de
Montespan.
LETTER XLIII.
PARIS, Friday, July 19, 1675.
Guess from whence I write to you, my dear--from M. de Pomponne’s, as
you will perceive by the few lines which Madame de Vins sends you with
this. I have been with her, the Abbé Arnauld, and D’Hacqueville, to
see the procession of St. Genevieve pass; we returned in very good
time; we were back by two o’clock; there are many that will not return
till night. Do you know that this procession is considered a very fine
sight. It is attended by all the religious orders, in their respective
habits, the curates of the several parishes, and all the canons of
Notre-Dame, preceded by the archbishop of Paris in his pontificals, and
on foot, giving his benediction to the right and left as he goes, till
he comes to the cathedral; I should have said to the left only, for
the Abbé de St. Genevieve marches on the right, barefoot, and preceded
by a hundred and fifty monks, barefoot also; the cross and miter are
borne before him, like the archbishop, and he gives his benedictions
in the same manner, but with great apparent devotion, humility, and
fasting, and an air of penitence, which show that he is to say mass
at Notre-Dame. The parliament, in their red robes, and the principal
companies follow the shrine of the saint, which glitters with precious
stones, and is carried by twenty men clad in white, and barefoot. The
provost of the merchants, and four counselors, are left as hostages at
the Church of St. Genevieve, for the return of this precious treasure.
You will ask me, perhaps, why the shrine was exposed. It was to put a
stop to the continual rains we have had, and to obtain warm and dry
weather, which happened at the very time they were making preparations
for the procession, to which, as it was intended to obtain for us all
kinds of blessings, I presume we owe his majesty’s return, who is
expected here on Sunday next. In my letter of Wednesday I will write
you all that is worth writing.
M. de La Trousse is conducting a detachment of six thousand men to
Marshal de Créqui, who is to join M. de Turenne. La Fare and the others
remain with the dauphin’s gens-d’armes, in the army commanded by the
prince. The other day madame and Madame de Monaco took D’Hacqueville,
at the Hôtel de Grammont, to walk about the streets and the Tuileries
incog.; as her highness is not much given to a disposition for
gallantry, her dignity sits very easy on her. The Tuscan princess is
expected every hour. This is another of the blessings obtained by the
shrine of St. Genevieve. I saw one of your letters yesterday to the
Abbé de Pontcarré; it is the best letter that ever was written; there
is no part of it which has not some point and wit. He has sent a copy
of it to his eminence, for the original is kept as sacred as the shrine.
Adieu, my dearest and best-beloved; you are so remarkable for your
inviolable love of truth, that I do not abate myself a single
expression of your kindness toward me, and you may judge, then, how
happy it makes me.
LETTER XLIV.
PARIS, Wednesday, July 24, 1675.
The weather is so extremely hot, my dear, that instead of tossing and
tumbling in my bed the whim took me to get up (though it is but five
o’clock in the morning) and chat a little with you.
The king arrived at Versailles on Sunday morning; the queen, Madame de
Montespan, and all the other ladies, went to take possession of their
former apartments. In a short time after his arrival, his majesty began
to make the usual visits: the only difference is that they play in the
state-apartments. I shall have more intelligence before I conclude
my letter. The reason of my being so ill-informed of what passed at
Versailles is, that I came but last night from M. de Pomponne’s;
Madame de Pomponne had invited D’Hacqueville and me in so pressing a
manner that there was no refusing. Indeed, M. de Pomponne appeared
delighted to see us; you were spoken of with all the friendship and
esteem imaginable, during the short time we were there, and there was
no want of conversation. One of our whims was to wish we could see
through a great many things which we think we understand, but which,
in fact, we do not; we should then see into what passes in families,
where we should find hatred, mistrust, anger, and contempt, in the
room of all those fine things that are set to outward show, and pass
upon the world for realities. I was wishing for a closet hung with
mirrors of this kind instead of pictures. We carried this odd notion
very far, and diverted ourselves extremely with it. We were for opening
D’Hacqueville’s head to furnish ourselves from thence with some of
these curious anecdotes, and pleased ourselves with thinking how the
world is in general imposed upon by what they see and take for truth.
You think that things are so and so in such a house; that such a couple
adore each other; but stay a while and turn up the cards, and you
will see that they hate each other most completely. You would imagine
that such an event proceeded from such a cause--the little demon that
drew aside the curtain would undeceive you; and so through life. This
afforded us infinite amusement. You see, my dear, I must have plenty
of time to entertain you with such trifles. This is the consequence of
rising so early in the morning; this is doing as M. de Marseilles does.
If it had been winter I should have visited by torch-light.
You have your cool north-east wind at last. Ah! my child, how
uncomfortable it is; we are broiling with heat in this country, and in
Provence you are starving with cold. I am convinced that our shrine has
effected this change; for, before the procession, we discovered, like
you, that the sun and the seasons had changed their course. I thought I
had discovered, too, like you, that this was the true reason that had
occasioned the days we so much regret to fly so rapidly. For my part,
my dear child, I experience as much sorrow to see these days passed
and gone forever, as I formerly experienced joy in spending winter and
summer, and every season, with you; this painful thought must give way
to the hope of seeing you again.
I wait for cooler weather before I take physic, and for cooler councils
in Brittany[116] before I venture thither. Madame de Lavardin, De la
Troche, M. d’Haroüis, and I, shall consult together about a proper
time for our journey, having no design to run ourselves into the midst
of the commotions that at present rend our poor province. They seem
to increase daily, and those concerned in them have got as far as
Fougères, burning and ransacking all the way as they go along. This is
rather too near the _Rocks_. They have begun a second time to plunder
the _bureau_[117] at Rennes: Madame de Chaulnes is terrified almost to
death at the continual menaces she hears. I was told yesterday that
some of the mutineers had actually stopped her in her coach, and that
even the most moderate of them had sent notice to M. de Chaulnes, who
is at Fort Louis, that if the troops he had sent for took a single step
toward entering the province, his wife would run the hazard of being
torn to pieces by the insurgents. It is necessary, however, that some
troops should march against them, for things are come to such a height
that lenitives are no longer of service. But it would not be prudent
for us to set out before the storm is a little subsided, and we see
the issue of this extreme confusion. It is hoped that the approaching
harvest will help to disperse the rioters, for after all they must get
in their grain; and there are nearly six or seven thousand of them, not
one of whom can speak a word of French.
[116] The exorbitant taxes that had been imposed upon these
unhappy people had obliged numbers of them to have recourse to
arms, in order to free themselves from the load of exactions that
it was impossible for them to bear.
[117] A kind of exchequer established in all the principal towns
in France for the collection of the king’s revenues.
M. de Boucherat told me the other day, that a curate having received a
clock that had been sent him from _France_, as they call this part of
the country, in the sight of some of his parishioners, they immediately
cried out in their language, that it was a new tax, they were sure
of it, they saw it plainly. The good curate, with great presence of
mind, and without seeming at all confused, said to them, “My children,
you are mistaken, you know not what you are talking of; it is an
_indulgence_.” This brought them all immediately upon their knees.
You may, by this specimen, form a judgment of the understandings of
these people. Let the consequence be what it may, I must wait till the
hurricane is past; but I am sorry to be obliged to defer my journey.
It was fixed at the most convenient time for me, and it can not be
put off without interfering with my plans. You know my resignation to
Providence; we must all return to this at last, and take things as they
come. I talk wisely, as you see, but I do not always think wisely. You
well know there is one point in which I can not practice what I preach.
LETTER XLV.
PARIS, Friday, August 16, 1675.
I could wish all you write to me of M. de Turenne inserted in a funeral
oration. There is an uncommon beauty and energy in your style; it has
all the force of eloquence that can be inspired by grief. Think not,
my child, that the remembrance of him can be lost in this country. The
torrent that sweeps every thing away can not remove a memory so well
established; it is consecrated to immortality. I was the other day at
M. de la Rochefoucault’s, with Madame de Lavardin, M. de Marsillac,
and Madame de la Fayette. The premier joined us. The conversation,
which lasted two hours, turned wholly on the divine qualities of this
true hero. The eyes of every one were bathed in tears, and you can
not imagine how deeply the grief of his loss is engraved on all their
hearts. You have exceeded us in nothing, but in the satisfaction of
sighing aloud, and of writing his panegyric. We remarked one thing,
which was, that it is not at his death only, that the largeness of
his heart, the extent of his knowledge, the elevation of his mind are
admired; all this the world acknowledged during his life. How much this
admiration is increased by his death you may easily suppose. In a word,
my dear, do not think that the death of this great man is regarded here
like that of others. You may talk of it as much as you please; but
do not suppose your grief can exceed ours. That none of the devotees
have yet taken it into their heads to doubt whether his soul was in
a good state, proceeds from the perfect esteem every person felt for
him. It is not possible that sin or guilt could find a place in his
heart; his conversion,[118] so sincere, appeared to us like a baptism.
Every one speaks of the innocence of his manners, the purity of his
intentions, his unaffected humility, the solid glory that filled his
heart, without haughtiness or ostentation, his love of virtue for its
own sake, without regarding the approbation of men, and, to crown all,
his generous and Christian charity. Did not I tell you of the regiment
he clothed? It cost him fourteen thousand francs, and left him almost
penniless. The English told M. de Lorges, that they would continue to
serve this campaign to avenge his death; but that they would afterward
retire, not being able to serve under any other general after M. de
Turenne. When some of the new troops grew a little impatient in the
morasses, where they were up to their knees in water, the old soldiers
animated them thus: “What! do you complain? It is plain you do not yet
know M. de Turenne; he is more grieved than we are when we are in any
difficulty. He thinks of nothing at this moment but of removing us
hence; he wakes, while we sleep; he is a father to us; it is easy to
see that you are but young soldiers.” It was thus they encouraged them.
All I tell you is true; I do not load you with idle stories to amuse
you because you are at a distance; this would be cheating you, and you
may rely upon what I write to you as firmly, as on what I should tell
you if you were here. I return to the state of his soul. It is really
remarkable that no zealot has yet thought fit to doubt whether it
has pleased God to receive it with open arms, as one of the best and
noblest he ever created. Reflect a little upon this general assurance
of his salvation, and you will find it is a sort of miracle, scarcely
known but in his case.
[118] He was originally a Protestant.
The king has said of a certain person, whose absence last winter
delighted you, that he had neither head nor heart; these were his very
words. M. de Rohan, with a handful of men, has dispersed and put to
flight the mutineers, who were formed in troops in his Duchy of Rohan.
Our troops are at Nantes, commanded by Fourbin; for Vins is still a
subaltern. Fourbin’s orders are to obey M. de Chaulnes; but as M. de
Chaulnes is at Fort Louis, Fourbin in effect has the command. You
understand what these imaginary honors are, which remain without action
in those who have the name of commanders. M. de Lavardin wished much
to have this command; he has been at the head of an old regiment, and
pretends it was an honor due to him; but his claim was not admitted.
It is said that our mutineers have sued for pardon; I suppose they
will obtain it, after a sufficient number have been hanged. M. de
Chamillart, who was odious to the province, is removed; and M. de
Marsillac, who is a worthy man, is made intendant. These disorders no
longer prevent me from taking my journey; but there is something here I
am unwilling to leave. I have not yet been able to go to Livri, however
my inclination may tempt me. Time must be taken as it comes; we wish to
be in the center of news in these critical times.
Let me add a word more concerning M. de Turenne. He had made an
acquaintance with a shepherd, who knew the roads and the country well;
he used to take him along with him, and order his troops to be posted
according to his direction. He had a great affection for this shepherd,
and esteemed him as a man of good plain sense. He said that Colonel
Bec owed his rise to a similar quality; and that he believed this
shepherd would make his fortune as he had done. He was pleased with
having contrived to make his troops pass without danger; and said to M.
de Roye, “In good earnest this seems to me no ill performance, and I
believe M. de Montecuculi will not find it so.” It is indeed esteemed
a masterpiece of military skill. Madame de Villars has seen another
account since the day of battle, in which it is said that the Chevalier
de Grignan performed wonders, both in respect of valor and prudence.
God preserve him! for the courage of M. de Turenne seems gone over
to the enemy; and they think nothing impossible, since the defeat of
Marshal de Créqui.
M. de la Feuillade went post to Versailles the other day, where he
surprised the king, and said to him, “Sire, some (meaning Rochefort)
send for their wives, and some come to see them: I am come only to see
your majesty, and to thank you a thousand and a thousand times. I shall
see nobody besides your majesty, for it is to you I owe every thing.”
He talked a long while with the king, and then taking his leave, said,
“Sire, I am going; I beg you to make my compliments to the queen and
the dauphin, and to my wife and children.” And he mounted his horse;
and in reality saw no other person. This little sally pleased the king
much; he told the court, laughing, how he had been made the bearer of
M. de Feuillade’s compliments. It is a great thing to be happy; every
thing then succeeds; nothing is taken amiss.
LETTER XLVI.
PARIS, Friday Evening, Aug. 16, 1675.
At length, my dear, M. de la Trousse is found. I admire his good
fortune in this affair: after having performed wonders at the head
of his battalion, he was surrounded by two squadrons of the enemy’s
horse, so completely, that no one knew how it would end; when on a
sudden he finds himself prisoner to----Whom? The Marquis de Grana, with
whom he was intimate for six months at Cologne, and with whom he had
cultivated a close friendship. You may judge how he will be treated;
he has a pretty little wound, which will furnish him with an excellent
plea for passing the vintage at La Trousse; for there is no reason
to doubt that he will be released on his parole; and, what is still
better, will meet with the most favorable reception at court. Nothing
can exceed the congratulations and compliments that have been made him
by all his friends on this occasion. I really pity him for having so
many thanks to return: if he were to have carved his own fortune, could
he have done it more completely to his wish? As for honest Sanzei, we
have no news of him, which does not look well. Marshal de Créqui is at
Trèves, at least it is so reported, and that his people saw him cross
the river, with three others, in a miserable little boat. His wife is
distracted with grief, not having heard a syllable from himself; for my
part I really think he has been drowned, or else killed by the peasants
on his way to Trèves. In short, matters appear to go badly on all
sides, La Trousse excepted.
LETTER XLVII.
PARIS, Wednesday, Aug. 28, 1675.
If I had the means of sending letters to you every day I could easily
contrive to write them. I sometimes do so even now, though my letters
do not go; but the pleasure of writing is reserved for you alone: to
every one else I write, because I must. I have particulars to relate
respecting M. de Turenne. Madame d’Elbeuf,[119] who is for a few days
at the Cardinal de Bouillon’s, invited me to dine with them yesterday,
and to share in their grief. Madame de la Fayette was likewise there;
the purpose of our meeting was fully answered, for there was not a dry
eye among us. Madame d’Elbeuf had a picture of the hero, admirably
executed. All his people arrived at eleven o’clock; the poor creatures
were already in deep mourning, and bathed in tears; three gentlemen
came in who were ready to die at the sight of the picture; their
cries pierced every heart; they could not utter a word; his footmen,
his pages, his trumpeters, were all in tears, and made every body
else weep to see them. The first who was able to speak, answered our
mournful questions, and we prevailed on him to relate the manner of
his death. It seems he was desirous of confessing, and when he retired
for that purpose, he gave his orders for the evening, and was to
have communicated the next day, which was Sunday, when he expected
to give battle. He mounted on horseback at two o’clock the Saturday,
after having taken a little refreshment, and as he had many people
with him, he left them all at about thirty paces from the hill, and
said to young d’Elbeuf, “Nephew, stay you there: you move round me so
much, that I shall be known.” M. Hamilton, who happened to be near
the place where he was going, said to him, “Sir, come this way if you
please, the enemy’s fire is directed to the place in which you are.”
“You are right, sir,” replied M. de Turenne; “I would not willingly be
killed to-day; this will do extremely well.” He had scarcely turned
his horse, when he saw St. Hilaire, who, coming up to him with his
hat in his hand, desired him to cast his eye on a battery he had just
raised, pointing to the place. M. de Turenne turned back, and at that
very instant, without having time to stop his horse, he had his arm
and part of his body torn to pieces by the same ball that carried off
St. Hilaire’s arm and hand in which he held his hat. The gentleman,
who was watching him attentively, did not see him fall, for his horse
ran away with him as far as the spot where he had left young d’Elbeuf;
he was leaning with his face over the pommel of the saddle. The moment
his horse stopped, this great man fell off into the arms of his people,
who were gathered round him, twice opened wide his eyes, moved his
lips a little, and sank to eternal rest. Think of his death, and of
part of his heart being carried away! His people immediately burst
into loud cries of lamentations, but M. Hamilton quieted them as well
as he could, and had young d’Elbeuf removed, who had thrown himself
upon his uncle’s body frantic with grief, and would not be dragged
from it without violence. A cloak was immediately thrown over the
body, and it was placed by the side of a hedge, where they kept watch
over it in silence till a carriage could be sent for to carry it to
his tent; there it was met by M. de Lorges, M. de Roye, and several
others, who were ready to expire with grief; but they were obliged
to restrain themselves, and think of the important business that had
devolved on them. A military service was performed in the camp, where
tears and sorrow were the mourning; the officers, however, had each
a crape scarf, the drums were covered with the same, they beat only
a single stroke, the soldiers marched with their pikes trailing and
pieces reversed; but the cries and lamentations of a whole army can
not be described without emotion. His two nephews assisted at this
mournful ceremony, I leave you to judge in what condition. M. de Roye,
though much wounded, would be carried thither. I suppose the poor
Chevalier de Grignan was overwhelmed with grief. When the body was
removed from the camp, to be brought to Paris, the same scene of grief
was renewed, and in every place through which it passed, nothing was
heard but lamentations: at Langres, however, they exceeded even this;
the bier was met by more than two hundred of the principal inhabitants
in mourning, followed by the common people, and all the clergy in
sacerdotal habits. In the town a solemn service was performed, and
they all voluntarily entered into a contribution toward defraying the
expenses, which amounted to five thousand francs; for they conducted
the body as far as the next town. What say you to these natural marks
of affection, founded on the most extraordinary merit? He is to be
brought to St. Denis this evening; the people are all gone to meet
the body at a place about two leagues distant, from whence they will
conduct it to a chapel, where it is to be deposited for the present;
there will be a service performed at St. Denis, till that at Notre-Dame
is celebrated, which will be a solemn one. Such was our entertainment
at the cardinal’s; we dined, as you may suppose, melancholy enough, and
afterward did nothing but sigh till four o’clock. Cardinal de Bouillon
mentioned you, and took upon him to answer for you, that, had you been
in Paris you would have made one in our sad party; I assured him that
you took no small share in his grief. He intends to answer both your
letter and M. de Grignan’s; he desired me to say a thousand kind things
to you, and so did the worthy d’Elbeuf, who, as well as her son, has
lost every thing. It was a good idea to undertake thus to tell you what
you know already as well as myself; but these originals struck me, and
I was glad to show you in what way we forget M. de Turenne in this part
of the world.
[119] Sister to Cardinal de Bouillon.
M. de la Garde told me the other day, that in the enthusiasm of the
wonders which were related of the Chevalier de Grignan, he had advised
his brothers[120] to bestir themselves on the occasion, to support his
interest at least for the present year; and that he found them both
very well disposed to do extraordinary things. This good La Garde is
at Fontainebleau, from whence he is to return in three days, to set
out at last; for he longs to be gone, though courtiers in general seem
to be very leaden-heeled. The situation of poor Madame de Sanzei is
really deplorable; we know nothing yet respecting her husband; he is
neither dead nor alive, wounded nor prisoner. His people do not take
the least notice of him in their letters. M. de la Trousse, after
having mentioned the report of his being killed (this was the day of
the action), has never since mentioned a syllable about him, either to
Madame de Sanzei or to Coulanges,[121] so that we are quite at a loss
what to say to this distracted woman; and yet it is cruel to let her
remain in this state of uncertainty; for my part, I am persuaded her
husband is killed; the dust and blood must probably disfigure him so
much as not to be known again, and he has been stripped with the rest
of the slain. Or he was perhaps killed at a distance from any of the
rest; or by the country-people on the road, and thrown into a hedge.
I think it is more probable that he has met with some such melancholy
fate, than that he has been taken prisoner without a word having been
heard respecting him.
[120] The Coadjutor of Arles, and the Abbé de Grignan.
[121] Madame de Sévigné was sister to M. de Coulanges, and M. de
la Trousse was first cousin to both.
And now, my dear, I must tell you that the abbé thinks my journey so
necessary, that I no longer oppose it; I shall not have him always with
me, and therefore I ought to take advantage of his good intentions
toward me. It will be only a trip of two months, for the good abbé
is not the least disposed to pass the winter there. He expresses
himself very sincerely on the subject, and you know I am always the
dupe of every thing that has the appearance of sincerity; so much the
worse for those who deceive me. I conceive that it would be very dull
there in the winter; long evenings may be compared to long marches
for tediousness. I was not dull the winter you were with me; you, who
are young, might have felt so, but do you remember our readings? It
is true, that if every thing had been taken away that surrounded the
table, and even the book too, it is impossible to tell what would have
become of me. Providence will arrange every thing. I treasure up all
your sayings; we get out of our dullness as we do out of bad roads; we
see no one stop short in the middle of a month, because he has not the
courage to go through it; it is like dying, we see no one who does not
know how to keep out of this dilemma; there are parts in your letters
which I neither can nor will forget. Are my friends Corbinelli and M.
de Vardes with you? I hope they are. In that case, I dare say, there
has been no deficiency of conversation among you; you have talked
incessantly of the state of affairs, of the death of M. de Turenne, and
are at a loss to guess what will be the consequences of it; in fact,
you are just like ourselves, though you are in Provence. M. de Barillon
supped here last night. The conversation turned upon M. de Turenne,
and the universal grief occasioned by his loss; he entered largely
into his virtues, his love of truth, his love of virtue for its own
sake, and his reward in the practice of it; he finished this eulogium
with adding, that no one could love and esteem M. de Turenne without
being the better for it. His company and conversation inspired such
hatred of deceit and double-dealing, as raised his friends above the
generality of mankind. In this number the chevalier was particularly
distinguished as one for whom this great man showed more than common
esteem and affection, and who, on his side, was one of his greatest
admirers. We shall never see his equal in any age: I do not think we
are quite blind in the present day, at least those I meet are not so,
and this perhaps is boasting that I keep good company. But I must tell
you one word more of M. de Turenne, which I heard yesterday. You know
Pertuis well, and his adoration and attachment to M. de Turenne; as
soon as he heard of his death, he wrote his majesty the following note:
“Sire, I have lost M. de Turenne; I feel my heart unable to support
this blow; and being incapable of serving your majesty as I ought
to do, I humbly request your permission to resign my government of
Courtrai.” Cardinal de Bouillon prevented the letter from being given
to the king; but, fearing he might come in person, he informed his
majesty of the effect Pertuis’ grief had on him. The king appeared to
enter with great goodness and indulgence into his sentiments, and told
Cardinal de Bouillon that he esteemed Pertuis the more for this mark of
attachment to his friend and benefactor,[122] and that he thought him
too honest a man not to discharge his duty in whatever situation he was
in. This is a specimen of grief for this hero. He had a patrimony of
40,000 livres a year; and M. Boucherat says, that after all his debts,
and the several legacies he has bequeathed, are paid, there will not
remain more than 10,000. These are the vast treasures he had amassed
during a service of fifty years! Adieu, my dearest child, I embrace you
a thousand times, and with inexpressible tenderness.
[122] He had been captain of the guard to M. de Turenne.
LETTER XLVIII.
Tuesday, September 17, 1675.
Here is an odd date for you:
Je suis dans un bateau,
Dans le courant de l’eau,
Fort loin de mon château.[123]
I think I might add,
Ah quelle folie![124]
for the water is so very low, and we are so often aground, that I
heartily wish for my carriage again, but that is out of reach for some
time. The water becomes dull when one is alone. A Count des Chapelles
and a Mademoiselle de Sévigné are wanting to enliven the scene. In
short, it is mere folly to take a boat at Orléans, or even at Paris;
but it is the fashion, as it is at Chartres to buy chaplets. I told
you I saw the Abbé d’Effiat at his noble mansion. I wrote to you from
Tours; from thence we went to Saumur, where we saw Vineuil, and wept
again over M. de Turenne. He seems greatly affected with his loss; you
will pity him when I tell you he is in a place where no one ever saw
this hero. Vineuil is grown very old, very phthisicky, very driveling,
and very devout; but he is still witty. He sends you a thousand and a
thousand compliments. It is thirty leagues from Saumur to Nantes; we
determined to go there in two days, and to get into Nantes this day.
With this view we were upon the water some part of the night, but
fortunately we ran aground about two hundred yards from the place where
we were to go ashore to sleep, and could not get out of the boat, so
we put back and landed at another place, and, following the barking of
a dog, we got, about midnight, to a little hut, but the most wretched
place you can possibly conceive; there we found two or three old women
spinning, and some fresh straw, upon which we all lay down without
taking off our clothes. I should have laughed heartily at this scene,
had it not been for thinking of our poor abbé, whom I was vexed to have
exposed to such a fatiguing journey. At daybreak we re-embarked, but
were again so completely stranded, that it was above an hour before we
could get afloat again; however, we were resolved to get to Nantes,
though against both wind and tide. We were forced to row all the way.
When we got there, I received your letters, and as I find the post
must pass through Ingrande, I shall leave this little note by the way.
I am very well, and only want somebody to chat with. I shall write to
you from Nantes, as you may suppose. I am very impatient to hear from
you, and about M. de Luxembourg and his army, for my head has been in
a sack these nine days. The History of the Crusades is very amusing,
particularly to those who have read Tasso, and who see their old
friends again in prose and in history, but with respect to the author’s
style, I am his very humble servant. The Life of Origen is divine.[125]
[123] I am here in a boat,
On the water afloat,
From my castle far remote.
[124] Ah, what folly is this!
[125] This is the work of Dufosse, of Port Royal. It had just
been published, with the Life of Tertullian, by the same author.
LETTER XLIX.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, Oct. 20, 1675.
I can not sufficiently admire the diligence and fidelity of the post.
I received on the 18th your letter of the 9th, that is, in nine days
only after date, which is all that can be desired. But, my dear, we
must soon put an end to our admirations; for, as you say, you are
going still further off, that we may both be exactly in the spot which
Providence has assigned us. For my part, God knows, I acquit myself
very ill in my residence; but you, heavens! M. d’Angers (H. Arnauld)
can not do more. When I think, however, of our separation, and how
much I deserve to enjoy the pleasure of being with you, and of all
your affection for me, and then reflect that we are placed at two
different ends of the globe, you must excuse me if I can not view this
part of our history with gayety of heart. Common sense opposes it, and
my infinite love still more. I have nothing to do but take refuge in
submission to the will of Providence. I am very glad you have seen M.
de la Garde; he does me great honor in approving my turn of mind: he is
a very good judge. I am sorry you are going to lose him so soon, for he
is really a worthy man. Your conversations must have been endless. So
he is to take the archbishop away to La Garde. It was very well said of
him, that he was like a river which fertilized and made every country
flourish through which it passed. I find he did wonders at Grignan.
M. de Chaulnes is at Rennes with four thousand men; he has removed
the parliament to Vannes, which has occasioned a terrible desolation.
The ruin of Rennes brings with it that of the whole province. Madame
de Marbeuf is at Vitré; she has brought me a thousand compliments
from Madame de Chaulnes, and from M. de Vins, who intends paying me a
visit. I am not under the least apprehension about these troops on my
own account, but I can not help feeling for the despair and desolation
our poor province suffers at present. It is supposed we shall not
have any assembly of the states here, or if we have, it will be only
to buy off the taxes which we gave two million five hundred thousand
livres to have taken off only two years ago, and which have been all
laid upon our shoulders again; and, perhaps, they may set a price too
upon bringing the parliament back to Rennes. M. de Montmoron[126] is
fled out of the town, to a seat belonging to one of his friends, at
about three leagues distance from hence, that he may avoid hearing the
cries and lamentations of the people at seeing their dear parliament
removed. You see I am quite a Breton, but, you know, it is owing to
the air I breathe, and to something else, for every creature, without
distinction, is in affliction throughout the province. Be under no
concern about my health, my dearest child; I am extremely well. Madame
de Tarente has given me an essence that has cured her of vapors that
were worse than mine: two drops are to be taken for fifteen days
following, in any beverage that is drunk at table, and it cures
effectually. She has told me circumstances of its efficacy, which
have all the air of those in the comedy of the Médecin Forcé; but I
believe them all, and I would take some of the essence now if it were
not that I think it a pity to make use of so admirable a remedy when I
have no real occasion for it. I will send you, some time or other, the
remainder of the prosperities of the boat. You will make La Plessis too
vain, for I shall tell her how much you love her. Except what I told
you the other day, I do not think a better creature exists. She is here
every day. I have some of your excellent Hungary water in my pocket; I
am quite in love with it; it cures all my sorrows; I wish I could send
some of it to Rennes.
[126] He was a Sévigné, and dean of the parliament of Brittany.
My woods continue very beautiful still, and the verdure is a hundred
times finer than at Livri; I do not know whether this proceeds from
the nature of the trees themselves, or from the refreshing rains we
have here; but there is certainly no comparison; every thing here looks
as green now as in the month of May. The leaves that fall are brown,
it is true, but those that remain on the trees are not at all faded;
you never observed this beauty in them. As to that blessed tree that
saved your life, I am often tempted to build a little chapel there.
It seems to carry its head above all the rest, and exceeds them in
bulk as well as stature, and with very good reason, for it saved you.
I may, at least, repeat to it the stanza of Medor, in Ariosto, in
which he wishes happiness and peace to the cave that had given him so
much pleasure. Our sentences are not at all disfigured; I visit them
frequently. I think they are rather increased, and two trees that are
close to each other, often present us with two contrary sentiments,
“_La lontananza ogni grand piaga salda_,”[127] and “_Piaga d’amor non
si sana mais_.”[128] There are five or six thus contradictory. The
good princess was charmed with them, as I am with the letter you have
written our good abbé, on Jacob’s journey to the land of promise, in
your closet.
[127] Time is a cure for wounds however deep.
[128] The wounds of love are never to be healed.
Madame de Lavardin has informed me of what is still to be kept secret
for a few days longer, that D’Olonne is going to marry his brother to
Mademoiselle de Noirmoutier. He gives him all his lands in Poitou,
besides a great quantity of jewels and furniture. They are at La
Ferté-Milon, where this curious affair is to be made up. I never
thought D’Olonne would have given himself any concern about his name or
family.
LETTER L.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, November 6, 1675.
What a delightful letter have you written to me, my dear child! What
thanks do I not owe you for employing your hand, your eyes, your head,
your time, in composing so agreeable a volume! I have read it over and
over, and shall read it again with pleasure and attention. I can read
nothing that is more interesting; you satisfy my curiosity in every
thing I wish. I admire your care in giving me such punctual answers.
This makes a conversation perfect, regular, and extremely entertaining.
But I must beg you not to destroy yourself; this fear makes me renounce
the pleasure of having frequently such entertainments. You can not
doubt my generosity in sparing you the fatigue of immoderate writing.
I comprehend with pleasure the high esteem that is paid to M. de
Grignan in Provence, after what I have seen of it. This is a pleasure
you are scarcely sensible of; you are too much accustomed to be loved
and honored in a province where you command. If you saw the horror, the
detestation, the hatred, that the people have here for their governor,
you would feel more than you do the pleasure of being adored every
where. What affronts! what injuries! what menaces! what reproaches! the
very stones fly round him. I do not believe M. de Grignan would accept
this post upon such conditions.
You mention to me the paper you have signed so heroically in favor of
M. de Grignan.[129] You say you had no doubt which way the honorable
sentiments of Cardinal de Retz[130] inclined. I do not say any thing of
mine; it was enough that you could discern what his counsels tended to.
In certain delicate affairs, we do not presume directly to advise, but
we represent the case; the common friends of both do what is proper,
that there may be no jarring opposition in the interest of those they
love. But with a soul so perfectly generous and good as yours, we
consult only ourselves, and act precisely as you have done. Have you
not seen how much you have been admired? Are you not pleased that you
owe to none but yourself so noble a resolution? You would have done
nothing blamable, if you had refused to sign--you would only have
acted like the rest of the world; but by consenting to it, you have
exceeded all the world. In a word, my child, enjoy the beauty of your
own action, and do not think meanly of us for not having prompted you
to it. On a similar occasion, we should perhaps have acted as you have
done, and you would have advised as we did; it is all well, I am very
much pleased that M. de Grignan is so good as to recompense this mark
of your friendship and affection by a greater attention to his affairs.
The prudence you commend him for, is the truest mark of his gratitude
you could have wished.
[129] It appears that Madame de Grignan had entered into a bond
for her husband.
[130] Cardinal de Retz advised her not to sign.
LETTER LI.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, December 1, 1675.
Well, my dear, it seems now settled that I am to receive two of your
packets together, and miss one post; you should see the faces I make,
and how I receive it in comparison with those that come regularly. I
am of your opinion, my child, and would give a great deal to be as
easy about answering letters as the coadjutor is, and keep them in my
pocket for a month or two without troubling my head about them. Well,
it is a gift from heaven certainly, this happy indifference! Madame de
Langeron used to say of visits, and I apply it to every thing: “What I
do fatigues me, and what I omit to do vexes me.” I think this is very
well said, and I feel it sensibly. I am always exact, however, in my
answers. It is with pleasure I give you the top of the basket; that
is, you have the very flower of my mind, my head, my eyes, my pen, my
desk--the rest fare as they can. I have as much amusement in chatting
to you, as labor and fatigue in writing to others. I am perfectly
stunned with the great news that abounds in Europe.
I suppose the coadjutor has shown Madame de Fontevraud the letter he
received from you. You are ignorant of its value. You write like an
angel; I read your letters with admiration. You no sooner set out
than you reach the goal. Do you remember the minuet which you danced
so well, and closed in such excellent time, when the other creatures
were not at the end of theirs till the next day? The late madame and
yourself were famous for this; we used to call it _gaining ground_.
Your letters are just the same.
As for your poor little _frater_, I know not where he has hid himself;
it is three weeks now since I had a line from him. He made no mention
of the pretty airing upon the Meuse, though every body believes it
here; his fortune is really very hard, poor lad. I do not see how he
can manage the affair of his promotion, unless Lauzun will take the
guidonage in part of payment, with some other little additions we
will endeavor to raise; but to buy the ensign’s place, and have the
guidonage left upon our hands, will never do. Your reasoning upon the
matter is very just; we all acquiesce in it, and shall be very well
contented to mount after the other two,[131] provided the guidon serves
as the first step.
[131] The Marquis de la Trousse, and the Marquis de la Fare; the
one captain-lieutenant, and the other sub-lieutenant, in the
dauphin’s gens-d’armes.
I shall finish the year here very peaceably. There are times when all
places are indifferent, and a solitude like this not unpleasant. Madame
de la Fayette returns you all your civilities; she has very bad health,
and poor M. de Limoges still worse; he has resigned all his benefices
to the king; I fancy his son, the Abbé de la Fayette, will have one of
his abbeys. Poor Gascony has been as roughly handled as we have been.
We have six thousand troops sent down to pass the winter among us: if
it were not for the misconduct of the provinces, I do not know how
they would be able to dispose of their troops. I can not think peace
is so near: do you remember all our reasoning upon the subject of war,
and how many there must be killed? This is always a certain prophecy,
and so is that, that your letters can never tire me, long as they may
be: ah! you will find no chimera in this hope, they are my choicest
reading. Ripert brings you a third volume of the Moral Essays, which
are worth your perusal. I never met with greater energy than there
is in the style of these writers: they make use of no words but what
are in common use, and yet they appear perfectly new, by the elegant
manner in which they dispose them. In the morning I read the history
of France; in the afternoon, some serious subjects in my woods; such
as the Essays, the Life of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, which I think
delightful, or the Iconoclastes; and in the evening, things of a
lighter nature: this is my constant rule. I hope you continue to read
Josephus; take courage, my dear, and go on boldly to the end. If you
read the history of the Crusades, you will meet with two illustrious
men who were your ancestors, but not a word about the great family of
V***, that holds its head so high at present: but I am persuaded there
are some passages which will make you throw aside the book, and curse
the Jesuit;[132] and yet upon the whole it is an admirable history.
[132] Father Maimbourg, author of the History of the Crusades.
The physician, in the Lettres Persanes, gives as a recipe for the
asthma, to read all the works of this father, stopping only at
each period.
LETTER LII.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, Dec. 11, 1675.
A little patience, my dear child, brings us to the accomplishment of
our wishes: I have received the two packets of letters from you that
I should have received before; but they are come at last, and you will
do me no more than justice to believe that I am highly delighted to
have them. I thank you that notwithstanding all your philosophy, you
enter into all my melancholy reflections on the immense distance that
separates us; you sympathize with me; you seem afflicted as well as
myself with this disposition of Providence; but you encounter it with
more courage than I do, who always feel from it some new increase of
sorrow. I am continually meditating on the past, for which the present
and the future can never make me amends. It is an ample field in which
to exercise a heart so tender and ill-defended as mine. I can not but
admire those good ladies who make a duty of their inclination; there
is La Troche for instance, who has so well turned and wound her good
fortune, that she is at length settled at her ease in the good city
of Paris, making it the seat of her empire and the field of all her
operations. She has fixed her son at court, in spite of wind and tide,
and makes it her business to be always near him. As for Marbeuf, she
had begun, even in her husband’s time, and now lays no restraint upon
herself; she has taken a lease of a house in Paris for a hundred years,
and most humbly takes her leave of poor Brittany: while you, my dear
child, who were born and bred in this country, you whom I have always
so fondly loved, and so ardently wished to have forever with me, are
driven to the furthest end of the world by the storms of adverse
fortune; but, if I mean to put an end to my letter, I must pass lightly
over these reflections, and resume my courage in the flattering hope
of a change: d’Hacqueville and I indulge some pleasing dreams of that
kind; but this is not a time to communicate them to you. Let us return
to the miseries of this poor province.
Every place is full of warriors; there are to be some at Vitré,
notwithstanding the princess is there. Monsieur, when he writes to
her, styles her his good aunt; his dear aunt; but I do not find that
she is better treated than others. There are to be troops at Guerche,
the estate of the Marquis de Villeroi; and from thence they are to
spread themselves among the country people, to rob and strip them. This
is a heavy disaster upon poor Brittany, that never experienced any
thing of the kind before. Our governor has received a power to grant a
general amnesty, which he disperses with one hand, and with the other
lets loose eight thousand soldiers, over whom he has as much command
as you have: they have all their orders. M. de Pommereuil is expected
here every day; he has the inspection of this little army, and may
very soon boast a fine government. He is the best and wisest of the
robe; he is my friend; but I doubt whether he will be as tractable as
your intendant, whom you manage so excellently; I am afraid he will be
changed. I can give you no information to-day respecting Languedoc; in
the mean time content yourself with some from Guienne; I find they are
well protected, and have procured a considerable mitigation of their
burden. Alas! we are not so happy; our protections, if we had any,
would do us more harm than good, by the animosity against us of two
individuals. I believe we may still find, or at least promise to find,
the three millions demanded of us, without ruining our friend;[133] for
he is so beloved by the states, that they would do any thing rather
than he should suffer. And this, I think, is enough upon the subject.
[133] M. de Harroüis.
I am rejoiced that you are not returned to Grignan; it would have been
only an additional fatigue and expense to you. Prudence and economy,
for which the good abbé desires me to thank you, have rendered that
step unnecessary. Let me know if the dear little ones are to come to
you. We have most delightful weather here, and we are making some new
walks, which will be very beautiful. My son is very good, and helps to
amuse us; he enters into the spirit of the place, and has brought no
more of the warrior or of the courtier with him into this retreat, than
is sufficient to enliven conversation. When it does not rain we are not
so much to be pitied as at a distance it may be supposed; the time we
have fixed to spend here will pass like the rest.
My letter has not been given to Louvois; the whole affair is
negotiating between Lauzun and myself; if he will take the guidonage,
we have offered to make a small addition to it; if he resolves to sell
his post outright, which would be very unreasonable, he must look for
a purchaser on his side, as we shall on ours; that is all. I have
written to the chevalier to condole with him on our not having met at
Paris; we should have made curious lamentations together on our last
year’s party, and should have renewed our tears for the loss of M.
de Turenne. I know not what idea you have of our princess; I assure
you she is no Artemisia;[134] her heart is like wax, it easily takes
impression; she makes a boast of it, and says pleasantly enough that
she has a ridiculous heart; this is spoken in general terms, but the
world is rather more particular in its applications. I am in hopes
I shall be able to keep this folly within bounds, by the frequent
speeches I make (as if I intended nothing by them) on the detestable
light in which those women are held, who give too great a rein to their
passions, and how much they subject themselves thereby to contempt. I
talk miraculously sometimes; I am heard and approved as much as can be
expected. Indeed, I consider it quite a duty to talk thus; and should
think it an honor to be instrumental in working a reformation.
[134] The affectionate and chaste wife of Mausolus, king of
Caria, whose ashes she drank after his death.
I am tired to death with the barrenness of news; we stand in great need
of some event, as you say, let it be at whose expense it will; as long
as we have no more Turennes to lose, _vogue la galère_. You tell me
extraordinary things; I read them, admire them, believe them, and then
you send me word they are not true; I well know the style and braggart
of the provinces. You judge superficially of our governor, when you
say you should have acted as he did, had you been in his place; I know
you would not; neither did the king’s service require it. Ah! what is
become of the excellent understanding you had last winter? This is no
time to think of deputations; let us see peace restored, and then we
shall have time to think of every thing.
As to the religion of the Jews, I said, when reading their history,
that “if God had given me grace to have been born a Jew,”[135] I should
have liked it better than any other except the true religion. I admire
its magnificence; but you must admire it still more, on account of its
year of rest, and of dressing-gowns, which would have given you an
opportunity of being a shining example of piety in your elbow-chair;
never would sabbath have been better kept. Ripert has received the
Moral Essays; they contain several treatises, and among the rest one
that is particularly pleasing; you will guess which I mean. I am
delighted with your good health and beauty, for I love you truly. I
often wish for you in these woods, the air of which, as well as that of
Livri, is a great preservative to the complexion. Our good abbé praises
you highly for your care in discharging your debts; for that, in his
estimation, is the law and the prophets; and as M. de Grignan is so
prudent, I will embrace him notwithstanding his beard; but do you know
that your little brother’s beard has the presumption to rival it? it
is to much purpose! Send me word of your success at play. It seems to
me as if I saw your little fingers taking out of the pool; but these
times are past; good and evil travel on the same road, but they leave
different impressions. You have given a great dinner; where was I? for
I know all; I see all the magnificence from hence. You express yourself
admirably on the marriage of the little prince (De Marsan) and the
maréchale; the disproportion is doubtless great, but suppose he should
have escaped it! Believe me, you have no need of my letters, you can
write delightfully without a theme. But I must reduce myself at last
to Solon’s rule, “Nothing is to be praised on this side the grave;”
which is a heavy restriction for me, who dearly love to praise what
is praise-worthy; besides, who can stay so long? For my part, I shall
always go on in my old way: adieu, my ever-lovely and beloved child.
[135] In allusion to an expression of M. de Rochefoucault, who
said, “If God had given me grace to have been born a Turk, I
should have died a Turk.”
LETTER LIII.
THE ROCKS, Sunday January 12, 1676.
You may fill your letters with whatever you please, and still be
assured that I read them with great pleasure and equal approbation; no
one can write better than you do, and it is not my friendship only that
leads me to form this opinion.
You delight me by saying you like the Moral Essays; did I not tell
you they would suit your taste? As soon as I began to read them, I
could think of nothing but of sending them to you; you know I am
communicative, and do not like to enjoy a pleasure alone. If this
book had been written on purpose for you, it could not have been more
calculated to please you. What language! what energy in the arrangement
of the words! I think I never read French but in this book. The
resemblance of charity to self-love, and of the heroic modesty of M.
de Turenne and the prince to Christian humility--but I forbear. This
work deserves to be praised from beginning to end, but I should write
a strange letter if I were to do so. I am very glad, however, you like
it, and I have a better opinion of my own judgment in consequence. You
do not admire the life of Josephus; but it is sufficient if you approve
his actions and his history. Did you not think him very happy in the
cave, where they drew lots who should stab himself the last?
We laughed till we cried at the story of the girl who sung the indecent
song, for which she confessed aloud in the church. Nothing can be
more novel and amusing. I think she was in the right; the confessor
certainly wished to hear the song, for he was not satisfied with
the girl’s accusation of herself. I fancy I see him bursting with
laughter the first at this adventure. We often send you ridiculous
stories, but we can not surpass this. I always talk of Brittany, and
it is to encourage you to talk of Provence; it is a country in which
I am more interested than in any other. My journey thither takes away
all possibility of being tired with what you tell me, because I am
acquainted with every body, and understand every thing perfectly. I
have not forgotten the beauty of your winters. Our season is very fine
here; I walk every day, and have almost made a new park round the waste
land at the end of the mall. I am planting four rows of trees there;
it will be a great improvement, for all this part is now uniform and
cultivated.
But I shall take my departure, in spite of all these charms, in
February. The abbé’s affairs are still more urgent than yours, which
has prevented me from offering our house to Mademoiselle de Méri; she
has complained of this to several persons, I understand, but I know
not what reason she has to do so. The _worthy_ is in raptures with
your letters; I often show him passages that I know will please him.
He thanks you for what you say of the Moral Essays; he was delighted
with them himself. The little girl is still with us; she has an active
little mind which has never been exercised, and we take pleasure in
improving it. She is in perfect ignorance; it is an amusement to us to
give her some general knowledge: a few words of this great universe,
of empires, countries, kings, religions, and wars, of astronomy and
geography. It is pleasant to see the unfolding of all these things
in a little head which has never beheld a town or a river, and who
thought the whole world extended no further than our park; she amuses
us highly. I informed her to-day of the capture of Wismar; she knows
we are sorry for it, because the king of Sweden is our ally. Such are
our amusements. The princess is delighted that her daughter has taken
Wismar; she is a true Dane. She has asked monsieur and madame to exempt
her entirely from the soldiery, so that we shall all be safe.
Madame de la Fayette is very grateful for your letter; she thinks you
very polite and obliging. But does it not appear strange to you that
her brother-in-law is not dead, and that such mistakes should arise at
the short distance of Toulon and Aix? Upon the questions you put to the
_frater_ I decide boldly, that he who is angry, and shows his anger,
is preferable to the deceiver, who conceals his malignity under fair
and specious appearances. There is a stanza in Ariosto descriptive of
guile.[136] I would transcribe it, but I have not time to look for it.
The good D’Hacqueville stills talks to me of the journey of St. Geran,
and to prove how short her stay will be, he says she can only receive
one of my letters at Palisse. This is how he treats an acquaintance
of a week; he is just the same with respect to others, but this is
excellent. I forgot to say that I had thought like you of the different
ways of painting the human heart, some white and others blacker than
black. You know what color mine is of for you.
[136] We shall probably gratify the reader by inserting this
stanza:
Havea piaceval viso, abito onesto,
Un umil valger d’occhi, un andar grave,
Un parlar si benigno, e si modesto
Che parea Gabriel, che dicesse: Ave,
Era brutta e deforme in tutto il resto
Ma nasconde queste fattezze prave
Con lungo abito, e largo, e sotto quello
Attosicato avea sempre il coltello.
Orlando Furioso. Canto xiv.
Her garb was decent, lovely was her face,
Her eyes were bashful, sober was her pace;
With speech whose charms might every heart assail,
Like his who gave the blest salute of--Hail!
But all deformed and brutal was the rest,
Which close she covered with her ample vest,
Beneath whose folds, prepared for bloody strife,
Her hand for ever grasped a poisoned knife.
Hoole’s Translation. Book xiv.
LETTER LIV.
(MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ DICTATES--HER SON WRITES.)
THE ROCKS, Monday, Feb. 3, 1676.
Guess, my dear child, what it is that comes the quickest, and goes off
the slowest; that brings you nearest to health, and removes you the
furthest from it; that throws you into the most agreeable situation
imaginable, and, at the same time, hinders you from enjoying it; that
flatters you with the most pleasing hopes, and keeps you the longest
from the accomplishment of them. Can not you guess? Do you give it up?
Why, it is the rheumatism. I have had it these three and twenty days;
since the fourteenth day I have been free from fever and pain, and in
this delightful situation, thinking myself strong enough to walk, which
is the summit of my wishes, I find myself swelled all over--feet, legs,
hands, arms; and this swelling, which they call my cure, and in reality
is so, is the sole occasion of my present vexation; were I good for
any thing, I might gain myself some credit by it. However, I believe
the enemy is conquered, and that in two days I shall be able to walk.
Larméchin gives me great hope of this. I every day receive letters from
our friends at Paris, congratulating me on my recovery. I have taken M.
de Lorme’s opening powders, which have been of great service to me; I
am going to take them again; they are a never-failing remedy in these
cases. After this attack I am promised an eternal succession of health.
God grant it. My first step will be to return to Paris. I desire you,
therefore, my dear, to calm all your fears; you see what a faithful
account we have given you of the affair; let that make you easy.
LETTER LV.
PARIS, Wednesday, April 15, 1676.
I am very melancholy, my dear; my poor boy is just gone; he has so
many little social virtues that are the charm of society, that were
he only an acquaintance I should regret his loss. He desired me, over
and over again, to tell you that he forgot to take notice to you of
the story of your Proteus, who was at one time a capuchin, at another
time a galley-slave; he was highly amused at it. It is supposed we are
going to undertake the siege of Cambray; this is so extraordinary a
step, that every one thinks we have had intelligence with some one in
the place. If we lose Philipsburg, it will be very difficult to repair
the breach: _vederemo_, we shall see. But still we reason and make
almanacs, all of which end with, _the king’s star will prevail_.
At length Marshal Bellefond has cut the thread that tied him here.
Sanguin has purchased his place[137] for 55,000 livres, and a brevet de
retenue of 350,000. This is a fine settlement, and an assurance of a
cordon bleu.[138] M. de Pomponne has paid me a very cordial visit; all
your friends have exerted themselves wonderfully. I do not go out yet.
The cold winds retard the cure of my hands, and yet I write better than
I did, as you may see. I turn myself at night on my left side; I eat
with my left hand: these are left hand performances. My face is very
little altered; you would soon discover that you have seen it somewhere
before; it is because I have not been bled, and have endeavored to get
cured of my illness without such remedies. I thank you for mentioning
the pigeons to me. Where has the little one acquired this timidity? I
am afraid you will throw the blame upon me: you cast a suspicious eye
toward me. This humor will, I dare say, pass off, and you will not be
obliged to make a monk of him. I am resolved to go to Vichi; they have
set me against Bourbon on account of the air. The Maréchale d’Estrées
wishes me to go to Vichi; she says it is a delightful country. I have
told you what I think of that affair; either resolve to return hither
with me, or do not come at all; for a fortnight will only disturb me
with constant thoughts of a separation, and will be on the whole a
foolish and useless expense. You know how dear the sight of you is to
me, so take your own measures.
[137] Of premier maître-d’hôtel, or lord chamberlain, to the king.
[138] M. de Sanguin was not created a knight of the king’s order
at the promotion in 1688, but the Marquis de Livri his son, who
was premier maître-d’hôtel, was comprehended in that of 1724.
I wish you had finished the bargain about your estate: M. de Pomponne
tells me it is raised to a marquisate. I desired him to make it a
dukedom: he assured me it would give him great pleasure to do so, and
that he would use all expedition in drawing up the patents. This is
a considerable step. I am delighted to hear the pigeons are so well.
How does the little tiny, or rather the great fat one do? I love him
dearly, for resolving to live against wind and tide. But I can not
forget my little girl;[139] I suppose you will determine on putting her
to Saint Marie, according to the resolutions you adopt this summer; all
depends upon that. You seem satisfied with the devotions of Passion and
Easter weeks: you shut yourself up at Grignan. For my part, my thoughts
were not affected with any thing. I had no object to strike the senses.
I ate meat till Good Friday, and had only the comfort of being very
distant from any opportunity of committing sin. I told La Mousse you
remembered him, and he advises you to make the most of your man of wit.
Adieu, my dear child.
[139] Marie-Blanche d’Athémar, born the 15th November, 1670.
LETTER LVI.
PARIS, Wednesday, April 29, 1676.
I must begin by telling you that Condé was taken by storm on Saturday
night. The news at first made my heart beat; I feared the victory had
cost us dear, but it does not prove so; we have lost some men, but none
of any note; this may be reckoned a complete happiness. Larei, the son
of M. Lainé, who was killed in Candia, or his brother, is dangerously
wounded. You see how soon our old heroes are forgotten.
Madame de Brinvilliers is not so comfortable as I am; she is in
prison, and endeavors to pass her time there as pleasantly as she
can; she desired yesterday to play at piquet, because she was dull.
Her confession has been found; it informs us that at the age of seven
years she ceased to be a virgin; that she had ever since gone on at
the same rate; that she had poisoned her father, her brothers, one of
her children, and herself; but the last was only to make trial of a
counter-poison. Medea was a saint compared with her. She has owned this
confession to be her own writing; it was an unaccountable folly; but
she says she was in a high fever when she wrote it, and that it was an
act of madness or frenzy, which does not deserve a serious thought.
The queen has been twice at the Carmelites with Madame de Montespan.
The latter set on foot a lottery; she collected every thing that could
be useful to the nuns; this was a great novelty and amusement in the
convent. She conversed a long time with sister Louise[140] de la
Miséricorde, and asked her whether it was really true that she was as
happy there as it had been generally reported. She replied, “I am not
happy, but I am contented.” Quanto talked to her a great deal of the
brother of monsieur; and asked her if she had no message to send him,
and what she should say to him for her. She replied in the sweetest
tone and manner possible, though perhaps a little piqued at the
question; “Whatever you please, madam, whatever you please.” Fancy this
to be expressed with all the grace, spirit, and modesty, which you so
well understand. Quanto afterward wished for something to eat, and sent
to purchase some ingredient that was necessary for a sauce she prepared
herself, and which she ate with a wonderful appetite. I tell you the
simple fact without the least embellishment. When I think of the letter
you wrote me last year about M. de Vivonne, I consider all I send you
as a burlesque. To what lengths will not folly lead a man who thinks
himself deserving of such exaggerated praise!
[140] Madame de la Vallière.
LETTER LVII.
PARIS, Friday, July 17, 1676.
At length it is all over: La Brinvilliers is in the air; after her
execution her poor little body was thrown into a large fire, and her
ashes dispersed by the wind, so that whenever we breathe, we shall
inhale some particles of her, and by the communication of the minute
spirits, we may be all infected with the desire of poisoning, to our
no small surprise. She was condemned yesterday; and this morning her
sentence was read to her, which was to perform the _amende honorable_
in the church of Notre-Dame; and, after that, to have her head cut
off, her body burned, and her ashes thrown into the air. They were for
giving her the question, but she told them there was no occasion for
that, and that she would confess every thing; accordingly, she was till
five o’clock in the evening relating the history of her life, which
has been more shocking than was even imagined. She gave poison to her
father ten times successively, but without effect, and also to her
brother, and several others, at the same time preserving the appearance
of the greatest love and confidence. She has said nothing against
Penautier. Notwithstanding this confession, they gave her the question,
ordinary and extraordinary, the next morning; but this extorted nothing
more from her. She desired to speak with the procurator-general: no
one yet knows the subject of their conversation. At six o’clock she
was carried in a cart, with no other covering than her shift, and with
a cord round her neck, to the church of Notre-Dame, to perform the
_amende honorable_; after which, she was put again into the same cart,
where I saw her extended on a truss of straw, with a confessor on one
side, and the hangman on the other; indeed, my child, the sight made
me shudder. Those who saw the execution say she mounted the scaffold
with great courage. I was on the bridge of Notre-Dame, with the good
d’Escars; never was Paris in such commotion, nor its attention so fixed
upon one event. Yet, ask many people what they saw, and they will tell
you they saw no more than I did, who was not present; in short, the
whole day has been dedicated to this tragedy.
LETTER LVIII.
LIVRI, Wednesday, Nov. 4, 1676.
Nothing can be more true than the proverb which says, that liberty
is destroyed by uncertainty. Were you under any sort of restraint,
you would have determined what to do long ago, and not have been like
Mohammed’s coffin, suspended between heaven and earth; one of the
loadstones would certainly, by this time, have got the better of the
other. You would no longer be _dragooned_, which is a very unpleasant
state. The voice you heard, in passing the Durance, exclaim, _Ah,
mother! mother!_ would pierce to Grignan: or at least, that which
counseled you to leave it, would not haunt you at Briare; for which
reason, I maintain that nothing can be more opposite in its nature to
liberty than indifference and indecision. Can it be possible that the
sage La Garde, who has, it seems, resumed all his wonted wisdom, has
likewise lost his free will? is he incapable of advising you? can he
be at a loss to decide in this important point? you have seen that I
decide like one of the councils. But how is it that La Garde, who is
coming to Paris himself, can not contrive that his journey may take
place at the same time with yours? If you do come, it would be no bad
thought to take the way of Sully; the little duchess would certainly
convey you as far as Nemours; at least, you would find some friend or
other, from day to day, so that you would have a relay of friends, till
you found yourself in your own apartment. You would have met with a
better reception last time, but your letter came so late that you took
every body by surprise, and had nearly missed me, which would have been
a fine circumstance indeed; but we will contrive to keep clear of this
inconvenience in future. I can not help praising the chevalier,[141]
who arrived in Paris on Friday evening, and dined here on Saturday; was
it not very good of him? I was delighted to see him, and I assure you
we spoke with great freedom of your scruples. I am now going to take
a trip to Paris. I must see M. de Louvois on your brother’s account,
who is still here without leave, which vexes me not a little. I want
to talk to M. Colbert likewise, about your pension: these two visits
are all I have to make. I have some thoughts of going to Versailles,
but will acquaint you whether I do so or not. In the mean time, we have
the finest weather imaginable; the country has yet put on none of its
horrors, and St. Hubert has favored the hunter extremely.
[141] De Grignan.
We are still reading Saint Augustine with pleasure: there is something
so great and noble in his ideas, that all the mischief that weak minds
can possibly receive from his doctrine, falls infinitely short of the
good which others may derive from the perusal. You will imagine I give
myself airs of a learned lady; but when you see in what a familiar
style this is written, you will cease to wonder at my capacity. You
tell me that if you did not love me a great deal more than you say,
you should love me very little: I am strangely tempted to scold you
for this, even though I should risk the saying an unkind or an uncivil
thing: but no; I am fully persuaded you love me; and God knows much
better than it is possible for you to do, what a strong affection I
entertain for you. I am glad to hear Pauline is like me, she will serve
to put you in mind of me. “_Ah! mother, there is no need of that._”
LETTER LIX.
LIVRI, Friday, Nov. 6, 1676.
Surely there never was so brilliant a letter as your last; I had some
thoughts of sending it back, that you might have the pleasure of
perusing it. I could not help wondering while I read it, how it was
possible to wish so ardently to receive no more. This, however, is the
affront I put on your letters: you seem to treat mine much more civilly.
This Reimond is certainly _hem! hem!_ with the head-dress you know so
well; she has dressed in this style, as you properly observe, that
she might seem qualified to hear the music of the blessed above; and
our sisters have done the same from the wish of obtaining a fund of
seven thousand livres, with a pension of a thousand, by which she
is enabled[142] “to go abroad when she likes, and she likes it very
often.” We have never had such merchandize before; but the beauty of
our house causes us to overlook every thing; for my own part, I am
quite delighted with it: for in my opinion both her apartments and her
voice are divine, _hem, hem_.
[142] Madame de Sévigné recants a little. See the Letter of the
21st October.
The dates you mention in speaking of Madame de Soubise, are, thank
God, among those which have escaped my memory. Some marked incivility
must certainly have been shown during the festivities at Versailles.
Madame de Coulanges informs me that the tooth has disappeared since the
day before yesterday; in that case, you will conclude they can have no
tooth against her. You are very amusing upon my friend’s[143] illness,
and at the same time it is all true. The quartan ague of our friend of
the suburbs,[144] is happily at an end. I have sent your letter to the
chevalier,[145] without apprehension or reproof. I love him sincerely;
and as for my _pigeon_, I wish I could give him a kiss; I have some
idea in my head, I know not how truly, that leads me to think I shall
one day or other see all these little folks. I can not understand the
eight months’ child; pray is she likely to live a century? I fancy
the gentlemen that fought it out so bravely in the streets, are in a
fair way to live as long. It would really be a very pretty and just
punishment for a battle in the midst of summer. Adieu, my dear lovely
child, I shall finish this in the good city of Paris.
[143] Madame de Coulanges.
[144] Madame de la Fayette.
[145] De Grignan.
Friday, at Paris.
So! here I am. I have been dining at the worthy Bagnol’s, where I
found Madame de Coulanges in this charming apartment, embellished
with the golden rays of the sun, where I have often seen you, almost
as beautiful and as brilliant as he. The poor convalescent gave me a
hearty welcome, and is now going to write two lines to you; it is,
for aught I know, something from the other world, which I am sure
you will be very glad to hear. She has been giving me an account of
a new dress called transparencies. Pray, have you heard of it? It is
an entire suit of the finest gold and azure brocade that can be seen,
over which is a black robe, either of beautiful English lace, or velvet
chenille like the winter laces you have seen; this occasions the name
of transparency, which is, you see, a black suit, and a suit of gold
and azure, or any other color, according to the fancy of the wearer,
as is all the fashion at present. This was the dress worn at the ball
on St. Hubert’s day, which lasted a whole half-hour, for nobody would
dance. The king pushed Madame d’Heudicourt into the middle of the room
by main force; she obeyed, but at length the combat ended for want of
combatants. The fine embroidered boddices destined for Villers-Côterets
serve to walk out on an evening, and were worn on St. Hubert’s day.
The prince informed the ladies at Chantilly, that their transparencies
would be a thousand times more beautiful if they would wear them next
their skin, which I very much doubt. The Granceis and Monacos did not
share in the amusements, because the mother of the latter is ill, and
the mother of the _angels_ has been at death’s door. It is said, the
Marchioness de la Ferté has been in labor there, ever since Sunday, and
that Bouchet is at his wit’s end.
M. de Langlée has made Madame de Montespan a present of a robe of
gold cloth, on a gold ground, with a double gold border embroidered
and worked with gold, so that it makes the finest gold stuff ever
imagined by the wit of man. It was contrived by fairies in secret,
for no living wight could have conceived any thing so beautiful. The
manner of presenting it was equally mysterious. Madame de Montespan’s
mantua-maker carried home the suit she had bespoke, having made it
to fit ill on purpose; you need not be told what exclamations and
scoldings there were upon the occasion. “Madam,” said the mantua-maker,
trembling with fear, “as there is so little time to alter it in, will
you have the goodness to try whether this other dress may not fit you
better?” It was produced. “Ah!” cried the lady, “how beautiful! What
an elegant stuff is this? Pray, where did you get? It must have fallen
from the clouds, for a mortal could never have executed any thing like
it.” The dress was tried on; it fitted to a hair. In came the king. “It
was made for you, madam,” said the mantua-maker. Immediately it was
concluded that it must be a present from some one; but from whom? was
the question. “It is Langlée,” said the king. “It must be Langlée,”
said Madame de Montespan; “nobody but Langlée could have thought of
so magnificent a present--it is Langlée, it is Langlée!” Every body
exclaims, “It is Langlée, it is Langlée!” The echoes repeat the sound.
And I, my child, to be in the fashion, say, “It is Langlée.”
LETTER LX.
PARIS, Wednesday, June 30, 1677.
At length you inform me that you are arrived at Grignan. The pains you
have taken to keep our correspondence uninterrupted, is a continual
mark of your affection. I can assure you that you are not mistaken in
the opinion that I stand in need of this support; indeed no one can
be more in want of it. It is true, however, and I too often think so,
that your presence would have been of much greater service to me; but
your situation was so extraordinary, that the same considerations that
determined you to go, made me consent to your departure, without doing
any thing more than stifle my sentiments. It was considered a crime in
me to discover any uneasiness with regard to your health. I saw you
perishing before my eyes, and was not permitted to shed a tear. It was
killing you, it was assassinating you; I was compelled to suppress
my grief. I never knew a more cruel or more unprecedented species
of torture. If, instead of that restraint, which only increased my
affliction, you had owned that you were ill; and if your love for me
had been productive of complaisance, and made you evince a real desire
to follow the advice of physicians, to take nourishment, to observe a
regimen, and to own that repose and the air of Livri would have done
you good, this would indeed have comforted me, but your opposition to
our sentiments aggravated my grief and anxiety. In the end, my child,
we were so circumstanced, that we could not possibly avoid acting as
we did. God explained to us his will by that conduct; but we should
endeavor to see whether he will not permit us mutually to reform, and
whether, instead of that despair to which you condemned me from a
motive of affection, it would not be more natural and more beneficial
to give our hearts the liberty they require, and without which it is
impossible for us to lead a life of tranquillity. Thus I have declared
my mind to you freely once for all. I shall mention the subject no
more, but let us each reflect upon the past, that, whenever it pleases
God to bring us together again, we may carefully avoid falling into the
same errors. The relief which you have found in the fatigues of so long
a journey, sufficiently proves the necessity you are under of laying
aside restraint. Extraordinary remedies are necessary for persons of
an extraordinary character; physicians would never have dreamed of
such a one as that I have just mentioned. God grant it may continue to
produce the same good effect, and that the air of Grignan may not prove
injurious to you! I could not avoid writing to you in this manner, in
order to relieve my heart, and intimate to you that we must endeavor,
when next we meet, not to give any one an opportunity of paying us the
wretched compliment of saying very civilly, that to keep quite well,
we should never see one another again. I am astonished at the patience
that can bear so cruel a thought.
You brought the tears into my eyes in speaking of your little boy.
Alas, poor child; who can bear to see him in such a situation! I do not
retract what I always thought of him; but am of opinion that, even from
affection, we ought to wish him already in a happier world. Paulina
appears to me worthy of being made your play-thing; her resemblance
even will not displease you, at least, I hope it will not. That
little quadrangular nose is a feature you can not possibly dislike
to find at Grignan.[146] It seems to me somewhat odd that the noses
of the Grignan family should admit no shape but this, and should be
altogether averse to a nose like yours, which might have been sooner
formed; but they dreaded extremes, though they did not care about a
trifling modification. The little marquis is a very pretty fellow; you
should not be at all uneasy at his not being altered for the better.
Talk to me a great deal about the persons you associate with, and the
amusements they afford you.
[146] This alludes to Madame de Sévigné’s nose, which inclined to
the square.
LETTER LXI.
LIVRI, Saturday, July 3, 1677.
Alas, how grieved I am at the death of your poor child![147] it is
impossible not be affected at it. Not that I was ever of opinion he
could live; the description you gave convinced me that his case was
desperate. But, it is a great loss to you, who had lost two boys
before: God preserve to you the only one that remains! He discovers an
admirable disposition; I am much better pleased with sound sense and
just reasoning, at his age, than with the vivacity of those who turn
out fools at twenty. Be satisfied with him, therefore; lead him like a
horse that has a tender mouth, and remember what I told you respecting
his bashfulness; this advice comes from persons much wiser than myself;
and I am sure it is good. With regard to Paulina, I have one word to
say to you; from your description of her she may, perhaps, in time,
become as handsome as yourself; when a child, you were exactly like
her. God grant she may not resemble me in having a heart so susceptible
of tenderness! I see plainly that you love her, that she is amiable,
and that she amuses you. I wish I could embrace her, and recognize that
face again _which I have seen somewhere_.
[147] The child that was born in February 1676.
LETTER LXII.
LIVRI, Friday, July 16, 1677.
I wish, my dear child, that you had a tutor for your son; it is a pity
his mind should be left uncultivated. I doubt whether he is yet of an
age to eat all sorts of food promiscuously; we should examine whether
children are strong and robust, before we give them strong meats;
otherwise we run the hazard of injuring their stomachs, which is of
great consequence. My son stays behind to take leave of his friends; he
will then come to me here; he must afterward join the army, and after
that he may go and drink the waters. An officer, named M. D****, has
lately been cashiered for absenting himself; I know the answer you will
make, but this instance sufficiently shows the severity of military
discipline. Adieu, my dear child; be comforted for the loss of your
son; nobody is to blame concerning him. His death was occasioned by
teething, and not by a defluxion upon the lungs; when children have not
strength sufficient to force out the teeth at a proper time, they are
never able to bear the necessary motion to make them all come at once;
I talk learnedly. You know the answer of Sully’s green bed to M. de
Coulanges, made by Guillerague; it is droll enough; Madame de Thianges
repeated it to the king, who sings it; it was said at first, that he
had ruined himself by it; but it is not true, it will perhaps make his
fortune. If this discourse does not come from a green mind, it comes
from a green head, which is the same, and the color of the thing can
not be disputed.
LETTER LXIII.
LIVRI, Wednesday Evening, July 24, 1677.
Love Paulina, love Paulina, my child! indulge yourself in that
amusement; do not destroy your peace of mind by depriving yourself of
her; what are you afraid of? You may still send her to a convent for
a few years, when you think it necessary. Enjoy maternal affection
for a while; it is exquisite when it springs from the heart, and the
choice falls upon an amiable object. Dear Paulina! methinks I see her
here; she will resemble you, notwithstanding she bears the mark of
the workman. It is true, this nose is a strange affair; but it will
improve, and I will answer for it, she will be handsome.
Madame de Vins is still here; she is now in my closet, engaged in
conversation with D’Hacqueville and my son. His heel is still so bad
that he may perhaps go to Bourbon when I go to Vichi. Be under no
concern about this journey; and since it is not the will of Heaven that
I should enjoy the charms of your society, we must yield obedience
to his will; it is a bitter evil, but it must be endured; we are the
weakest, and to attempt resistance is vain. I should be too happy if
your friendship was clothed in all its realities; it is still extremely
dear to me, though divested of the charms and pleasures which your
presence and company bestow upon it. My son and I will answer all you
have said on the subject of epic poetry. The contempt I know he has for
Eneas, makes me apprehensive he will be of your opinion. Yet all the
great wits have a taste for every thing written by the ancients.
LETTER LXIV.
EPOISSES, Wednesday morning, August 25, 1677.
I have here, my beloved child, received your letter of the 11th, which
I expected with so much impatience; I am not used to such delays; it
renders my whole journey uncomfortable to be thus disappointed. M.
Guitaut does all he can to convince me how extremely glad he is to
see me here. All our people are at Bourbilly, where the farmer treated
us yesterday with a most plentiful dinner. M. de Guitaut and M. de
Trichâteau were there; this gave an air of comfort to the frightful
Bourbilly-house. I shall continue here till Sunday, and will write to
you once more from this place. There is no sort of constraint in this
house, so that I can read, work, or walk out, when I please. My host
and I have a great deal of conversation together, and there is hardly
a country you can name where we have not been travelers. He tells me
a thousand stories of Provence, of the intendant and Vardes, which I
was ignorant of till now. He seems very devout; follows good teachers;
has a great desire to pay his old debts, and to contract no new ones.
This is the first step to be taken when we become acquainted with true
religion.
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.
[148] The time was at hand when the most pompous names given to
the most complicated mixture, served to vail the ignorance of the
chemists, physicians, and apothecaries, and to increase their
bills. Potable gold was one of those whimsical remedies, of which
muriatic acid was the basis. The solution of gold, which was
added to it, was only used to swell the expense. Powdered pearls
were also sometimes used to make their drugs still dearer. The
severe Guy-Patin had no mercy upon these quacks. He calls them
_Arabian cooks_, and laughs at their _farrago_. He, and some of
his medical friends, prided themselves upon having destroyed this
_colossal extortion_. Their triumph was premature. The cheap
medicines they pretended to have restored, were not at that time
received by people of rank; and it appears that Corbinelli was
treated like a nobleman, whether he would or not.
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.
[149] This _old ferula_ is apparently the Marchioness de
Castelnau, who was long and publicly the mistress of M. de
Termes. The _Amours des Gaules_, in which this is found, has very
much defamed this marquis. If this part was written by Bussy as
well as the rest, he must have been very wicked, for his letters
show that the Marquis de Termes was his steady friend. He also
possessed all the requisites to excite his jealousy. He was one
of those in whom Boileau acknowledged a superior mind. “M. de
Termes,” said he, “is always of the opinion of others, and this
is true politeness.” (Vide la Boleana.)
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.
[150] The same, probably, who has made himself known by his works
on painting. He studied in the Sorbonne. He afterward went to
Italy with the younger Amelot, whom he educated. He was also
employed in several negotiations.
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.
[151] A verse of La Fontaine, in his fable of Les Animaux Malades
de la Peste.
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.
[152] The memoirs and letters of the cotemporary writers all
agree that M. de Pomponne’s negligence was the cause of his
disgrace. The more modern historians, even Hénault, keep to the
received opinion. How could they fail to remark, that Louis
XIV., in a memorandum written in his own hand, and mentioned by
Voltaire, has himself explained very differently the cause of
this minister’s dismissal? “All that passed through his hands,
lost the grandeur and strength it ought to have displayed, as
being the orders of a king of France.” These are his own words.
Every one knows, in reality, that it was from the treaty of
Nimeguen, a single year prior to M. de Pomponne’s disgrace, the
dominion and authority of Louis XIV. affected over all Europe,
were dated. From this period his ministers treated the foreign
embassadors with insulting arrogance. The famous chambers of
reunion were established. Strasbourg was taken possession of by
violence. Advances were made into Italy. No conciliatory measures
were adopted. All the states were irritated.
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.
[153] Madeleine-Charlotte le Tellier, daughter of M. de Louvois,
married the next day, 23d November, Francis Duke of Rochefoucault
and of Rocheguyon, grandson of M. de la Rochefoucault.
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.
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.
[154] Molière’s Malade Imaginaire.
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?
[155] Mons. de Colbert de Croissy, brother to the
comptroller-general, was then in Bavaria, in order to conclude a
marriage between Monseigneur and Maria Anna Victoria of Bavaria.
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.
[156] M. de Méri had known and loved Madame de Maintenon from
her infancy. He had brought her out into the world under the
name of the Young Indian. He cultivated her friendship in all
circumstances. But what is singular is, that he would have
married her, and that he made her the offer of his hand at
the very time that Louis thought of making her his wife. The
letters of M. de Méri, which were found in Madame de Maintenon’s
collection, were indeed emphatic, heavy, and pedantic, and well
deserved the name “pitiful style” (chien de style).
[157] The French editors observe, justly enough, that as much
may be said in regard to those who can not find out the value of
these letters of Madame de Sévigné.
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.
[158] Elizabeth Hamilton, lady of the bed-chamber to Queen Maria
Theresa, of Austria.
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]
[159] La Voisin, La Vigoreux, and a priest of the name of Le
Sage, known at Paris as conjurers and casters of nativities,
added to this jugglery the secret practice of poisons, which
they denominated _succession powder_. They did not fail to
accuse those who applied to them for one thing, of having had
recourse to them for another. It is thus Marshal de Luxembourg
was exposed, by his intendant Bonard, for having made some
extravagant exorcism with Le Sage, for the purpose of recovering
his lost papers. The vindictive Louvois seized the opportunity to
ruin, or, at least, to torment him.
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.
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.
[160] Governor of the Bastille.
[161] Sister of M. de Luxembourg, formerly Madame de Châtillon.
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.
[162] La Voisin and her associates in their witchcrafts, etc.
[163] Francis Neuville, afterward Marshal of France. He had
been the lover, and was the intimate friend, of the Countess de
Soissons.
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.
[164] Madame de Coulanges, passing her life at court, with Madame
de Maintenon, and even with Mademoiselle de Fontanges, could
easily report these agreeable narratives to the king.
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_.
[165] The parliament of Paris.
[166] Nicholas de Neufville, Marshal Duke de Villeroy, father to
the last marshal of that name.
[167] The Amours des Gaules have rendered notorious her
gallantries, which may be called by a term less mild.
[168] Madame de Bouillon, as well as the Countess de Soissons,
was the niece of Cardinal Mazarin. It will be seen that she was
innocent.
[169] Madame de Tingry being named twice in this letter and the
preceding one, is it not probable that she is intended by the
initial T.? She was related to M. de Luxembourg.
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]
[170] To render this picture complete, it is necessary to cite
another stroke related by Voltaire. “La Reynie, one of the
presidents of this chamber, was so ill-advised as to ask the
Duchess de Bouillon if she had seen the devil. She replied that
she saw him at that moment; that he was very ugly, and very
dirty, and was disguised as a counselor of state. The questioner
proceeded no further.”
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.
[171] Madame de Sévigné seems to have adopted, at this moment,
the ridiculous reports spread abroad, in regard to M. de
Luxembourg. But is it to be credited that a soul like his
was capable of such weakness as was laid to his charge? And
does it not rather exhibit the common conduct of envy and
malignity, which, in the life-time of men of the first order, are
incessantly endeavoring to tarnish the luster of their reputation?
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.
[172] Quinault.
[173] See the second scene of the first act.
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.
[174] The Duke de Lude.
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.
[175] One of the conditions of the treaty with Spain was, that
France, with other places that were given up to her, should have
either Dinant or Charlemont. But the emperor, whose consent
was necessary, having preferred keeping Dinant, France was
put in possession of Charlemont. There was only a military
demonstration. It was upon this acquisition of Charlemont, M. de
Coulanges wrote some verses ending with,
Louis est un enfant gâté; On lui laisse tout faire.
“Louis is a spoiled child; he is suffered to do what he pleases.”
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.
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.
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.
[176] These were afterward reduced to six, viz., MM. Dangeau,
D’Antin, Saint-Maure, Chiverni, Florensac, and Grignan.
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]
[177] Too superior to himself to pay any attention to it.
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.
[178] Madame de la Fayette.
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.
[179] Gourville affirms, in his Memoirs, that he was liberated
before his death, and Voltaire believed it, from the account
of his daughter-in-law, Madame de Vaux. But Madame de Sévigné
believed he died at Pignerol, and so did the public. Mademoiselle
de Montpensier confirms the general opinion.
[180] Of steward of the household.
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.
[181] Anne Genevieve de Bourbon, daughter of Henry Bourbon,
second of the name, Prince of Condé, who died the 15th of April,
1679.
[182] It was imagined at that time, that the Bishop of Autun
(Gabriel de Roquette) was the person whom Molière had in view in
the character of Tartuffe.
We can not forbear adding an epigram of Boileau’s upon him:
On dit que l’Abbé Roquette
Preche les sermons d’autrui;
Moi qui sais qu’il les achète,
Je soutiens qu’il sont à lui.
Which may be Englished by a parody on a well-known epigram in our
language:
The sermons that Roquette pronounces
Are his;--who’d so have thought them?
He swears they’re his; say not he bounces,
For I know where he bought them!
[183] To estimate the skillfulness of the panegyrist, it is
proper to know the soil on which he labored. The life of
Madame de Longueville presented the Abbé Roquette with strange
circuitous roads to measure, before he brought her to the way of
salvation, whither he conducted her. She was one of the three
ladies of whom Cardinal de Mazarin said to Don Louis de Haro:
“We have three, among others, who create greater confusion than
arose at the tower of Babel.” Like Madame de Chevreuse and La
Palatine, the part she took in the intrigues of the minority of
Louis XIV. is notorious; like them, she united the triumphs of
beauty to the success of factions, and the love of business to
the love of amours. Voiture represents her as already serious and
political, when, at an early age, she appeared at the Congress
of Munster, where her husband presided over the French embassy.
The Fronde began; her artifices and blandishments seduced the
sage Turenne, when he came at the head of the Spaniards to
give battle to the French. Beloved, not much in the style of a
brother, by the Prince de Conti, she made him the chief of the
Frondeurs, and general of the insurgents, thus opposing him to
her other brother, the great Condé, who commanded the army of
the court. It was she who afterward dragged this hero into the
civil war, and joined him to the Spaniards. She long wandered as
a heroine, or as Cardinal de Retz said, who had himself been her
lover, as a fugitive adventurer. She went alternately, commanding
or intriguing, to Holland, Flanders, Dieppe, Stenay, Montrond,
Bordeaux. In 1649 she reigned in the Hôtel-de-ville of Paris,
and did what no one had ever done before, nor will perhaps do
after her, she lay-in there; and that at a time when this hotel
served as a palace to the court, as the seat of government, and
as the head-quarters of the army. Two of her lovers, the Count de
Coligny and the Duke de Nemours, were killed in a duel. The first
fought by her orders, in her quarrel, and under her inspection.
The Duke de la Rochefoucault, who had long loved her, was
betrayed by her, both as a friend and as a lover. When the peace
of the Pyrénées had brought back the princes to France, it was
found that age prescribed repose to her, at the same time that
the state of affairs obliged her to it. She endeavored at first
to escape it, by forming a party for Voiture’s sonnet against
Benserades. But these little contests of wit were insipid, in
comparison with those she had been engaged in. Nothing remained
for her but devotion; and as a character and a party were always
essential to her, she became the protectress of the Jansenists at
court, and, what is more, mediatrix between them and Rome. For it
was Madame de Longueville who in 1668 mediated the theological
transaction which suspended the debates of the Formulary, and
which was called _the peace of Clement IX_. Singular woman! who
had the art of making herself conspicuous while working out her
salvation, and of saving herself on the same plank from perdition
and from ennui. It was asserted at the time, that she died for
want of food, and there is no doubt she practiced the most
rigid austerities. “Though naturally delicate,” says Madame de
Maintenon, “she never relaxed in the practice of self-denial.”
There is a life of this lady in two volumes by Villefore, which
is said to be well written.
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.
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.
[184] Every one knows that painting and sculpture took their rise
from love, and that a marshal, who fell in love with a painter’s
daughter, became an excellent painter, merely by endeavoring to
please his mistress.
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.
[185] Esprit Flechier, made Bishop of Lauvar in 1685, and removed
from thence to Nîmes in 1687.
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.
[186] _Chi offende non perdona._ The offender never pardons.
[187] _Les vaux D’Olioules_, or, as it is called in the dialect
of that country, _leis baous D’Oulioules_, is a narrow pass by
the side of a river, about a league in length, running between
two steep hills, in Provence.
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.
[188] A celebrated ladies’ shoemaker at Paris.
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.
[189] Dubois, of the French Academy, who translated several works
of Cicero and Saint Augustin.
[190] The forest of Ardennes, in the Low Countries.
[191] After the death of Madame de Longueville, these able
writers, fearing persecution, left France. Arnauld retired into
the Low Countries, where he lived long unknown and in poverty.
He remained there till his death. Nicole, more conciliating and
less dreaded, returned to France. He figured in the quarrel of
Bossuet and Fénelon. He supported the former, but with prudence
and moderation.
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]
[192] First physician to Louis XIV.
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.
[193] The greatest charms are concealed.
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.
[194] Madame de Sévigné alludes to the banishment of M. de Bussy,
the chief of her house, and the confinement of M. de Fouquet,
her intimate friend. To which may be added, the exile of the
Arnaulds, and, further back still, the misfortunes of Cardinal de
Retz, her relation and friend.
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.
[195] On account of the number of visitors, which was always
greatest on Sundays, and to whom Madame de Sévigné thought
herself obliged to do the honors of her house, which she
humorously called _skimming her pot_.
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.
[196] To Louise-Anne de Noailles, sister to Anne Julius Duke of
Noailles, and Marshal of France.
[197] Marie de Harlaie, sister to Achilles de Harlaie, at that
time attorney-general, and afterward first president of the
parliament of Paris.
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.
[198] It is singular that Molière should have found in a nobleman
the most laughable instances of ignorance, with which he endows
his _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_.
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.
[199] Alluding to the _Histoire des Diables de Loudun_, History
of the Devils of Loudun. It is well known that the fierce
hatred of Cardinal de Richelieu, the maneuvers of the Capuchin
Joseph, and the cruelty of the judge, Laubardement, caused
the unfortunate curé Urbain Grandier to perish in the flames,
as convicted of the crime of magic, “upon the deposition of
Ashtaroth, devil of the order of Seraphims, and chief of the
possessing devils, and Eusas, Cham, Acaos, Zebulan, Nephthaim,
Uriel, and Acas, of the order of the principalities.” These are
the terms of the sentence.
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.
[200] _Calembour_, _calambouc_, or _calambac_, are knots of
the aloe-tree round which the resin collects and hardens by
incorporation. This calembouc held to the fire emits a fine
perfume. The aloe-tree grows in the woods of Cochin-China.
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.
[201] Madame de Nevers, the daughter of Madame de Thianges, was a
perfect beauty. The _greatest head_ is the king; but it was not
true that he had designs upon her, as it was said she had upon
him. The other _smaller head_ was the duke, the son of the great
Condé, who was really very much in love with her.
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]
[202] See Letter, May 25.
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.
[203] Apparently, Madame de Bretonvilliers, whom the Memoirs
of the times represent as the over-officious friend of the
Archbishop of Paris De Harlai, who was not so timid a priest as
he was a rigid Molinist.
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.
[204] See the preceding Letter.
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.
[205] Small pieces of money, of which about five are equal to an
English penny.
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.
[206] Marie Adhémar de Monteil, sister of M. de Grignan, and one
of the nuns of Aubenas, a town and convent of the Lower Vivares.
See the letter of 9th of June.
[207] Marie Blanche, the eldest sister of Paulina, was in the
nunnery of St. Marie of Aix, where a short time afterward she
took the vail.
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.
[208] We are agreeably surprised to see at this era, in the
heart of Brittany, a gentleman who so ably refuted the system
of _innate ideas_, and already exhibiting the theory of Locke.
For though the English philosopher was in Paris in 1675, I do
not think his opinions were ever promulgated there, or that they
were even at that time published. But Hobbes, and particularly
Gassendi, had raised objections to the meditations of Descartes,
of which the principles had sprung up in able heads.
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.
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.
[209] By La Sablière.
[210] A work of M. Nicole’s, entitled, _Préjugés légitimes contre
les Calvinistes_ (Well-founded Prejudices against the Calvinists).
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.
[211] She, no doubt, alludes here to the well-known description
of the extravagance of lovers, which is to be found in Terence’s
Eunuch, Scene I. beginning in these words:
In amore hæc omnia insunt vitia, etc.
[212] Written by the Protestant minister Claude, entitled, “A
Defense of the Reformation against the ‘Well-founded Prejudices’
of M. Nicole.”
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.
[213] After having beaten the Turks, and repulsed the troops they
were leading to the assistance of Buda, the Duke of Lorraine was
at length obliged to raise the siege, which had lasted for nearly
four months.
[214] The dauphiness was always a German in her heart; this
partiality, which the subsequent war increased and rendered more
offensive, contributed, with other eccentricities of character,
to alienate the affections of her husband, the king, and the
whole court.
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.
[215] This was one of Madame de Sévigné’s post-days.
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.
[216] Charles II., who died 16th February, 1685.
[217] Louis-Provence, Marquis de Grignan, Madame de Sévigné’s
grandson.
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.
[218] Charles II. was sixty-five years of age, and had reigned
about twenty-five years, reckoning from the restoration of the
Stuarts. He received the sacraments agreeably to the rites of
the Church of Rome, but more, it is said, in compliance with the
entreaties of his brother than the dictates of his conscience. He
had some good private qualities. But, as a prince, his character,
says the impartial Hume, was “dangerous to his subjects, and
dishonorable to himself.” To rid himself of his parliament, he
had placed himself in a state of disgraceful independence on
Louis XIV. It has been said of him that he never said a foolish
thing, and never did a wise one. Judging by the following
anecdote, he carried further even than policy required, the
practice of dissimulation, which would be, as it is declared,
the necessary virtue of kings, if it be true that weakness and
indolence are their natural vices. It is said that Charles II.
having reproached his minister Shaftesbury with being “the
greatest knave in the three kingdoms,” he replied, “Apparently
your majesty only includes subjects.”
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.
[219] Meaning the Chevalier de Grignan, who had an apartment in
the Hôtel de Carnavalet, Madame de Sévigné’s house at Paris.
[220] St. Romain had been embassador in Switzerland.
[221] Brother of Marshal de Catinet, and a man of great merit.
He had been captain of the French guards, but had quitted the
service on account of ill health.
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.
[222] James, Prince of Wales, son of James II., born the 20th
June, 1688; but better known afterward by the name of the
Pretender.
[223] Some disputes that had happened between the court of France
and that of Rome had obliged Louis XIV. to seize upon the county
of Venaissin, belonging to the pope.
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]
[224] Do as you like: reign, sacred Liberty!
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.
[225] Mary Stuart, daughter of James II., king of England, and
wife of William Henry of Nassau, Prince of Orange, afterward king
of England by the name of William III. Tullia, the daughter of
Servius Tullius, king of Rome, caused her chariot to drive over
the bleeding body of her father, who had just been assassinated.
[226] Frederic Armand, Count de Schomberg, marshal of France,
obtained permission to retire from the king’s service in 1685, on
account of his having embraced the Protestant religion. He was
minister of state, and generalissimo of the armies of the Elector
of Brandenbourg, and went over to England in 1688 with the Prince
of Orange.
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_.
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]
[227] Charles-Louis d’Orleans, natural son of Charles Paris
d’Orleans, Duke of Longueville, killed in crossing the Rhine in
1672.
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]
[228] Louis de Lorraine, Count d’Armagnac, first equerry of
France.
[229] Louis Thomas de Savoy, Count de Soissons.
[230] It is related that the Duke of Luxembourg said aloud upon
this subject: “There is one thing I can not comprehend.” “And
what is that?” said the king. “How a Bourbon can look upon a
Guise.”
[231] Henry de Lorraine, Count de Brionne.
[232] Messieurs de la Tremouille had the highest rank at court,
as being the eldest dukes, and Messieurs d’Uzès the highest rank
in the parliament as being the eldest peers.
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.
[233] Louis Castellane de Adhémar de Monteil, received knight of
the king’s orders in 1584, lieutenant-general of the government
of Provence, was M. de Grignan’s great-grandfather.
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.
[234] The son of Madame de Grignan.
[235] Francis-Egon de la Tour, Prince of Auvergne, who quitted
the French army in 1702, in which he served in Germany, to enter
into the service of the emperor.
[236] The archbishop of Arles was commander of the royal orders
of knighthood.
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.
[237] Madame de Brinon, at that time of the first establishment
of St. Cyr, was placed at the head of that house. She had great
learning and talents, but an equal portion of pride and ambition.
The superior only of the house, she assumed the airs of an
abbess. She displayed the most offensive ostentation; she held a
court; she opposed Madame de Maintenon, whose dependent she was.
These things offended the king, as well as her benefactress. A
_lettre de cachet_ obliged her to leave St. Cyr in twenty-four
hours.
The Duchess of Hanover, who received her, and who was the
daughter of the celebrated princess palatine, was soon disgusted
with Madame de Brinon, who retired to the Abbey of Maubuisson,
and died there, regretting the world, regretting St. Cyr, and
regretting life.
LETTER C.
PARIS, Friday, December 31, 1688.
_Per torner dunque al nostro proposito_,[238] I must tell you, my
child, that all the uncertainties of the day before yesterday, which
seemed to be fixed by the assurances M. de Lamoignon gave us that the
King of England was at Calais, are now changed into the certainty
that he is detained in England; and that if this ill fortune has not
befallen him, he has perished; for he was to make his escape, and
embark a few hours after the queen. So, that though we have no certain
intelligence of his being arrested, there is not a single person who
does not now credit it. Such is our situation; and such the way in
which we are closing the present year, and entering upon that of ’89;
a year marked out by extraordinary predictions, as pregnant with great
events. Not one, however, will take place that is not agreeable to the
order of Providence, like all our actions, and all our journeyings. We
must submit to every thing, and look boldly in the face of futurity;
this is going a great way.
[238] To return then to our proposition.
In the mean while, count, I address myself to you. Yesterday the
Knights of St. Michael went through the ceremony with several of
those of the order of the Holy Ghost, at the hour I mentioned to you
after vespers, and to-morrow the rest will do the same. The chevalier
will inform you how it is managed with respect to the absentees. You
must make your profession of faith, and give an account of your life
and manners. Of this you will be duly informed; you are not the only
one; and in the mean time _hold off, fair and softly_. Yesterday, M.
de Chevreuse, of the order of St. Michael, passed before M. de la
Rochefoucault, who said to him, “Sir, you pass before me, which you
have no right to do.” M. de Chevreuse replied, “Sir, I have a right,
for I am Duke de Luynes.” “Oh, sir,” rejoined the other, “in this
respect I yield to you.” The gazette will inform you, my dear count,
that M. de Luynes has given this duchy to his son, with the king’s
permission; and M. de Chevreuse, who will henceforward be called M.
de Luynes, the duchy of Chevreuse to his son, who will be styled Duke
de Montfort. Your son’s comrades are highly distinguished by titles.
It is said that some troops are to be sent into Brittany with M. de
Momont, Major-General, to be under the command of M. de Chaulnes;
there will be encampments in all the provinces. You need only refer
to the map, to judge whether we have occasion to be on our guard on
all sides; cast your eyes for a moment over all Europe. Madame de
Barillon is very uneasy respecting her husband;[239] but it is said at
random, for no letters arrive, that he is safe, though the chapel of
the King of England has been pulled down, as well as that belonging to
the embassador’s household. Time will clear up all this. But who am I
speaking to? is it still to this count? My dear child, your good lady,
who swore she would not touch a card till the King of England had won
a battle, will not probably play again for a long time. Poor woman!
The Prince of Orange is in London--this is still the subject of my
letter, as it is of all conversation, for every one considers himself
as concerned in this great scene. The queen is still in a convent at
Boulogne, always in tears at the absence of her husband, whom she
passionately loves.
[239] M. de Barillon was the French Embassador to England.
Madame de Brinon is quite forgotten. A new comedy is said to be in
rehearsal, which is to be represented at St. Cyr, and is called Esther.
The carnival does not promise to be very gay. My son’s letters are
constantly filled with the most affectionate sentiments for you and M.
de Grignan. We expect your letters, but probably shall not answer them
till Monday. The chevalier and I have very long conversations about
you; he is tolerably well, and when your son returns from Chalons, he
intends to accompany him to Versailles. The good Corbinelli exhausts
his rhetoric upon the present situation of affairs, and at the same
time adores you. Adieu, my lovely child; I embrace you a thousand
times, and wish you a happy year in that of 1689.
LETTER CI.
PARIS, Monday, January 3, 1689.
Your dear son arrived this morning. We were delighted to see him and
M. du Plessis; we were at dinner when they came, and they ate very
heartily of our repast, which was already somewhat impaired. Oh, that
you could have heard all the marquis said of the beauty of his company!
He first asked if the company was arrived; and on the question, whether
it was a fine one, this was the answer he received: “Indeed, sir, it
is; it is one of the finest that ever was seen; _it is an old company_,
and more to be prized than the _new ones_.” You may guess the effect
such an encomium must have on a person who was not known to be the
captain. Our boy was in raptures the next day at the sight of his noble
company mounted; the men, made on purpose, as it were, and selected by
you, and the horses cast in the same mold, gave him such high spirits,
that M. de Chalons[240] and Madame de Noailles (his mother) entered
into his feelings of joy. He has been received by these pious persons
as the son of M. de Grignan; but why do I tell you all this? it is the
marquis’ business.
[240] Louis Antoine de Noailles, Bishop de Chalons sur Marne,
afterward Archbishop and Cardinal of Paris.
LETTER CII.
PARIS, Wednesday, January 5, 1689.
I took the marquis with me yesterday; we began by visiting M. de la
Trousse, who was so obliging as to put on the dresses of the novice
and professor, as on the ceremonial day; these two habits set off
a fine figure to advantage. A foolish thought, without considering
consequences, made me regret that the fine shape of M. de Grignan had
not shone upon this occasion. The page’s dress is very becoming; and
I am not at all surprised that the Princess of Clèves should fall in
love with M. de Nemours and his handsome legs.[241] The mantle has all
the magnificence of royalty; it cost La Trousse 800 pistoles, for he
purchased it. After having viewed this pretty masquerade, I took your
son to all the ladies in the neighborhood. Madame de Vaubecourt and
Madame Oilier received him with great politeness; he will soon pay
visits upon his own account.
[241] Allusion to Madame de la Fayette’s romance.
The Life of St. Louis has induced me to read Mézerai; I was willing
to take a view of the last kings of the second race, and I want to
unite Philip de Valois with King John; this is an admirable period of
history, upon which the Abbé de Choisi has written a book that may
be read with interest. We endeavor to beat into your son’s head the
necessity of being a little acquainted with what has passed before his
time; and it will have effect; but, in the mean while, there are many
reasons for paying attention to what is passing at present. You will
see by the news of to-day how the King of England escaped from London,
apparently with the consent of the Prince of Orange. Politicians
reason upon this subject, and ask if it be more advantageous for this
king to be in France; some say Yes, because he is here in security,
and will not run the risk of being compelled to give up his wife and
child, or lose his head; others say No, because he leaves the Prince
of Orange to enjoy the protectorship, and be adored, having made his
way to it naturally, and without bloodshed. It is certain that war
will soon be declared against us, or perhaps, even we may declare it
first. If we make peace in Italy and Germany, we may apply ourselves
with greater attention to the English and Dutch war; this is to be
hoped, for it would be too much to have enemies on all sides. You see
whither my rambling pen leads me; but you may easily suppose that all
conversations turn upon these great events.
LETTER CIII.
PARIS, Monday, January 10, 1689.
We often stumble upon the same ideas, my dear child; even think that I
wrote to you from the Rocks what you say in your last letter respecting
time. I now consent that it should fly; the days have no longer any
thing so dear and precious for me as I found them to contain when you
were at the Hôtel de Carnavalet. I enjoyed, I made the most of every
hour; I treasured it as a miser does his gold; but in absence, the case
is different; time can not fly fast enough till the wished-for period
arrives; we hurry it along, and would willingly dispose of all the
intermediate space in favor of the days to which we aspire; it is a
piece of tapestry which we are eager to finish; we are lavish of hours,
and bestow them on any one. But I own that when I reflect on the point
to which this profusion of hours and days leads me, I tremble. I am no
longer certain of any, and reason presents me with the image of what
I am certain to find in my way. My child, I will put an end to these
reflections with you, and endeavor to turn them to my own advantage.
The Abbé Têtu is in an alarming way for want of sleep. The physicians
would not answer for his intellects. He is sensible of his situation,
which is an additional calamity: he is kept alive merely by opium: he
seeks for diversion and amusement, and accordingly frequents public
places. We want him to go to Versailles to see the King and Queen of
England, and the Prince of Wales. Can there be a grander spectacle, or
one more capable of affording the highest interest? It appears that
the Prince of Orange favored the king’s flight. The king was sent to
Exeter, where it was his intention to go; the front of his house was
well guarded, and all the back doors left open. The prince was not
inclined to sacrifice his father-in-law. He remains in London in the
place of the king, without taking upon himself the title, being only
desirous of restoring what he thinks the true religion, and supporting
the laws of the country, without spilling a drop of blood: this is
precisely the reverse of what we thought of him; we see him in a very
different point of view. Our king, however, acts in a manner almost
divine with respect to their Brittanic Majesties; for is it not
being the representative of the Almighty to support a king banished,
betrayed, and abandoned? The noble ambition of our sovereign is
gratified by acting this part. He went to meet the queen, with all his
household, and a hundred coaches and six. When he perceived the Prince
of Wales’s carriage, he alighted and affectionately embraced him;
he then ran to the queen, who was by this time alighted; he saluted
her, talked with her some time, placed her at his right hand in his
carriage, and presented the dauphin and monsieur to her, who were also
in the carriage, and conducted her to St. Germain, where she found
every thing prepared for her like a queen--all sorts of apparel, and a
rich casket containing six thousand louis-d’ors. The King of England
was expected the next day at St. Germain, where the king waited for
him. He arrived late. His majesty went to the end of the guard-room
to meet him; the King of England made an inclination as if to embrace
his knees, but the king prevented him, and embraced him three or four
times very cordially. They talked together in a low voice for nearly a
quarter of an hour; the king presented the dauphin and monsieur to him,
the princes of the blood, and Cardinal de Bonzi. He conducted him to
the queen’s apartment, who could scarcely refrain from tears. After a
conversation of a few minutes his majesty led them to the apartment of
the Prince of Wales, where they again conversed for some time, and he
then withdrew, not choosing to be attended back, saying to the king,
“This is your house; when I come you will do the honors of it, and I
will do the honors of mine when you come to Versailles.” The next day,
which was yesterday, the dauphiness went there with all the court. I
know not how they regulated the chairs, for they had those belonging to
the Queen of Spain; and the Queen-mother of England was treated as a
daughter of France: I shall hereafter send you these particulars. His
majesty sent the King of England ten thousand louis-d’ors; the latter
looks old and fatigued; the queen is thin, with fine black eyes swelled
with weeping; a fine complexion, but rather pale; a large mouth,
beautiful teeth, a fine figure, and a great share of sense; no wonder
if with all these she pleases every one who beholds her. Here is matter
for general conversation that will not soon be exhausted.
The poor chevalier can neither write nor go to Versailles, which
grieves us sadly, as he has a thousand things to do there; but he is
not ill: on Saturday he supped with Madame de Coulanges, Madame de
Vauvineux, M. de Duras, and your son, at the lieutenant’s, where the
healths of the first and second were drank, that is to say, Madame de
la Fayette’s and yours, for you have yielded to the date of friendship.
Yesterday Madame de Coulanges gave a very pretty supper to the gouty
gentlemen, the Abbé de Marsillac, the Chevalier de Grignan, and M. de
Lamoignon, whose nephritic complaints stood him in stead of the gout;
his wife and the _divinities_ were admitted in consequence of colds
which they are never without; I in consideration of the rheumatism
I had twelve years ago, and Coulanges, for deserving to have the
gout. There was no scarcity of conversation; the little man sung, and
gave the Abbé de Marsillac great pleasure, which he expressed by his
admiration, and by imitating the tones and manners, which reminded
me so strongly of his father that I could not help being affected.
Your son was at the Mesdemoiselles de Castelnau’s. There is a younger
sister, very pretty and very agreeable, who is quite to your son’s
taste, and he leaves the squint-eyed girl to Sanzei; he took a hautboy
with him, and they danced till midnight. This society is very pleasant
to the marquis, as he meets St. Hérem, Janin, Choiseul, and Ninon
there; so that he is not in a foreign country. The chevalier does not
seem to be in haste to marry him, nor does M. de Lamoignon seem very
desirous of marrying his daughter. We can say nothing with respect
to the marriage of M. de Mirepoix,[242] this is the work of M. de
Montfort: people seem to be infatuated, or else their heads are turned,
for they do not think as they used to do; in short, this man seems
impelled by his destiny, and what can be done in such a case?
[242] Gaston John Baptist de Levis, Marquis de Mirepoix, married,
January 16, 1689, to Anne Charlotte Maria de Saint Nectaire,
daughter of Henry Francis, Duke de la Ferté, and of Mary Gabriel
Angelica de la Mothe Houdancourt.
M. de Lauzun is not gone back to England; he has an apartment at
Versailles, and is perfectly satisfied; he has written to Mademoiselle
to have the honor of seeing her, which has given her great offense. I
have performed a master-piece; I have been to visit Madame de Ricouart,
who is lately returned, very well pleased at being a widow. You have
nothing to do but appoint me to complete your acknowledgments, like
your romances, do you recollect? I thank the amiable Paulina for her
letter; I am confident her person would please me; so she could then
find no appellation for me but that of _madam_?[243] this is being very
serious. Adieu, my dear child; preserve your health, in other words,
your beauty, which I so much admire.
[243] It must have been observed that the Marquis de Grignan
followed this etiquette with his mother, which was the custom
among persons of high rank, and particularly in the southern
provinces, where the Roman laws gave fathers an absolute power
over their children, which inspired children with more respect
than love, and exacted the forms of submission, even in the
overflowings of the heart. Madame de Sévigné was averse to this
false dignity, the most gloomy mask that love can assume; and
it has been seen that she even laughed at her daughter, who, in
speaking of her grandfather, had written to her, _monsieur votre
père_. Every one knows the humorous speech of the great Condé,
before a man who affected to say Monsieur and Madame in speaking
of his relations: “Monsieur my groom, go and tell monsieur my
coachman, to put messieurs my horses to monsieur my coach.”
LETTER CIV.
PARIS, Wednesday, January 12, 1689.
You retired then at five o’clock in the afternoon; you drew king and
queen at dinner; you were in as good company as at Paris. It will
not be my fault if the archbishop (of Aix) does not know that you
are satisfied with him; I informed Madame de la Fayette of this the
other day, who was much pleased with the information; she enjoins you
both to lay aside the spirit and way of thinking of Provence. But to
come to the King and Queen of England. It is so extraordinary to have
this court here, that it is the constant subject of conversation. The
regulation of rank and precedency is to be attended to, in order to
render life agreeable to those who are so unlikely to be restored.
This the king said the other day, adding that the English king was the
best man in the world; that he should hunt with him; that he should
come to Marly and Trianon; and that the courtiers should habituate
themselves to him. The King of England does not give his hand to the
dauphin, and does not reconduct him. The queen has not kissed monsieur,
who is offended at this; she said to the king, “Tell me what you wish
me to do; if you would have me follow the French fashion, I will
salute whom you please; but it is not the custom in England to salute
any one.” She paid a visit to the dauphiness, who was ill, and who
received her in bed. No one sits in England; I believe the duchesses
will follow the French fashion, and behave to her as they did to her
mother-in-law.[244] We are greatly taken up with this new court.
[244] Henrietta of France, daughter of Henry IV., and wife of
Charles I. King of England.
In the mean time, the Prince of Orange is in London, where he has
imprisoned several lords; he is severe, and will soon make himself
hated. M. Schomberg is commander-in-chief in Holland, in the room of
this prince, and his son is to have the reversion: so the mask is now
completely thrown off.
LETTER CV.
PARIS, Friday, January 14, 1689.
I have dined, my dear child, and am now in the chevalier’s apartment;
he is in his chair, with a thousand little aches and pains that fly
about him. He has slept well; but this confinement affects his spirits,
and vexes him exceedingly; I too am grieved at it, as I know the ill
consequences better than any one. It is very cold; the thermometer
is at the lowest degree; our river is frozen; it snows, freezes, and
thaws at the same time; there is no walking in the streets; I keep to
the house, and to the chevalier’s chamber. If I could have an answer
from you before the end of a fortnight, I would desire you to tell me
whether I do not incommode him, by staying with him all day; but as
I have no time to lose, I put this question to himself, and I fancy
he is not displeased at it. The weather is an additional cause of his
illness; it is not the sort he likes; it is always unfavorable when it
is extreme.
M. de Gobelin is still at St. Cyr; Madame de Brinon is at Maubuisson,
where she will soon be tired; she can never remain long in a place;
she has made many agreements, and been in several convents; her good
sense does not screen her from this error. Madame de Maintenon is much
pleased with the comedy[245] which she has made her young ladies of
St. Cyr perform; it will be a very fine piece according to report. She
has paid a visit to the Queen of England, who, having made her wait a
moment, said she was very sorry she had lost any time in seeing and
conversing with her, and received her extremely well. Every one is
pleased with this queen; she has an excellent understanding. She said
to the king, on seeing him caress the Prince of Wales, who is a lovely
child, “I formerly envied the happiness of my son, in not feeling his
misfortunes; but I now pity him, for being insensible to your majesty’s
caresses and kindness.” All she says is proper and to the purpose;
but this is not the case with her husband: he has a great share of
courage, but his understanding is not above the common standard; he
relates what has passed in England with an insensibility that excites
the same feeling for himself. He is a good man,[246] and partakes of
all the amusements of Versailles. The dauphiness does not intend to
visit this queen; she wants her right hand seat and chair of state,
which can not be; she will therefore be always in bed, when the queen
visits her. Madame is to have an arm-chair upon the left hand, and the
princesses of the blood are to visit with her; before whom they have
tabourets only. The duchesses will be upon the same footing as at the
dauphiness’s; this is settled. The king, knowing that a king of France
gave a Prince of Wales only a chair on the left hand, chooses that
the King of England should treat the dauphin in the same manner, and
precede him. He is to receive Monsieur without chair or ceremony. The
queen has saluted him, saying to our sovereign what I told you. It is
not yet certain that M. de Schomberg is to succeed the Prince of Orange
in Holland. This is a year of falsehood.
[245] It was the Supérieure Brinon who first made the pensioners
of St. Cyr perform pieces of her selection. They were ill chosen.
Cinna, and afterward Andromache, were substituted in their room.
But there was so much love in this last tragedy, and the young
ladies played it so well, that it was not judged proper for their
representation. This was what Madame de Maintenon wrote herself
to Racine, at the same time desiring him to supply another poem,
moral or historical. Racine hesitated: he wished to please the
court, but the public and posterity withheld him. He deemed it
impossible to fill the frame that was given him, by a performance
worthy of his music. Boileau, too, despaired of it. Racine
thought of the subject of Esther; and his friend considered it
well judged, as it really was. This very Boileau, the severity
of whose taste and character made him so much aspersed, gave, in
his regard for Racine, the most perfect example of friendship--an
example perhaps, that will never again be met with between two
men gifted with the same kind of superiority.
[246] The Archbishop of Rheims, brother of M. de Louvois, seeing
him come out of the chapel of Versailles, said: “What a good man!
he has given up three kingdoms for a mass.”
LETTER CVI.
PARIS, Monday, January 17, 1689.
My letter, then, is dignified with a title; this is a proof of its
singular merit. I am glad my story amused you. I can never guess at the
effect my letters will produce, but this has been a happy one.
If you sought an opportunity of coming to an explanation with the
archbishop, instead of suffering the misunderstanding which people
endeavor to create between you to ferment, a short time would clear
up the whole, or you would silence chatterers; either of these is
desirable, and you will find good result from it; you will put an
end, it is true, to the amusements of the Provençals; but it is only
silencing ridiculous impertinence. M. de Barillon is arrived; he has
found a family group, with many of whose faces he was not acquainted.
He is grown very fat, and said to M. de Harlai, “Sir, do not remind
me of my fat, and I will say nothing to you of your lean.” He is very
lively, and much of the same disposition as his namesake whom you know.
I will pay all your compliments to him, when they will not appear
forced; I have done so with regard to Madame de Sully, who returns you
a thousand with a very good grace; and to the countess,[247] who is
too witty upon M. de Lauzun, whom she wished to raise to the pinnacle
of honor, and who has neither an apartment at Versailles, nor the free
admittance he formerly had. He is merely returned to court, and his
exploit does not appear so extraordinary, though a very pretty romance
was at first made out of it.
[247] The Countess de Fiesque, the constant friend of M. de
Lauzun, and who often performed the part of mediatrix between him
and mademoiselle.
The English court is quite established at St. Germain; they would not
accept more than 15,000 livres a month, and have regulated their court
upon that foundation. The queen is very much liked; our king converses
very pleasantly with her; she has good sense without affectation. The
king wished the dauphiness to pay her the first visit, but she was
always so conveniently indisposed, that this queen paid her a visit
three days ago, admirably dressed; a black velvet robe, a beautiful
petticoat, her hair tastefully disposed, a figure like the Princess
de Conti’s, and great dignity of manner. The king received her as she
alighted; she went first into his apartment, where she had a chair
below the king’s; here she remained half an hour; he then conducted her
to the dauphiness, who was up; this occasioned a little surprise; the
queen said to her, “I expected to have found you in bed, madam.” “I
wished to rise, madam,” replied the dauphiness, “to receive the honor
your majesty does me.” The king left them, as the dauphiness has no
chair in his presence. The queen took her place, with the dauphiness on
her right hand, madame on her left, and there were three other chairs
for the three young princes. They conversed together for upward of
half an hour; several duchesses were present, and the court was very
numerous. At length she retired; the king gave orders to be informed
of it, and handed her back to her carriage. I do not know how far the
dauphiness went with her, but I shall hear. The king, upon his return,
highly praised the queen; he said, “This is how a queen ought to be,
both in person and mind, holding her court with dignity.” He admired
her courage in misfortunes, and her affection for her husband; for
it is certain that she loves him, as that hateful woman, Madame de
R***, told you. Some of our ladies who wished to assume the airs of
princesses, did not kiss the queen’s robe, some of the duchesses wished
to avoid it also; but the king was displeased at this, and they now pay
her homage. Madame de Chaulnes has been informed of these particulars,
but has not yet performed this duty.
LETTER CVII.
PARIS, Wednesday, February 16, 1689.
The chevalier is still at Versailles, but I expect him this evening.
The marquis dined with me the other day; I conversed a good deal with
him, and I can assure you, with much satisfaction. There is an air of
truth and modesty in all he says, which does not in the least resemble
the style of these thoughtless youths who always appear fools or liars.
He related to me all the fatigues of his journey to Philipsburg, which
were very great; little D’Auvergne had the fever for four days, from
mere weariness; the marquis is strong, and bears this first trial with
great courage; he told me his other adventures, gave me an account of
all the blows that were given on each side of him, and the contusion he
received; and this, without ostentation, with a cool composed air of
veracity, which is highly pleasing. I love to converse with him, and
lose no opportunity of doing it; he supped yesterday with M. Turgot,
and some young folks, at the rich little La Martillière’s; he returned
at midnight. He is gone to the horse-market, being wholly taken up with
his company; he will write to you to-night: he loves you, and knows
your extreme affection; you do nothing for him to which he is not as
sensible as you can possibly wish: it is not even necessary to rouse
him upon this subject.
I dined yesterday with Mademoiselle de Boileau; it was a company
of wits; the Abbé de Polignac, the Abbé de Rohan, his doctor, Abbé
David, and Corbinelli. After dinner they discussed, very pleasantly,
the philosophy of your Father Descartes; it was with great difficulty
they could comprehend the motion God gives to a ball that is pushed by
another; they would have it that the first communicated its motion,
and you know how the Abbé Polignac and Corbinelli exclaimed upon the
occasion: this diverted me, and brought my dear little Cartesian to my
remembrance, whom even I could understand so readily. From thence I
went to Madame de la Fayette’s where, by good fortune, I found only M.
de Pomponne and M. de Barillon: we spent two hours very agreeably, and
the more so as we are seldom so fortunate. They say that the English
parliament has made the Prince of Orange king, because the former king
has deserted his kingdom, _and broken the treaty between sovereign and
subjects_; that his flight is an _abdication_; that they are determined
to render the throne elective; and that the parliament would not
allow the Princess of Orange to be queen: these were the reports of
yesterday, The chevalier will bring us news from Versailles. Some say
with regard to the King of England’s apathy, that by hearing him talk,
it is easy to guess why he is here.
LETTER CVIII.
PARIS, Monday, February 21, 1689.
It is certain that we are separated from each other by a grievous
distance: this is enough to make us shudder; but what would it have
been if I had added to it the road from hence to the Rocks or Rennes?
This, however, will not take place so soon. Madame de Chaulnes wishes
to see the termination of several affairs, and I am only afraid that
she will set out too late, considering my intention of returning next
winter, which I must do for several reasons; the first of which is that
I am convinced M. de Grignan will be obliged to return on account of
his knighthood, and you can not take a better opportunity to escape
from your falling, uninhabitable castle, and come and pay your court
a little with the knight of the order, who will not be a knight till
that time. I paid mine the other day at St. Cyr much more agreeably
than I expected. We, that is, Madame de Coulanges, Madame de Bagnols,
the Abbé Têtu, and I, went on Saturday. We found our places kept; an
officer told Madame de Coulanges that Madame de Maintenon had ordered
a place for her next herself; you see what honor is paid her. “You,
madam,” said he, “may choose.” I placed myself with Madame de Bagnols
in the second row behind the duchesses. Marshal de Bellefond came,
and placed himself by choice at my right hand, and before us were
the Duchesses d’Auvergne, De Coislin, and De Sully. The marshal and
I listened to the tragedy with an attention that was remarked, and
bestowed some praises in a low voice that were very well placed. I can
not tell you the extreme beauty of this piece: it is a performance not
easy to represent, and is inimitable: it is the union of music, poetry,
singing, and character, so perfect and complete that there is nothing
we wish to alter. The young ladies who represent kings and great
personages seem to be made on purpose. It commands attention, and the
only unpleasant circumstance attending it is, that so fine a production
should at last end. Every thing in it is simple and innocent, sublime
and affecting: the sacred history is so faithfully adhered to as to
create respect; all the airs corresponding with the words, which are
taken from the Psalms or Ecclesiastes, and interwoven with the subject,
are singularly beautiful; the taste and attention of the audience are
the criterions of the merit of the piece. I was delighted with it, and
so was the marshal, who left his place to inform the king how much he
was gratified, that he was seated next to a lady who was very worthy of
seeing Esther. The king approached our seat, and having turned round,
addressed himself to me: “I am told, madam,” said he, “that the piece
has given you satisfaction.” I replied, with perfect self-possession,
“Sire, I am delighted; what I feel is beyond the power of words to
describe.” The king continued, “Racine has great talents.” I replied,
“Sire, he has indeed; and so have these young people: they enter into
the subject as if it had been their sole employment.” “Ah! that is
very true,” he rejoined. And then he retired, leaving me the object of
universal envy. As I was almost the only new spectator, the king took
pleasure in observing my genuine admiration, which was without noise
or parade.[248] The prince and princess came and spoke a word to me;
Madame de Maintenon flashed upon me like lightning, and then retired to
the king. I answered every one, being in one of my happiest moods. We
returned at night with flambeaux. I supped at Madame de Coulanges’, to
whom the king had also spoken with an air of affability that made him
appear fascinating. I saw the chevalier at night. I related to him very
naturally my little good fortune, being unwilling to conceal it without
a reason, as some people do. He was pleased, and here I conclude upon
this head. I am sure he did not afterward find in me any ridiculous
vanity, or the transports of a vulgar country bumpkin. Ask him. M. de
Meaux talked to me a good deal about you, and so did the prince. I
pitied you for not being present; but how was it possible? one can not
be every where. You were at the opera at Marseilles. As Atys is not
only too happy, but too charming, it is impossible you could have been
tired with it. Paulina must have been surprised at such a spectacle;
she has no right to wish for a more perfect one. I have so pleasing an
idea of Marseilles, that I am persuaded you are amused there; and I
will back the dissipations of that place against those of Aix.
[248] By mentioning the circumstance to which she believed she
was indebted for this little favor of the king, she proves
sufficiently that she was not so much elated with it as has been
pretended.
But on that very Saturday, after the representation of Esther, the king
was informed of the death of the young Queen of Spain,[249] who was
carried off in two days by a violent vomiting: this has very much the
air of foul play. The king informed monsieur of it next day, which was
yesterday; great was the grief upon the occasion; madame wept bitterly,
and the king retired in a flood of tears.
[249] Maria-Louisa of Orléans, daughter of monsieur, and of
Henrietta-Anne of England, his first wife.
Madame de la Fayette says in her Memoirs, that the Queen of Spain
was poisoned by a cup of chocolate. Dangeau affirms that it was
by an eel pie. Madame, in her _Lettres Originales_, maintains
that the poison was communicated by raw oysters.
Voltaire has denied this poisoning, as well as several others.
It was a system of the historian. But he only confutes Dangeau’s
account, who had said that three of the queen’s women had died in
consequence of eating of the same dish. Against this detail he
brings forward respectable authority.
Madame de la Fayette, who, in the life of Madame (Henrietta of
England), had not dared to confirm the opinion of her having died
by poison, joined with Voltaire in that of the Queen of Spain,
daughter of this princess.
The evidence of Madame (De Bavière) would be stronger if she were
not so partial, and did not show herself so ready to give credit
to every crime. What she adds, that it was two of the queen’s
French waiting women who poisoned her, is very improbable.
She says, however, that it was the Earl of Mansfield who procured
the poison, a circumstance which agrees with the common report of
that period.
In fact, all the letters and memoirs of cotemporary writers agree
in saying that the Council of Spain, devoted to the emperor and
the Prince of Orange, and resolved to enter into the league
against France, wished to remove a queen who was too good a
Frenchwoman, and who, governing her husband, was too great an
obstacle to the projects of war that had been formed.
It is true that such a report, at the moment of the breaking out
of hostilities, can not pass for an historical proof; but it must
be owned that it very nearly resembles truth.
It is said there is good news from England; not only the Prince of
Orange is not elected king or protector, but he is given to understand
that he and his troops have nothing to do but return: this shortens
our solicitude. If this news should gain ground, our Brittany will
be in less agitation, and my son will not have the mortification of
commanding the nobility of the viscounty of Rennes, and the barony of
Vitré. They have chosen him, against his will, to be at their head. Any
one else would be greatly elated with this honor, but he is vexed at
it, not liking, under any title whatever, to take the field in that way.
LETTER CIX.
PARIS, Ash-Wednesday, February 23, 1689.
My dear child, the life you lead at Marseilles delights me. I love that
city, which resembles no other in the world. Ah! how well I understand
Paulina’s admiration! How natural, how just, how novel all her surprise
must be! How pretty I think her! how pleasing to me is the mind which
my fancy gives her! It seems to me that I love her, and that you do not
love her enough. You want her to be all perfection. Did she engage for
this when she left her convent? You are not just. Who is there without
faults? Do you, in conscience, expect her to be free from them? Whence
can this hope arise? It is not in nature. You wish her then to be a
_prodigious_ prodigy, such as was never before seen. If I were with
you, I think I should do her some good offices, merely by correcting
your imagination a little, and by asking you, if a young girl, who
thinks of nothing but pleasing you and improving herself, who loves and
fears you, and who has a great share of understanding, is not in the
first rank of excellence? These are the dictates of my heart in favor
of my dear Paulina, whom I love, and whom I entreat you immediately
to embrace for my sake. Add to this her good conscience, which makes
her renounce the compact, when she sees the jugglers perform their
necromancies. This life, though agreeable, must have fatigued you; it
is too much for you, my dear child; you go to bed late, and you rise
early, I have had apprehensions for your health. The reason I do not
talk to you of mine is, that it is as I wish yours to be, and that I
have nothing to say upon the subject.
LETTER CX.
PARIS, Monday, February 28, 1689.
The chevalier went yesterday to Versailles to know his fate; for, not
finding himself in the lists that have appeared, he is anxious to know
whether he is reserved for the dauphin’s army, which has not yet been
mentioned. As he has said that he was capable of serving, he has a
right to think that he has not been forgotten; at all events it will
not be his fault; he is one of the best. It is certain that the King
of England set out this morning for Ireland, where he is expected
with impatience; he will be better there than here. He will traverse
Brittany with the swiftness of lightning; and go straight to Brest,
where he will find Marshal d’Estrées, and ships and frigates ready;
he takes with him 50,000 crowns. The king has given him sufficient
arms for 10,000 men. As his Britannic majesty took leave, he said with
a smile, “That arms for himself were the only things that had been
forgotten;” our king gave him his; the heroes of romance never did
any thing more gallant than this action. What will not this brave but
unhappy king do, with arms that have ever been victorious? Behold him
then with the casque and cuirass of Rinoldo and Amadis, and all our
most celebrated knights-errant; I will not say of Hector, for he was
unfortunate. There is not an offer that can be suggested, that our king
has not made him; generosity and magnanimity have been carried to their
height. M. d’Avaux[250] is to go with him; he set out two days ago.
You will ask why M. de Barillon[251] was not the person. The reason
is, that M. d’Avaux, being perfectly acquainted with the affairs of
Holland, will be more useful, than he who is acquainted only with those
of England.[252] The queen has shut herself up at Poissi with her son;
she will be near the king, and the fountain-head of intelligence. She
is overwhelmed with grief, and suffers from a nephritic complaint, that
makes it feared she has the stone; she is really to be pitied. You
see, my dear child, it is the rage of talking that makes me write all
this; the chevalier and the gazette will give you better information
than I can do. Your son has lived with me; I never leave him, and he
is satisfied. He is going to take leave of the little Mesdemoiselles
Castelnau; but his heart has yet no attractions. His duty and his
regiment take up all his time. He is delighted at the thoughts of
going, and of setting the example to others.
[250] John-Anthony de Mesmes, Count d’Avaux, nephew of Claudius
de Mesmes, also Count d’Avaux, both celebrated for their superior
talents in negotiation, and for uncommon qualities of heart and
mind.
[251] M. de Barillon had been embassador to England.
[252] The reason assigned here for the preference that was given
to M. d’Avaux, is not the true one: d’Avaux had the merit of
having foreseen and announced every event that happened, whereas
De Barillon had the misfortune to be wrong in every thing; this
was the real cause of the preference.
LETTER CXI.
PARIS, Wednesday, March 2, 1689.
Shrove-Tuesday is not an indifferent day to Paulina. I can not help
scolding you, my dear child, for not having sent her prettily to the
good Langlée’s, to dance a little with Mademoiselle d’Oraison; what
harm would there have been in allowing her this little pastime? I am
sure this dear child is interesting, that she has a good air, a good
carriage, and even eclipses more regular beauties. I scold you also for
reading all your letters before you go to bed. I know it is scarcely
possible to keep them till the next day; but you must calculate upon
not sleeping, for there will often be many things in them that will
create disagreeable thoughts; nor would it be a whit better if they
contained nothing but reflections and news. Before the imagination
has sifted the contents, the night is gone. As you know all this to
be true, settle the matter for the benefit of your health. I took my
marquis yesterday to Madame du Pui-du-fou’s; she grows very old. M. de
Mirepoix, who had been there once before to see me, came a second time,
and each time his whole conversation turned upon his condescension in
marrying to please his family. The little puppet is dying of the spleen
in this dreary abode. I afterward went to Madame de Lavardin’s, to
whom I remembered you. She embraced your son several times. She loves
you dearly, and so does Madame de Mouci; but this last is in the third
heaven; she has lost a sister, who was a nun, for whom she had very
little regard: I shall make your compliments to her and her learned
brother.[253] The chevalier arrived last night, and is very well;
he will be employed, but he knows not yet in what country; I admire
his courage. Your son is a very agreeable and a very pretty fellow;
he already manages all his affairs, gives orders, makes purchases,
and keeps his accounts; it is a pity his father had not done the
same. The chevalier will inform you what our king said to the King of
England at his taking leave: “Sir, it is with grief I see you depart,
yet I never wish to see you again; but if you return, be assured you
will find me the same as you leave me.” Could any thing better have
been said? He has loaded him with every thing, great and small; two
millions of money, ships, frigates, troops, officers, and M. d’Avaux,
who makes, upon the occasion, one of the most brilliant figures in
the world. I will venture to say that there is no one who would not
be proud of the employment, who would not think it worthy of a man
thoroughly acquainted with business, and capable of giving advice: if
M. de Barillon is not sensible of this he is very happy. I now come to
the minutiæ, such as toilets, camp-beds, services of plate, plain and
gilt, arms for his person, which are the king’s; arms for the troops in
Ireland, and those who go with him, who are very numerous; in short,
generosity, magnificence, and magnanimity were never so strikingly
displayed as upon this occasion. The king is not willing that the queen
should go to Poissi; she will see very little company, but the king
will take care of her, and she will receive news without intermission.
The parting of the King and Queen of England rent the hearts of all the
spectators; nothing but tears, sighs, lamentations, and swoonings were
to be seen or heard, which is very easy to be comprehended. Such is his
destiny. He has a good cause; he is the protector of the true religion,
and his courage will allow him no other alternative than conquest or
death.
[253] Achilles de Harlay, then attorney-general, and afterward
first president in the parliament of Paris, in November, 1689.
LETTER CXII.
PARIS, Wednesday, March 23, 1689.
I shall not retract the praises I have bestowed on the tragedy of
Esther; I shall be delighted with the harmony and novelty of this
spectacle as long as I live; I was in raptures with it; I found in
it a thousand things so just, so well introduced, and so important
to a king, that I entered with uncommon spirit into the pleasure
arising from the utterance, in fiction and song, of the most solid
truths; I was affected with these various beauties, and am very far
from changing my opinion. But I told you that the impression of this
piece has produced its usual effect, and has brought forth a _civil
demur_ against excessive applause. I, who have read it again with
pleasure, suppose that the critics are routed, as M. d’Aiguebonne will
be with his _demur_, if the chevalier has time to press the point. The
victory of the grand council has been brilliant and gratifying, and I
doubt not that it will give you ample satisfaction; I am impatient to
receive your letter upon this subject. M. de Lamoignon told me again
to-day, that this advantage, gained sword in hand, was greater than we
supposed. I told him he was mistaken, as we had felt the pleasure in
its fullest extent. He is very much engaged in the great cause between
mademoiselle, the prince, and the whole house of Lorraine, who have
recourse to law in the same way we have. M. de Lamoignon is to plead on
Thursday, and the affair will be determined upon hearing.
The King of England set sail on the 17th, and arrived in Ireland on the
19th. Little Mailly, who accompanied him to Brest, is returned. Adieu,
my beloved child; I dread an increase of distance from you; it makes
me ill. I swallow this journey like a dose of medicine; but the worst
is, that I have no time to lose; in truth, my reflections are often of
the most melancholy cast; for, though I submit to that Providence which
separates us, what would become of me if I had not the hope of seeing
you again?
LETTER CXIII.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, June 1, 1689.
Paulina is too fortunate in being your secretary; she learns, as I told
you, to think, and express her thoughts, by seeing how you express
yours. She is learning the French language, which most women are
ignorant of, but you take the trouble of explaining words to her, which
she would not understand; and by instructing her in so many subjects,
you relieve your own head and mine. The tediousness of dictating is not
equal to the fatigue of writing; and my mind is never at rest, but when
I know yours is so. Persevere, then, in instructing your daughter so
properly, and in affording so great a relief to yourself and to me.
When you are assured of my being in perfect health, you do every
thing that can be done, which is to dread its interruption. This too
sometimes engages my thoughts, and not finding any of those little
inconveniences with which you are acquainted, I say with astonishment,
I must, however, expect that this happy state will change; and I
conclude, that I ought, as upon all other occasions, to submit to the
will of God, and believe, that in inflicting ills upon me, he will give
me patience. I will therefore enjoy my present lot.
LETTER CXIV.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, July 3, 1689.
It is nine months this third of July, reckoning from day to day, and
from Sunday to Sunday, since I left you with a deluge of tears, and
more than you perceived, at Charenton. Such partings are grievous and
bitter, particularly when we have not much time to lose. But to turn
them to our advantage, we ought to make them a period of abstinence
and penance, which would be the sure means of making them salutary;
it is certain that this holy economy is a favor from heaven, like all
others, which we do not deserve to obtain. Nine months, then, have
passed, in which I have neither seen nor embraced you, nor even heard
the sound of your voice. I have not been ill, I have had no particular
uneasiness; I have seen fine houses, fine countries, and fine cities.
Nevertheless, I must acknowledge that it appears to me nine years
since I left you. I have had no letter from you this post; the delay
is always a disappointment to me. Madame de Lavardin tells me that
she said to Madame de Buri, with regard to Chabrilland’s cause, which
the last expects to gain, “You have always great expectations; but
one of your friends, who understands these things, is not of the same
opinion.” “Ah!” said she, “you mean M. de Fieubet, but I do not believe
him.” And Madame de Lavardin afterward told me that M. d’Arles is to
have the honor of the civil petition. It is he, then, who is to be
the solicitor; but I would not, I think, solicit with beat of drum in
open court, where people are convinced you have already but too much
credit. We lead here, my dear countess, the life I described to you.
It is very fine weather; we are so perfumed at night with jasmines and
orange-flowers, that in this respect I think I am in Provence. M. and
Madame de Chaulnes have written to me from St. Malo, and constantly
mention you. Write to La Troche; she can not be consoled for your
forgetfulness of her. I know not how it has happened, for you are
punctual. It is not possible that I have not informed you of the death
of her husband. I expect your answer.
LETTER CXV.
THE ROCKS, Wednesday, October 5, 1689.
It had never entered my brain to accuse certain iron wires in the
head-dress of being the cause of long faces; this hint would be very
useful to certain persons of our acquaintance. I had heard they were
very friendly; but no, quite the contrary. These two little wires
press against the temples, prevent the circulation of blood, and cause
abscesses. Some die in consequence. They may consider themselves
fortunate whose faces are only lengthened an ell, and who become as
pale as death; but young people, who are more hardy, may recover in
time. I am very much inclined to place this story in the class with
some others, formerly related to me by the good Princess de Tarente;
however, it is not amiss to know every thing.
I do not in the least doubt that M. de la Garde, who never refused
a remedy, will avail himself of that of the lady you mention. You
will see him with his head upon the ground, and his heels in the air,
_turning an affair_[254] like her; I really believe that if we were to
pursue this regimen for any length of time, we should no longer have
sore eyes. I have nothing to give you in return for your account of
this visit.
We have had a very worthy, sensible, agreeable, unaffected, learned,
and every way desirable, visitor with us; a man of great endowments,
and capable of entering upon every subject of conversation; he has been
here for a week. One of his brothers-in-law is arrived, the Abbé de
Marbeuf, who spoils nothing; and a brother-in-law of the Count de Lis,
who would spoil every thing if he opened his lips; this is a secret
misanthropist, for he keeps his chagrin to himself; he is very well
made, and sings so much like Beaumaviel, that he might be mistaken for
him. When our worthy friend departed, every thing was comparatively
flat and insipid; we renewed the just observations we made in this
country with you, on pleasant and disagreeable company; and fixed that
the disagreeable was the most desirable; their absence is a relief;
whereas pleasant society leaves us dull and dejected; we can not easily
pursue the old track; in short, it is a great misfortune to associate
with sensible people, but it is a misfortune that does not often happen
to us.
[254] It has already been observed that this was a favorite
expression of M. de la Garde.
LETTER CXVI.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, November 13, 1689.
Your letter is not yet arrived; this is always a grief to me; though
I have in some degree got the better of the apprehensions I formerly
suffered from the delay; it is the whim of the post, and we must endure
it; but as I am constantly with you at Grignan, I lose the thread of
the conversation; this it is that vexes me. I know not whether you
go to the assembly with M. de Grignan, or remain at your château. I
am very uneasy about the chevalier’s health, and the effects of the
bark, repeated in its usual dose; its heat operating upon that of the
chevalier’s blood, brings to my mind an old saying, _When the brave
meets the brave, they remain brave_. We hope, therefore, that this
brave bark will make the blood remain brave; God grant it may; it is
very difficult to subdue.
I have received a long letter from my new friend, the _man-wolf_
Guébriac; I would have sent it to you, as his style, which is
very easy, would be agreeable enough, if he did not praise me so
extravagantly; in fact, my modesty will not suffer it; he is so
astonished to find a woman with a few good qualities and good
principles, who in her youth had some charms, that he seems to have
passed his life in a whirlwind of passions, among a banditti equally
devoid of faith and law, where love reigned alone, despoiled of every
kind of virtue; this has given rise to some very pleasant things.
We are reading the History of the Church by M. de Godeau;[255] it is
really a very fine work; in what a respectable light does it place
religion! we are ready to suffer martyrdom with Abbadie. Every thing
has its turn; Corisca is very pretty and very roguish; _altri tempi,
altre cure_. Love me always, my dear child, but never weigh other love
in the same scale with yours; your heart is of the first order, and no
one resembles it.
[255] Antony Godeau, Bishop of Grasse and Vence.
LETTER CXVII.
_The Rocks_, Wednesday, January 11, 1690.
Good heavens! what a new year’s gift! what wishes! what could be
more calculated to charm me? I will tell you a feeling I have just
discovered in myself; if it could repay yours I should be satisfied,
for I have no other coin: instead of the kind fears which the frequent
deaths that surround you occasion, and which make you think of others,
I offer you the real consolation, and even the joy, which frequently
arise to me from my being older than you. The thought that the oldest
goes first, and that I shall probably and naturally keep my rank with
my dear child, constitutes the true charms of this feeling. What have
I not suffered, when your ill state of health made me dread a reverse
of the order of nature? These were trying times; let us talk no more
of them; you are well, God be praised; and every thing has resumed
its natural course. _God preserve you_; I believe you hear my tone of
voice, and know me.
I now come to the chevalier; I have no hesitation in believing that
the climate of Provence would agree with him better in winter than
that of Paris. All those who, like swallows, fly to your sunshine,
afford sufficient testimony of this. But, while I rejoice at his being
sensible of the difference, I am grieved at his having lost a thousand
crowns of his income; and by what means? was his regiment worth so
much to him? He will sell it then to the marquis;[256] but will not
the money arising from it, in payment of debts, diminish the interest
of loans? Settle this account for me, which makes me uneasy; I can not
figure to myself the Chevalier de Grignan at Paris without his genteel
and neat little equipage; I can not see him walking on foot, nor
inquiring for places to Versailles; such an idea can not enter my head;
this article is interlocutory; ah, how happily this term of chicanery
finds admittance here! Neither do I comprehend your sixty-four people,
besides guards; you deceive me, this can not be your meaning, you must
give me a mathematical demonstration.
[256] The Chevalier de Grignan, attaining the rank of field
marshal in 1688, had leave to keep his regiment, that he might
afterward resign in favor of the Marquis de Grignan his nephew.
With regard to Paulina, you can not surely hesitate respecting the
choice you have to take, between good and evil. The superiority of your
understanding will easily point out to you the true road; every thing
leads you to your duty; honor conscience, and the power you possess.
When I consider how much she has corrected herself in a short time to
please you, and how much she is improved, you will be answerable for
all the good she neglects. As to reading, you are too much engaged in
conversation and discussion to attend to it: we are most quiet here,
and therefore, have leisure for it. I even read works I had slightly
run over at Paris, and which appear quite new to me. We also read, by
way of interlude to our grand lectures, scraps that we meet with, such
as the fine funeral orations of M. de Bossuet,[257] M. Flechier,[258]
M. Mascaron,[259] Father Bourdaloüe: we pay a fresh tribute of tears
to M. de Turenne, Madame de Montausier, the Prince, the late Madame,
and the Queen of England; we admire the portrait of Cromwell: these are
master-pieces of eloquence, which charm the mind. You must not say,
“These are old;” they are not old, they are divine. Paulina should be
made acquainted and delighted with them; but this is calculated solely
for the Rocks. I know not what book to recommend to Paulina: Davila is
fine in Italian, we have read it; Guicciardini is very long; I should
like the anecdotes of Medicis, which are an abridgment, but they are
not in Italian. I will not name Bentivoglio again;[260] let her confine
herself to poetry, I do not like Italian prose; to Tasso, _Aminto_, _Il
Pastor Fido_, etc. I dare not add Ariosto, there are some bad passages
in it; let her also read history; let her cherish this taste, which may
long preserve her from idleness; it is to be feared that if this part
of reading were suppressed there would be scarcely any thing to read;
let her begin with the life of Theodosius the Great, and let her tell
me how she likes it. This, my child, is a letter of trifles; we set
apart some days for chatting, without offense to serious matters, in
which we always take true interest.
[257] The Bishop of Meaux.
[258] The Bishop of Nîmes.
[259] The Bishop of Agen.
[260] Gui Bentivoglio, cardinal, and author of the Civil Wars in
Flanders, and several other works.
LETTER CXVIII.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, January 15, 1690.
You are right, I can not reconcile myself to the date of this year;
it has, however, been already begun for some time; and you will find,
that, let us pass it as we may, we shall soon find the bottom of the
bag that contained the thousand livres.[261]
[261] Madame de Sévigné compared the twelve months of the year to
a bag with a thousand livres, which is exhausted almost as soon
as it is opened.
You really spoil me, and so do my Paris friends; the sun has scarcely
gained upon us a barley-corn before you tell me when you shall expect
me at Grignan; and my friends desire me to fix from that hour the
time of my departure, in order to hasten their joy. Such pressing
civilities flatter me highly, and particularly yours, which admit of no
comparison. I will, then, sincerely confide to my dear countess, that
between this and September, I can not entertain a thought of leaving
this country; this is the time when I send my little means to Paris,
of which only a very small part is gone. This is the time when the
Abbé Charier is treating for my fines and sales, which amount to ten
thousand livres; but more of this hereafter; let us content ourselves
with driving away every hope of taking the least step before the time
I have mentioned. I will not, however, say that you are my goal, my
perspective; you know it well, and that you are so firmly rooted in my
heart that I fear M. Nicole would find much difficulty to prune you
away; this, in short, is my disposition. You use the most affectionate
expression possible to me, in hoping you may never see the end of the
happy years you wish me. We are very far from agreeing in our wishes;
for I have informed you of a very just and very proper truth, which
God will doubtless grant, and which is to follow the natural order of
providence; this is my comfort through the thorny road of old age: mine
is a rational feeling, and yours too extraordinary and too kind a one.
As to Paulina, that devourer of books, I had rather she should swallow
bad ones, than have no love for reading; romances, plays, Voiture,
Sarrasin, have all been exhausted; has she dipped into Lucian? is
she capable of enjoying _Les Petites Lettres_? History should come
next, and if she does not find her account in this, I pity her. If
she does not like the finest works of devotion, so much the worse for
her, for we know but too well that even without devotion ourselves,
they are charming. With respect to ethics, as she would not make so
good a use of it as you, I would not have her meddle either with
Montaigne, Charron, or any others of his stamp; she is too young. The
true morality of this age, is what we learn in conversation, fables,
history, and example. If you were to bestow a little of your time upon
her in conversation, she would reap greater benefit from this than from
all the rest. I know not whether what I say is worth your reading, I am
very far from being wedded to my opinion.
LETTER CXIX.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, January 22, 1690.
Good heavens, what a situation you are in! how pressing a one! and
how much and sensibly I am grieved at it! But, my child, how weak and
futile are wishes upon such occasions! and how needless it is to tell
you that if I had now, as I have had, some portable sum which depended
on me, it should soon be yours! I am overwhelmed with a host of little
creditors who dun and threaten me, and I do not know whether I shall be
able to satisfy them, as I had hoped to do; for I am quite suffocated
by the obligation I am under of paying immediately 5000 livres by way
of fine, and the price of the estate of Madame d’Acigné, which I have
purchased, to avoid paying 10,000 if I had waited two years longer.
Such, then, is my situation; but this is only to acquaint you with the
utter impossibility of my assisting you. Your brother appears to me
to feel for you, and I am persuaded he would perform his duty better
than your rich prelates, if the times were as they have been, that
is, if it were possible to borrow. He will talk to you himself, and
tell you his opinion of your affairs. I have also set forth to him the
embarrassments of your little colonel; he mentioned the subject to me
the first, some time ago, pitying and regretting, like us, that the
chevalier had not the management of him for the first year or two;
nothing could have been of so much service to him as such a master;
in short, my dearest child, no one but God can confine so great a
number of disagreeable things within the bounds of resignation, in
which you appear to me. To return to my son; he had some anxiety on
seeing a stripling of seventeen or eighteen at the head of such a
troop. He remembers enough of past times to know how difficult it is
at that age to command old officers; and this difficulty would have
been removed, if he could have had his uncle to establish him; this is
a very disagreeable and delicate time for him. Can not you assist him
with some prudent counselor, to advise him a little? For, in short,
he is alone, and can not at his age know a profession that requires
more experience than any other. I have conjured you to send for the
marquis to Grignan; what will he do during the carnival at Paris and
Versailles? do you think he will acquit himself well of the duty and
compliments he has to go through? I perhaps do him wrong; but he is
very young, and little accustomed to this business; in short, I think
he has more to perform than he is equal to. I resign the pen to my son;
I will resume it again presently.
LETTER CXX.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, February 26, 1690.
I could not have believed that I should have wept so much for La Chau;
but it is impossible to read your account of his poor wife’s unfeigned
and violent affliction without being affected to tears. This is,
indeed, a peculiar misfortune, and a fate which nothing could prevent.
The man is in haste, he wants to get to his journey’s end; he is
advised, for very weighty reasons, not to expose himself, or, at least,
not to go into the little boat; but he will listen to no one, he must
go, he must be punctual to his appointment; Death is waiting for him at
a particular spot upon the Rhône; he must meet him there, and perish.
Good heavens, my dear child, how all this is arranged! Every one sees
his own fate in this accident, and his wife’s grief becomes ours; as
we are exposed to similar perils, it is our own interest that makes
us weep, when we suppose we are lamenting the misfortunes of others.
Christianity dictates to us that we should think first of this poor
man’s salvation; but his wife afterward claims our pity for the loss
of 4000 livres; if the dead body should not float, or the violence of
the Rhône should throw it beyond Arles upon some unfrequented shore,
Providence will dispose of this gold, sewed up in his wet coat, as of
the rest.
I highly approve the resolution of not sending for the marquis,
this is the surest way; the journey would be both expensive and
fatiguing, and productive of no good but the mere gratification of
your affection; bear this like many other things, and rather wait till
he is a brigadier or major-general, than make him lose his time now.
Beaulieu informs me, that he is quite overwhelmed with business, and
that he attends to nothing else. Is it possible, that he should have
visited Madame de la Fayette before Madame de Vins? I blame him; I am
as jealous upon this occasion as you are, for I frequently put myself
in your place; every reason should have induced him to have flown to
Madame de Vins; she wrote to me the other day that she longed to see
him, and to observe the difference and transition from infancy to
youth. He has waited upon Madame de Lavardin, and will have time to pay
her another visit.
M. de Grignan has resolved upon a very precipitate journey; it is
difficult to avoid such courses, when we command singly in a province,
whether for the service of the king, or the honor of the post. You
never examine thoroughly into this business, except for M. de Grignan;
this is natural enough; but the example should extend further. _No
enemies_, my dear child; let this be your maxim, it is equally
Christian and politic: I not only say _no enemies_, but also _many
friends_; you have felt the good effects of these in your law-suit;
you have a son; you may stand in need of those who you may now think
can never be of service to you. We are deceived; see how Madame de la
Fayette abounds with friends on every side, and of all ranks. She has a
hundred arms, and they all serve her; her children feel it, and thank
her daily for her courteous disposition; an obligation which she owes
to M. de la Rochefoucault, and of which her family reaps the benefit. I
am certain that you have been of this opinion for many years.
You explain Madame Reinié’s conduct very well; it is droll to think of
her leaving Paris, her husband, all her business, to fly for three or
four months _all over_ Provence asking for money, without getting any,
fatiguing herself, returning after being at great expense, and getting
the rheumatism into the bargain! for recollect that she has pains _all
over_ her; and such as at length have defeated you.
I am delighted at Paulina’s partiality to M. Nicole; it is a proof
that she reads him with attention; this taste gives me the highest
opinion of her understanding; I also like her anger that the bishops
do not fight for promotion. But, my dear, on your honor do you believe
it right to give us only the first volume of the romance of the
_Princess_, the _Infanta_, or the _First Minister_, so charming as
we thought it?[262] I will not allow you to stop here; I insist upon
knowing what is become of the princess’s good and just resolution? I
am afraid it has vanished, by the necessity of the times, the want of
a _minister_, the sudden journey, the impossibility of collecting _the
leaves of the Sibyl_, idly and incautiously scattered to the winds for
ten years. In short, I fear your good intentions will come to nothing,
as I have so often found during the last twenty years: this story,
however, requires a continuation, but it should not be too serious
with regard to your affairs. I wish also to be informed of the success
of M. Prat’s journey to the enraged lover of the Princess _Truelle_.
I should like to know who were the confidants of the _first minister_
and _the favorite_; and who received the couriers. Tell me if you are
still satisfied with _Flame_;[263] he is a very considerable personage
in your household. I want to know some particulars respecting the
count’s journey, and if the treasurer will do as he wishes: here are
a number of questions, my dearest child, for which I apologize. It is
kind of you to love my letters; when you receive three at a time you
say you are rich; but what fatigues do they not occasion you! They are
so very long that you should not answer them minutely. Adieu, my love;
how does Lent agree with you? for my part I like it extremely. I took a
mess of milk-coffee this morning: I am not yet surfeited with it, nor
with sermons, for we read none but those of M. le Tourneux and St. John
Chrysostom. It is delightful weather, the winter is past, and we have a
prospect of spring that is superior to spring itself.
[262] This was an account, in the form of a romance, of what
passed in M. de Grignan’s family.
[263] M. de Grignan’s house-steward.
N.B. This letter is the last from the mother to the daughter.
LETTERS TO M. DE POMPONNE.
The following Letters, relating to the trial of M. Fouquet, were
addressed to the Marquis de Pomponne, who was afterward Minister of
Foreign Affairs.
The trial of Fouquet was not the least curious and least interesting
event of the reign of Louis XIV. The plan of ruining him was laid with
such odious art, and the conduct of his enemies, many of whom were
his judges, was so inveterate, that it would have been impossible not
to have been interested for him, even had he been more criminal than
he really was. Accused and tried for financial peculations, he was
sentenced to banishment for a crime against the state. His crime was
a vague plan of resistance and flight into a foreign country, which
he had thrown upon paper five years before, when the factions of the
Fronde divided France, and when he thought he had reason to complain
of the ingratitude of Cardinal Mazarin. This plan, which he had wholly
forgotten, was found among the papers that were seized at his house.
It is well known that Louis XIV. was led to believe that Fouquet was a
dangerous man. A guard of fifty musketeers were appointed to conduct
him to the citadel of Pignerol, the king having changed the sentence of
banishment into perpetual imprisonment. It was still apprehended that
he had formidable friends. Among these were Pelisson and Lafontaine;
one defended him eloquently, and the other bewailed his misfortunes in
a very beautiful and pathetic elegy, in which he went so far as to ask
the king to pardon him.
LETTER I.
To-day, Monday, November the 17th, 1664, M. Fouquet was brought a
second time before the chancellor. He seated himself without ceremony
upon the sellette,[264] as he had done the first time. The chancellor
began by bidding him hold up his hand. He replied, that he had already
assigned the reasons which prevented him from taking the oath. The
chancellor then made a long speech to prove the legal authority of the
court, that it had been established by the king, and that the warrants
had been confirmed by the parliament.
[264] Stool on which a prisoner sits.
M. Fouquet replied, that things were often done under the name of legal
authority which were found upon reflection to be unjust.
The chancellor interrupted him: “What! do you mean to say that the king
abuses his power?” M. Fouquet replied, “It is you, sir, who say it, not
I; this was not my idea, and, in my present situation, I can not but
wonder at your wishing to implicate me still further with his majesty;
but, sir, you yourself well know that we may be mistaken. When you
sign a sentence, you believe it just, yet the next day you annul that
sentence; thus you see it is possible to change our opinion.”
“But,” said the chancellor, “though you will not acknowledge the power
of the court, you answer and put interrogatories, and you are now
upon the sellette.” “It is true, I am so,” he replied, “but it is not
voluntarily; I am brought here against my will; it is a power I must
obey, and a mortification which God has inflicted upon me, and which
I receive from his hands; after the services I have rendered, and the
offices I have had the honor to bear, I might have been spared this
humiliation.”
The chancellor then continued the examination respecting the pension
of the gabelles, to which the replies of M. Fouquet were extremely
satisfactory. The examination will proceed, and I shall send you a
faithful account of it; I am anxious to know whether my letters come
safely to your hands.
Your sister, who is with our ladies at the Faubourg, has signed; she is
now with the community, and seems perfectly satisfied.
Your aunt does not appear at all displeased with her; I did not think
it was she who had taken the leap, but some other person. You know,
of course, of our defeat at Gigeri,[265] and as those who formed the
plan wish to throw the failure upon those who executed it, they intend
to bring Gadagne to trial. There are some who will be satisfied with
nothing less than his head; but the public is persuaded that he could
not have advised otherwise than he did. M. d’Aleth, who excommunicated
the subaltern officers of the king, who were for compelling the clergy
to sign, is very much talked of here. This will ruin him with your
father, while it will bring him into favor with Père Annat.[266]
[265] The first expedition against Algiers.
[266] A jesuit, confessor of Louis XIV.
Adieu! The desire of gossiping has seized me, but I must not yield to
it; the narrative style should be concise.
LETTER II.
Friday, November 20, 1664.
M. Fouquet was examined this morning respecting the gold mark; he
answered extremely well; several of the judges bowed to him; the
chancellor reproved them and said that, as he was a Breton, it was
not the custom. “It is because you are Bretons that you bow so low to
M. Fouquet.” In returning on foot from the arsenal, M. Fouquet asked
what the workmen were doing; he was told they were making the vase
of a fountain; he went to them, and gave his opinion, and afterward
returned smiling to Artagan. “You wonder, no doubt,” said he, “at my
interfering, but I formerly understood these things well.” The friends
of M. Fouquet, and I among the rest, are pleased at this delightful
composure; others call it affectation; such is the world. Madame
Fouquet, his mother, has given the queen a plaster that has cured her
convulsions, which, properly speaking, were nothing but the vapors.
Many, believing what they wish, imagine that the queen will, on this
account, intercede with his majesty to pardon the unfortunate prisoner;
but I, who hear a great deal of the kindness of this country, do not
believe a word of it. The noise the plaster has made is wonderful;
every body says that Madame Fouquet is a saint, and has the power of
working miracles.
To-day, the 21st, M. Fouquet has been questioned respecting the wax and
sugar taxes. At certain objections that were raised, and which appeared
to him ridiculous, he lost his temper. This was going a little too far,
and there was a haughtiness in his manners that gave offense. He will
correct himself; for this mode of proceeding is by no means advisable;
but patience will sometimes escape; it seems to me as if I should have
done the same.
I have been at Sainte-Marie, where I saw your aunt, who appeared to be
swallowed up in devotion; she was at mass, and in quite a religious
ecstasy. Your sister was looking very pretty; fine eyes, and great
animation; the poor child fainted this morning; she is very much
indisposed, her aunt is uniformly kind to her. M. de Paris has given
her a sort of defeasance, which gained her heart, and induced her to
sign the wicked formulary.[267] I have not mentioned the subject to
either of them; M. de Paris[268] has forbidden it. But I must give you
an idea of prejudice; our sisters of Sainte-Marie said to me, “God be
praised, who has at length touched the heart of this poor child! she is
now in the way of obedience and salvation.” From thence I went to Port
Royal, where I found a certain great recluse[269] of your acquaintance,
who accosted me with, “Well, this silly goose has signed; God, in
short, has abandoned her; she is lost.” I thought I should have died
with laughing, when I reflected on the different effects of prejudice;
in this, you see the world in its true mirror. I think extremes should
always be avoided.
[267] This relates to the condemnation of the five propositions
of Jansenius; the clergy of France protested against them, and
drew up a formulary, which the nuns of Port Royal and many
others refused to sign; this refusal, in the end, caused their
dispersion.
[268] The then archbishop of Paris was the sage Péréfixe.
[269] No doubt the celebrated Doctor Arnauld d’Andilly.
Saturday evening. M. Fouquet entered the chamber this morning, and
was interrogated upon the subject of grants; he was attacked weakly
and defended himself ably. Between you and me, this is not the worst
part of the business. Some good angel must have informed him that he
had carried himself too proudly; for he altered his manner to-day, and
the judges altered theirs, by not bowing to him. The examination will
not be resumed till Wednesday; and I shall not write to you till then.
I have only to add, that if you continue to pity me so much, for the
trouble I take in writing to you, and desire me not to go on, I shall
think my letters tire you, and that you do not like the fatigue of
answering them; but I promise not to write such long ones in future,
and I absolve you from answering them, though I prize your letters
highly. After these declarations, I should think you would not attempt
to interrupt the course of my gazettes. In flattering myself that I
contribute a little to your pleasure, I add greatly to my own. I have
so few opportunities of proving my friendship and esteem for you, that
I must not neglect such as present themselves. Pray make my compliments
to your family and your neighbors. The queen is much better.
LETTER III.
Monday, November 24, 1664.
If I know my own heart, it is I who am the party obliged, by your
receiving so kindly the information I send you. Do you think I have no
pleasure in writing to you? Believe me, I have a great deal, and am
as much gratified in writing, as you can be in reading what I write.
The sentiments you entertain upon the subject of my letter are very
natural; hope is common to us all, without our knowing why; but it
supports the heart. I dined at Sainte-Marie de Sainte-Antoine two days
ago; the lady abbess related to me the particulars of four visits she
has received from Puis***,[270] within the last three months, at which
I am very much astonished. He came to tell her that the now blessed
Bishop of Geneva (François de Sales) had been so extremely kind to him
during his illness last summer, that he could not help feeling most
strongly the obligations he owed him; and he requested her to obtain
the prayers of the community for the deceased. He gave her, for the
accomplishment of his holy purpose, a thousand crowns, and entreated
her to show him the bishop’s heart. When he was at the grate, he fell
upon his knees, and remained full a quarter of an hour, bathed in
tears, apostrophizing this heart, and praying for a spark of the divine
fire which had consumed it. The lady abbess also melted into tears; and
gave him the relics of the deceased, with which he hurried away. During
these visits, he appeared so earnest about his salvation, so disgusted
with the court, so transported with the idea of his conversion, that
a person more clear-sighted than the abbess would have been deceived.
She contrived to introduce the subject of Fouquet; he answered her
as a man who was interested in nothing but religion; that he was not
sufficiently known; that justice would be done him, agreeably to the
will of God, if from no other consideration. I never was more surprised
than at this conversation. If you ask me what I think of it, I must
answer, that I do not know; that it is perfectly unintelligible to
me; that I can not see the drift of this comedy, nor, if it is not a
comedy, how the steps he has since taken are to be reconciled with his
fine speeches.
[270] This name appears to be altered, and ought, as will be seen
further on, to be Puissort.
Time must explain all this, for it is at present perfectly enigmatical.
Do not mention it, for the lady abbess desired me not to make the
circumstance known.
I have seen M. Fouquet’s mother. She told me she had sent the plaster
to the queen by Madame de Charost.[271] The effect was certainly
wonderful: in less than an hour the queen felt her head relieved,
and so great a discharge of offensive matter took place, that had it
remained it might have suffocated her in the next fit. The queen said
aloud that it was this matter which had occasioned the convulsions of
the preceding night, and that Madame de Fouquet had cured her. The
queen-mother thought the same, and said so to the king, who did not
attend to her. The physicians, who had not been consulted in applying
the plaster, withheld their sentiments on the subject, but made their
court at the expense of truth. The same day, these poor women threw
themselves at the feet of the king, who took no notice of them. Every
body is acquainted with the circumstance of the cure; but no one knows
what will come of it: we must wait the event with patience.
[271] Fouquet’s daughter.
M. Fouquet was interrogated again this morning, but the chancellor’s
manner was changed; it seems as if he were ashamed of receiving his
lesson every day from Boucherat.[272] He told the reporter to read
the article, upon which he wished to examine the accused; and the
reading lasted so long, that it was half-past ten o’clock before
it was finished. He then said, “Let Fouquet be brought in;” but
corrected himself immediately by saying “M. Fouquet;” as, however,
he had not directed the prisoner to be sent for, he was still at the
Bastille. A messenger was then dispatched for him, and he arrived at
eleven o’clock. He was questioned respecting the grants, and answered
extremely well; but he was a little at a loss as to certain dates,
which would have injured him considerably, if the examiner had been
skillful and awake; but, instead of this, the chancellor was asleep.
This was observed by M. Fouquet, who would have laughed heartily, if
he had dared. At length the chancellor roused himself, and continued
the examination; and though M. Fouquet rested too much on a prop that
might have failed him, the event proved that he knew what he was about;
for, in his misfortune, he has certain little advantages that belong
exclusively to himself. If they go on slowly every day, the trial will
last a long time.
[272] Boucherat, then master of requests, and afterward
chancellor, had been appointed to put the seals on the papers of
the superintendent. He was on the commission charged with the
prosecution.
I shall write to you every evening; but I shall not send my letter
till Saturday or Sunday evening: it will give you an account of the
proceedings of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and I will contrive that
you shall receive one on Thursday, informing you of the proceedings of
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday: in this way your letters will not be
long detained. I beg my compliments to your recluse, and to your better
half. I say nothing of your dear neighbor; it will soon be my turn to
give you news of her myself.
LETTER IV.
Thursday, November 21, 1664.
The examination upon the subject of the grants was resumed to-day. The
chancellor kindly endeavored to drive M. Fouquet to extremities, and
to embarrass him, but he did not succeed. M. Fouquet acquitted himself
admirably; he did not come into the chamber of justice till eleven
o’clock, because the chancellor made the reporter read as before; but
in spite of this parade of justice, he said the worst he could of
our poor friend. The reporter[273] always took his part, because the
chancellor evidently leaned to the other side of the question. At last
he said, “Here is a charge to which the accused will not be able to
answer.” “And here, sir,” said the reporter, “is a plaster that will
cure the weakness;” he made an excellent justification of him, and then
added: “In the place in which I stand, sir, I shall always speak the
truth, in whatever form it presents itself to me.”
[273] The reporter was M. d’Ormesson, one of the most respectable
magistrates of his time.
This allusion to a plaster called forth a smile from the audience,
as it reminded them of the one that has lately made so much noise
at court. The accused was then brought in; he only remained an hour
in court; and, on his leaving it, M. d’Ormesson was complimented by
several persons upon his firmness.
I must relate to you what I myself did. Some ladies proposed to me
to accompany them to a house exactly opposite the arsenal, where we
could see the return of our poor friend. I was masked,[274] but my
eye caught him the moment he was in view. M. d’Artagan was at his
side, and fifty mousquetaires about thirty or forty steps behind him.
He appeared thoughtful. The moment I saw him my legs trembled, and
my heart beat so violently that I could scarcely support myself. In
approaching us to re-enter his dungeon, M. d’Artagan pointed out to him
that we were there, and he saluted us with the same delightful smile
you have so often witnessed. I do not believe he recognized me; but
I own I was strangely affected when I saw him enter the little door.
If you knew the misfortune of having a heart like mine, I am sure you
would pity me; but from what I know of you, I do not think you have
much the advantage of me in this point. I have been to see your dear
neighbor. I pity you as much at losing her as I rejoice at her being
with us. We have had a good deal of conversation upon the subject of
our poor friend; she has seen Sappho,[275] who has considerably raised
her spirits. I shall go there to-morrow, to recruit my own; for I often
feel the want of consolation; it is not that I do not hear a thousand
things, that should inspire hope; but alas! my imagination is so
lively, that every thing which is uncertain destroys me.
[274] It was still the custom for ladies to wear masks when they
went abroad; a custom which is retained in Corneille’s plays,
and which was brought from Italy by the Medicis, with many other
customs equally disagreeable. These masks of black velvet, to
which the _loups_ succeeded, were intended as a preservative to
the complexion.
[275] Mademoiselle Scudery, sister of the author, known under
this name by an unfortunate fertility of imagination; a woman who
had more wit than her writings display, though they display a
great deal.
Friday, November 28.
The court opened early this morning. The chancellor said he had now
to speak of the four loans: D’Ormesson observed, that it was a very
unimportant affair, and one upon which no blame could be attached to
M. Fouquet, as he had declared from the beginning. An attempt was made
to contradict him: he begged leave to explain the matter according to
his own view of it, and desired his colleagues to listen to him. The
court was attentive, and he convinced them that it was a very trifling
business. The accused was then ordered to be brought in; it was eleven
o’clock. You will remark that he has never been more than an hour upon
the sellette. The chancellor still wished to speak of the loans. M.
Fouquet requested he might be allowed to state what he had omitted the
day before, respecting the grants; leave was given him, and he said
wonders. The chancellor asked him, “Have you had your acquittance for
the employment of this sum?” He replied that he had, but that it was
conjointly with other things which he had marked, and which will come
in their course. “But,” said the chancellor, “at the time you received
these acquittances you had not incurred the expenses?” “True,” replied
M. Fouquet, “but the sums were set apart for the purpose.” “This is
not enough,” said the chancellor, “Pardon me, sir,” said M. Fouquet;
“when I gave you your appointments, for instance, I sometimes received
the acquittance a month beforehand, and as the sum was set apart, it
was exactly the same as if it had been paid.” “That is true,” said the
chancellor; “I was much indebted to you.” M. Fouquet replied that he
had no intention to reproach him, and that he was at that time happy
to serve him; but the circumstance had occurred to his mind, as an
instance in point, and he could not help making use of it.
The court has closed till Monday. They seem determined to prolong the
affair as much as possible. Puis*** has promised to give the accused as
few opportunities of speaking as he can. The fact is, they are afraid
of him. They would, therefore, interrogate him summarily, and even pass
over some of the articles; but he is determined they shall not do this,
nor will he suffer them to judge his cause without his being permitted
to justify himself upon every separate head of accusation. Puis*** is
in continual apprehension of offending Petit. He excused himself the
other day by saying that M. Fouquet had certainly spoken too long, but
that he had no means of interrupting him. Ch*** is constantly behind
the screen whenever the examinations take place; he hears all that is
said, and offers to go to the judges and explain the reasons by which
he is led to draw such opposite conclusions. All this is irregular,
and shows a great inveteracy against the unfortunate prisoner. I own I
have no longer any hope. Adieu, sir, till Monday. I wish you could see
my heart, you would then be convinced of the sincerity of a friendship
which you profess to prize.
LETTER V.
Two days ago every one believed that it was intended to protract M.
Fouquet’s affair as much as possible; but now the reverse of this
appears to be the case, and the interrogations are hurried over in a
most extraordinary manner. This morning the chancellor took his paper
and read, as he would an inventory, ten heads of accusation, without
giving the accused time to reply. M. Fouquet said, “I do not wish,
sir, to prolong the business, but I entreat you to give me time to
answer the charges that are brought against me. You question me, and it
appears as if you did not wish me to reply; but it is of consequence
to me to speak. There are many articles I must explain; and it is but
justice that I should answer to all those which are formally alleged
against me.” The court was then obliged to attend, contrary to the
wishes of the ill-disposed, who could not bear to hear him defend
himself so ably. He answered extremely well to every accusation. The
trial will now go on, but will be conducted so rapidly that I expect
the examination will close this week. I have just been supping at the
Hôtel de Nevers; the mistress of the house and I conversed a good
deal upon this subject. We are uneasy to a degree, which you only can
comprehend, for I have just received your letter; it surpasses even
my own feelings upon the subject. You put my modesty to too great
a trial in asking me upon what terms I am with you and your dear
recluse. It seems to me that I see him and hear him say what you tell
me. I am quite piqued that it was not I who metamorphosed Pierrot to
Tartuffe;[276] it was so natural that if I had half the wit you ascribe
to me, it would have flowed mechanically from my pen.
[276] The Chancellor Seguier’s name was Pierre.
I must relate to you a little anecdote, which is perfectly true, and
which can not fail to amuse you. The king has lately employed himself
in making verses; Messieurs de Saint Aignan and Dangeau put him in
the way of it. He wrote a little madrigal the other day with which he
was not much pleased. One morning he said to Marshal de Grammont, “M.
le maréchal, read this little madrigal, if you please, and tell me if
you ever saw so silly a one; because it is known that I have lately
been fond of poetry they bring me all the nonsense that is written.”
The marshal having read it, said to the king, “Your majesty is an
excellent judge of every thing: this is certainly without exception the
most silly and ridiculous madrigal I ever read.” The king laughed, and
continued, “Must not the writer be a great fool?” “There is no other
name for him,” said the marshal. “O!” said the king, “how delighted
I am that you have spoken your sentiments so freely! I am myself the
author of it.” “Ah! sire, what treason have I uttered! I entreat your
majesty to give it me again. I read it hastily.” “No, M. le maréchal;
the first sentiments are always the most natural.” The king was very
much entertained at this little frolic; but those about him thought
it the most cruel thing that could be done to an old courtier. For
myself, I love to make reflections, and I wish the king would reflect
in like manner on this adventure, that he might see how far he is from
knowing the truth. We are upon the point of experiencing a still more
painful instance of royal delusion, in the repurchase of our rents,
at an expense that will send us all to the workhouse. The emotion it
occasions is great, but the hardship is greater. Do you not think this
is undertaking too much at once? The loss of a part of my income is not
the point that affects me the most.
Tuesday, December 2.
Our dear unfortunate friend spoke for two hours this morning, but so
uncommonly well that several persons could not help expressing their
admiration. Among others, M. de Renard said, “This man, it must be
owned, is incomparable; he never spoke so well in the parliament;
he maintains his self-possession better than he has ever done.” The
subject was the six millions, and his own expenses. Nothing could
exceed what he said. I shall write to you on Thursday and on Friday;
these will be the last days of the examination, and I shall go on to
the end.
God grant my last letter may contain the information I so ardently
wish. Adieu, my dear sir; desire our recluse (Arnauld) to pray for our
poor friend. I heartily embrace you both, and, for modesty’s sake, I
include your wife.
IN CONTINUATION.
Tranquillity reigns throughout the family of the unfortunate Fouquet.
It is said that M. de Nesmond declared on his death-bed, that his
greatest sorrow was that he had not excepted to these two judges; that
if he had lived to the end of the trial he would have repaired his
fault, and that he prayed God to pardon his error.
M. Fouquet, as I observed before, spoke to-day two complete hours, upon
the subject of the six millions; he commanded attention, and performed
wonders. Every one was affected in his way. Puissort made gestures of
disbelief and disapprobation, that shocked every honest man in court.
When M. Fouquet had done, M. Puissort rose impetuously, and said,
“Thank God, it can never be said that he has not had his bellyful of
speaking.” What say you to this speech? Was it not worthy of a judge?
It is said that the chancellor is very much alarmed at the erysipelas
that occasioned the death of M. de Nesmond, fearing there may be a
repetition of the judgment in store for himself. If the apprehension
could inspire him with the sentiments of a man about to appear before
God, it would be something; but it will be said of him, I fear, as of
Argante, _e mori come visse_;[277] he died as he lived.
[277] Gerusalemme Liberata, canto 19; the verse runs thus:
Moriva Argante, e tal moria qual visse.
Wednesday, December 3.
I have received your letter; it has proved to me that I have not
obliged a person who is ungrateful; nothing can be more kind, nothing
more gratifying. I must be wholly exempt from vanity to be insensible
to such praises. I assure you, I am delighted at the good opinion
you entertain of my heart, and I further assure you, without meaning
compliment for compliment, that my esteem for you infinitely surpasses
the power of ordinary language to express, and that I experience real
pleasure and consolation in being able to inform you of events in
which we are both so much interested. I am very glad your dear recluse
takes her part in them; I supposed you would make them known also to
your incomparable neighbor. You gratify me extremely in telling me
that I have made some progress in her heart; there is no one in whose
affections I would more gladly establish myself, and when I would
indulge in a little gayety, I think of her and her enchanted palace.
But I return to business, from which I have been insensibly led, to
tell you of the sentiments I entertain for yourself and your amiable
friend.
M. Fouquet was upon the sellette again to-day. The Abbé d’Effiat bowed
to him, as he passed. In returning his bow, he said to him, with the
same enchanting smile we have so often observed, “Sir, I am your very
humble servant.” The abbé was so much affected that he could not speak.
As soon as M. Fouquet was in the chamber, the chancellor desired him
to be seated. He replied, “Sir, you took advantage, yesterday, of my
placing myself upon the sellette: you infer from my doing so that I
acknowledge the authority of the court; as that is the case, I beg
leave to stand.” The chancellor then told him he might withdraw. M.
Fouquet replied, “I do not mean by this to advance any new objection;
I only wish to make my protestation, as usual, and, the charge being
cited against me, to be permitted to reply.”
This was agreed to. He then seated himself, and the examination
respecting the pension of the gabelles was resumed, to which he replied
admirably. If this mode continue, the interrogations will be favorable
to him. The spirit and firmness he displays are the subject of general
conversation at Paris. He has asked one thing of a friend which makes
me tremble: he has entreated him to let him know his sentence, whether
favorable or otherwise, in some private way, by signal, the instant it
is pronounced, that he may have time to reconcile himself to his fate
before it be announced to him officially; adding, that if he has half
an hour to prepare himself, he shall hear without emotion the worst
that can be told him. This has made me weep, and I am certain it will
affect you also very painfully.
There were few persons at the examination, on account of the queen’s
illness; she was supposed to be dying, but is now somewhat better.
Yesterday evening she received the viaticum. It was the most affecting
and solemn spectacle that can be imagined, to see the king and the
whole court going for the holy sacrament, and conducting it to the
palace. It was received with a profusion of lights. The queen made an
effort to rise, and took it with a devotion that reduced every one
to tears. It was not without difficulty that she had been brought to
consent; the king was the only one who could make her listen to reason;
to every other person she said that she was very willing to receive the
communion, but not the viaticum; it was full two hours before she could
be prevailed upon.
The general approbation that is given to M. Fouquet’s answers, is very
grating to Petit.[278] It is even thought he will engage Puis*** to
feign illness, in order to interrupt the torrent of admiration, and to
have time himself to take breath at this, and other instances of his
ill success. I am the most obedient servant of the dear recluse, of
your lady, and the adorable Amalthée.
[278] Petit is a feigned name, meant either for Le Tellier or
Colbert. With regard to Puis***, as, from the sense of the
expressions, he must be one of the judges against Fouquet, there
is little doubt that Puissort is the person alluded to; and what
is said of him in the preceding Letters must be so understood.
It may further be remarked that the conduct of Colbert and Le
Tellier, in this business, was extremely well characterized by
a criticism of the great Turenne, who interested himself warmly
for Fouquet. To some one who blamed the violence of Colbert, and
praised the moderation of Le Tellier, Turenne replied, “True,
sir; M. Colbert has most desire that he should be hanged, and M.
Le Tellier most fear lest he should not be.”
LETTER VI.
Thursday, December 4, 1664.
At length the examinations are over. M. Fouquet entered the chamber
this morning. The chancellor ordered his _project against the state_
to be read throughout. M. Fouquet spoke first upon the subject. “I
believe, sir,” said he, “you can derive nothing from this paper, but
the effect it has just produced, of overwhelming me with confusion.”
The chancellor replied, “You have yourself heard and seen by it that
your regard for the state, which you have so much insisted upon in
court, was not so considerable but that you would have embroiled it
from one end to the other.” “Sir,” replied M. Fouquet, “this idea
occurred to me only in the height of the despair in which the cardinal
often placed me; especially when, after contributing more than any
man in the world to his return to France, I found myself repaid by
the basest ingratitude. I had a letter from himself, and one from the
queen-mother, in proof of what I say; but they have been taken away
with my papers, as have several letters. It is to be lamented that I
did not burn this unfortunate paper which had so completely escaped
my mind and my memory that I have been nearly two years without
thinking of it or knowing even that it existed. However this affair may
terminate, I disown it with my whole heart, and I entreat you, sir, to
believe, that my regard for the person and the service of the king has
never been in the slightest degree diminished.” “It is very difficult
to believe this,” said the chancellor, “when we see such contrary
sentiments expressed at a different period.” M. Fouquet replied, “At
no period, sir, even though at the hazard of my life, have I ever
abandoned the king’s person; and at the time in question, you, sir,
were at the head of the council of his enemies, and your relations gave
free passage to the army against him.”
The chancellor felt this stroke; but our poor friend was irritated, and
therefore not quite master of himself. The subject of his expenses was
afterward introduced. “I undertake,” said he, “to prove that I have not
incurred a single expense which, either by means of my private income,
with which the cardinal was well acquainted, or my appointments, or my
wife’s fortune, I was not able to afford; and if I do not prove this
satisfactorily, I consent to be treated with the utmost ignominy.” In
short, this interrogation lasted two hours; M. Fouquet defended himself
ably, but with a degree of warmth and petulance; the reading of the
project having ruffled him exceedingly.
When he had left the court, the chancellor said, “This is the last time
we shall interrogate him.” M. Poncet then went up to the chancellor,
and said, “You have made no mention, sir, of the proofs there are that
he had attempted to put his project against the state into execution.”
The chancellor replied, “They are not, sir, sufficiently strong; he
would have refuted them too easily.” Upon which Saint Hélène and
Puissort said, “Every one is not of that opinion.” This is a subject to
muse upon. The rest to-morrow.
Friday, December 5.
This morning the subject of the requests was mentioned, which are of
little importance except that there are persons, not ill disposed, who
wish the sentence to refer to them. The business on the side of the
prosecution is at an end. It is now M. d’Ormesson’s turn to speak; he
is to recapitulate the several matters. This will occupy the whole
of the next week, during which the time we shall pass can scarcely
be called living. For myself, you would hardly know me, and I do not
think I can hold out so long. M. d’Ormesson has desired me not to see
him again till the business is over: he is in the conclave, and will
have intercourse with no one. He affects great reserve; he listens to
me, but does not answer. I had the pleasure, in bidding him adieu, to
acquaint him with my sentiments. I will inform you of all I hear. God
grant my last tidings may be good; I desire it fervently. I assure
you we are all very much to be pitied. I mean you and I, and all who,
like ourselves, are interested in the event. Adieu, my dear sir: I am
so dull this evening, and my heart is so much oppressed that I must
conclude.
LETTER VII.
Tuesday, December 9, 1664.
I assure you the days pass very tediously; suspense is extremely
painful: but it is an evil to which the whole family of the unfortunate
prisoner is habituated. I have seen, and can not sufficiently express
my admiration of them. It seems as if they had never known, never read,
the events that have taken place in former times. What surprises me
most is, that Sappho is just like the rest; she, whose understanding
and penetration are unlimited. When I reflect upon this circumstance,
I persuade myself, or, at least, I wish to persuade myself, that they
know more of the matter than I do. When I reason too with others, on
whose judgment I can rely, and who are less prejudiced, because less
interested, I find all our measures so just that it will be really a
miracle if the business does not terminate according to our wishes.
We are sometimes only lost by a single voice, but that voice is every
thing. I remember, however, the recusations, respecting which these
poor women thought themselves so sure, and we lost them by five to
seventeen; since that time their confidence has been my distrust. Yet
I have a little spark of hope in my heart; I hardly know from whence
it comes, nor whither it would lead, nor is it sufficient to make me
sleep in peace. I talked over this affair yesterday with Madame du
Plessis;[279] I can see nobody, but those who will converse with me
on the subject, and who are of the same opinion as myself. She hopes,
as I do, without knowing the reason. “Why do you hope?” “Because I
do;” this is our answer; a notable one, it must be confessed. I told
her, with the greatest sincerity in the world, that if the sentence
should be in conformity to our wishes, the height of my joy would be to
dispatch instantly a man on horseback with the pleasing intelligence to
you; and that the pleasure of picturing the delight I should give you,
would render my own delight complete. She perfectly agreed with me; and
our imagination gave us more than a quarter of an hour’s holiday on
the occasion. I must correct my last day’s report of the examination
respecting the project against the state. I related it to you exactly
as I heard it; but the same person has since tasked his memory, and
told it to me over again more accurately. Every body has heard it from
the different judges. After M. Fouquet had said that the only effect
that could be drawn from this project was the confusion the reading it
had occasioned him, the chancellor observed, “You can not deny that
this is a crime against the state.” “I confess, sir,” he replied, “that
it is a foolish and extravagant thing, but not a crime against the
state. I entreat you, gentlemen,” said he, turning toward the judges,
“to suffer me to explain what constitutes a state crime; not that I
consider you less capable of defining it than myself, but I have had
more time perhaps than you to examine the question. A crime against
the state, is when a person, holding an important office, and being in
the secrets of a prince, suddenly goes over to the side of his enemy,
engages his whole family in the same interests, opens the gates of a
city, of which he is the governor, to the foe, shuts them against his
lawful sovereign, and reveals to his enemy the secrets of the state.
This, gentlemen, is what is called a state crime.” The chancellor did
not know which way to look, and the judges could scarcely refrain from
laughter. This is the truth without any embellishment. You will agree
with me, that nothing could be more spirited, more delicate in its
satire, and at the same time more diverting.
[279] Madame du Plessis Belliere, the intimate friend of Fouquet.
He had commissioned her to take his papers from his house at St.
Mandé. She was not in due time to execute it. She was at first
exiled, and afterward recalled. She died in 1705, aged 100 years.
The whole kingdom knows and admires the prisoner’s reply on this
occasion. He afterward entered minutely into his defense, and said what
I told you before. I should have been quite unhappy if you had not
known this circumstance, and our dear friend would have lost much by
it. This morning M. d’Ormesson began the recapitulation. He spoke well
and clearly. On Thursday he will give his opinion; his colleague will
then speak for two days; it will take several more for the rest to give
their opinions. Some of the judges say that they shall enlarge a great
deal upon the subject, so that we have to languish in expectation till
next week. In this state of suspense we can scarcely be said to live.
Wednesday, December 10.
M. d’Ormesson has continued the recapitulation; he has done wonders,
that is, he has spoken with extraordinary clearness, intelligence, and
ability. Puissort interrupted him five or six times, with no other
intention than to embarrass him, and prevent his speaking so well: he
said to him in one instance, where his argument went strongly in favor
of M. Fouquet, “Sir, we shall speak after you, we shall speak after
you.”
LETTER VIII.
Thursday, December 11, 1664.
M. d’Ormesson has not yet finished. When he came to the article of the
gold mark, Puissort said, “This speaks strongly against the accused.”
“It may be so,” said M. d’Ormesson, “but there are no proofs.” “What!”
said Puissort, “have not the two officers been examined?” “No,” replied
M. d’Ormesson. “It can not be,” said Puissort. “I can find no such
thing in the proceedings,” said M. d’Ormesson. Upon this, Puissort
rose in a fury, and said, “Sir, you ought rather to say, I find here
a very gross omission.” M. d’Ormesson made no answer, but if Puissort
had addressed another word to him, he would have replied, “I am here,
sir, as a judge, and not as an informer.” You may remember what I
once said to you at Fresne, that M. d’Ormesson would not discover the
omission till there was no remedy. The chancellor also interrupted M.
d’Ormesson several times; he told him it was not necessary to speak
of the project. This must be from malice; for many will suppose it a
great crime, and the chancellor would be glad that the proofs, which
are truly ridiculous, should be withheld, that the idea which prevails
might not be weakened. As, however, it is one of the articles of the
indictment, M. d’Ormesson will not omit it. He will finish to-morrow.
Sainte-Hélène will speak on Saturday. On Monday the two reporters will
give their opinion, and on Tuesday, the whole committee will assemble
early in the morning, and not separate till judgment be passed. I
tremble when I think of this day. The hopes of the family are very
sanguine. Foucault goes about every where, and shows a writing of
the king’s, in which he is made to say that he should think it very
improper if any of the judges leaned toward the prisoner, from the
circumstance of his papers being taken away; that it was he who ordered
it to be done; that there is not one that can be of use to the prisoner
in his defense; that they are papers that relate merely to his office;
and that he makes this known that the judges may not draw improper
inferences. What say you to this magnanimous proceeding? Are you not
grieved that a prince, who would love justice and truth if he were left
to himself, should be prevailed upon to act thus? He said the other
day at his levee, that Fouquet was a dangerous man; this has been put
into his head by some one. In short, our enemies no longer keep within
bounds; they run at full speed; threats, promises, every thing is
resorted to; but if God be on our side, we shall be stronger than they.
You will perhaps have another letter from me; if we have good news, I
shall dispatch an express to you, with all possible expedition; but how
I shall act, or what will become of me, in any other case, I am at a
loss to conjecture. A thousand compliments to our recluse, and to your
better half. Pray earnestly to God for our friend.
Saturday, December, 13.
After having fixed and changed, and fixed and changed again, it was at
length resolved that M. d’Ormesson should give his opinion to-day; that
Sunday might pass over, and Sainte-Hélène begin anew on Monday, which
would make a stronger impression. M. d’Ormesson’s opinion was, that the
accused should be sentenced to perpetual banishment, and his property
confiscated to the king. M. d’Ormesson has by this means established
his reputation as a judge. The sentence is a little severe,[280] but
let us pray that no worse counsel may be given; it is always glorious
to be the first in an assault.
[280] Severe as it was, the king aggravated the punishment still
more. Fouquet’s dilapidations were certainly criminal, but
Cardinal Mazarin gave less and took much more. The licentiousness
of the times, and the force of example, were an excuse, if any
excuse could be made.
LETTER IX.
Wednesday, December 17, 1664.
You languish, my dear friend, after intelligence, and so do we. I was
sorry I sent you word that judgment would be pronounced on Tuesday;
for, not hearing from me, you must have thought it was all over; but
our hopes are as strong as ever. I informed you, on Saturday, in
what way M. d’Ormesson had reported the cause, and how he had voted,
but I did not sufficiently express the extraordinary esteem he has
acquired by his conduct in this business. I have heard several of this
profession say that his speech was a master-piece; that he explained
himself with great clearness, and rested his opinion upon the most
convincing arguments: it was eloquence and grace combined. In short,
no man had ever a finer opportunity of making himself known, and no
man ever made a better use of it. If he had wished to open his door
to congratulations, his house would have been crowded; but he was too
modest for this, and kept out of the way. His colleague, Sainte-Hélène,
indignant at his success, spoke on Monday and Tuesday. He resumed the
affair weakly and miserably, reading what he had to say, without adding
any new circumstance or giving a different turn to it. He voted, but
did not assign his reasons, that M. Fouquet should lose his head for
his crime against the state; and to gain votes on his side, he played
the Normand, and alleged that it was probable the king, who alone could
do it, would remit the sentence and pardon him. It was yesterday he
performed this brilliant action, at which we were as much grieved as we
had before been satisfied with the conduct of M. d’Ormesson.
This morning Puissort spoke for four hours, but with so much vehemence,
fury, rage, and rancor, that several of the judges were shocked; and
it is thought his intemperance will do more good than harm to our poor
friend. He even redoubled his violence toward the end, and said, upon
the subject of the crime against the state, that the example of a
certain Spaniard, who had so great a horror for a rebel that he ordered
his house to be burned, because Charles of Bourbon had passed through
it, ought to make us blush at our moderation; that we had much greater
reason to hold in abhorrence the crime of M. Fouquet; that the halter
and the gibbet were the only proper punishments for him; but that, in
consideration of the high offices he had held, and the noble families
to which he was related, he would relax his opinion, and vote with M.
de Sainte-Hélène, that he be beheaded.
What say you to this moderation? Is it because he is the uncle of M.
de Nesmond, and was excepted against, that he conducts himself so
generously? For my part, I can scarcely contain myself when I think
of this scandalous proceeding. I do not know whether judgment will be
pronounced to-morrow, or the business be protracted to the end of the
week. We have still many difficulties to encounter: but perhaps some
one will side with M. d’Ormesson, whose opinion at present stands alone.
But I have to beg your attention to two or three little incidents,
which are no less extraordinary than true. In the first place, then,
a comet made its appearance about four days ago. It was announced, at
first, by some women only, who were laughed at for their pains; but it
has now been seen by every one. M. d’Artagan sat up last night, and
saw it very distinctly. M. de Neuré, a great astronomer, says it is
of considerable magnitude. M. du Foin has seen it, with three or four
other learned men. I have not seen it myself, but I intend sitting up
to-night for the purpose: it appears about three o’clock. I tell you
of this, ignorant whether you will be pleased or displeased with the
intelligence.
Berrier, in the literal sense of the word, is become mad; he has been
bled profusely, and is in a perfect frenzy. He raves of wheels and
gibbets, and has even mentioned particular trees; he declares he is
going to be hanged, and makes so dreadful a noise that his keepers are
obliged to chain him. This is evidently a judgment of Providence, and
a very just one. A criminal of the name of Lamothe, who was in prison
and about to be tried, has deposed that Messrs. de B***,[281] C***,
and B*** (they add also Puissort, or Poncet, but of him I am not so
certain) urged him several times to implicate M. Fouquet and Lorme,
promising if he would do so that they would obtain his pardon; but he
refused, and published the circumstance in court, before his trial
took place. He was condemned to the galleys. The wife and mother of M.
Fouquet have procured a copy of the deposition, and will present it
to-morrow at the chamber. Perhaps it will not be received, because the
judges are now giving their opinions; but it may be made known, and
must produce a strong impression on the court. Is not all this very
extraordinary?
[281] M. de Boucherat was one of the commissioners: the other,
B***, is, no doubt, Berrier.
I must tell you, also, of a heroic act of Masnau. He had been
dangerously ill, for a whole week, of a bladder complaint; he took
a variety of medicines, and was at last bled, at midnight. The next
morning, at seven o’clock, he insisted on being carried to the
chamber of justice, where he suffered the most excruciating pain. The
chancellor saw him turn pale, and said, “This is not a fit place for
you, sir; you had better retire.” “True, sir,” he replied, “but I may
as well die here.” The chancellor perceiving him ready to faint, and
finding him bent upon remaining, said, “Well, sir, retire; we will
wait for you.” Upon this he went out for a quarter of an hour, during
which time he passed two stones, of so enormous a size, that it might
be considered as a miracle, if men were deserving that God should work
miracles in their favor. This worthy man then returned into court, gay
and cheerful, every one astonished at the adventure.
This is all I know. Every body is interested in this weighty affair.
Nothing else is talked of. Men reason, infer, calculate, pity, fear,
wish, hate, admire, are overwhelmed; in short, my dear sir, our present
situation is a most singular one; but the resignation and firmness of
our dear unfortunate friend is perfectly heavenly. He knows every day
what passes, and every day volumes might be written in his praise.
I beg you to thank your father[282] for the gratifying note he has
written me, and the charming works he sent me. I have read them, though
my head feels, alas, as if it were split into pieces. Tell him I am
delighted he loves me a little--a great deal, I mean--and that I love
him still more. I have received your last letter; alas! you overpay
so abundantly the trifling services I render you, that I remain your
debtor.
[282] Arnaud d’Andilly, the translator of Josephus.
LETTER X.
Friday, December 19, 1664.
This is a day which gives us great hopes; but I must go back in my
story. I told you that M. Puissort had, on Wednesday, voted for the
death of our friend; on Thursday, Nogués, Gisaucourt, Feriol, and
Péraut, voted in the same way. Roquesante concluded the day, and, after
speaking well for an hour, sided with M. d’Ormesson. This morning our
hopes have sailed before the wind, for several votes that were doubtful
have been given: Toison, Masnau, Verdier, La Baume, and Catinet, and
all in favor of M. d’Ormesson’s opinion.[283] It was then Poncet’s
turn to speak; but, thinking that those who remained were almost all
disposed to be lenient, he would not begin, though it was only eleven
o’clock. It is thought he wishes to consult with some one what he shall
say, and that he is not willing to bring disgrace upon himself, and
consign a man to death unnecessarily. Such is our present situation,
and, though so favorable a one, our joy is not complete; for you must
know that M. N. is so enraged, that we expect some unjust and atrocious
proceeding in consequence, that will plunge us again into despair. But
for this, my dear sir, we should have the satisfaction of seeing our
friend, though unfortunate, yet safe, as far as his life is concerned,
which is a great thing. We shall see what will happen to-morrow. We are
now seven to six. Le Feron, Moussy, Brillac, Bénard, Renard, Voisin,
Pontchartrain, and the chancellor, have not yet voted; but of these, we
shall have by far the greater number.
[283] Names of the committee who judged Fouquet:
FAVORABLE.
D’Ormesson, Le Feron, Moussy, Brillac, Renard,
Benard, Roquesante, La Toison, La Baume, Verdier,
Masnau, Catinet, Pontchartrain.
ADVERSE.
St. Hélène, Puissort, Gisaucourt, Feriol, Nogués,
Heraut, Poncet, Père Seguier, The Chancellor.
Saturday.
Fall on your knees, sir, and return thanks to God; the life of our poor
friend is saved. Thirteen were of M. d’Ormesson’s opinion, and nine of
Sainte-Hélène’s. I am almost wild with joy.
Sunday evening.
I was sadly afraid some other person would have the pleasure of
communicating to you the joyful tidings. My courier was not very
diligent; he said, on setting out, that he would sleep no where but
at Livri; he assures me, however, he was the first that arrived.
Heavens! how gratifying must the intelligence have been to you! How
inconceivably sweet are the moments that relieve the heart on a sudden
from the anguish of so painful a suspense! It will be a long time
before I shall lose the joy I received yesterday. It was, in reality,
too great--too much, almost, for me to bear. The poor man learned the
news by signals, a few moments after judgment was pronounced, and I
dare say felt it in all its extent. This morning the king sent the
Chevalier du Guet to the mother and wife of M. Fouquet, recommending
them both to go to Montluçon in Auvergne, the marquis and Marchioness
of Charost to Ancenis, and the young Fouquet to Joinville in Champagne.
The good old lady sent word to the king that she was seventy-two years
of age; that she besought his majesty not to deprive her of her only
remaining son, the support of her life, which apparently was drawing
near its close. The prisoner does not yet know his sentence. It is said
he will be taken, to-morrow, to Pignerol, for the king has changed
his banishment into imprisonment. His wife, contrary to all rule, is
not permitted to see him. But let not this proceeding abate the least
particle of your joy; mine, if possible, is increased; for I see in
this more clearly the greatness of our victory. I shall faithfully
relate to you the sequel of this curious history. I have given you what
has passed to-day; the rest to-morrow.
Tuesday evening.
This morning, at ten o’clock, M. Fouquet was conducted to the chapel of
the Bastille. Foucault held the sentence in his hand. “You must tell me
your name, sir,” said he, “that I may know whom I address.” M. Fouquet
replied, “You know very well who I am; and as for my name, I will not
give it here, as I refused to give it at the chamber of justice; by
the same rule, also, I protest against the sentence you are going to
read to me.” What passed being written down, Foucault put on his hat
and read the sentence; M. Fouquet heard it uncovered. Pecquet and
Lavalée[284] were afterward separated from him, and the cries and tears
of these poor men melted every heart that was not of iron; they made so
strange a noise that M. d’Artagnan was obliged to go and comfort them;
for it seemed to them as if a sentence of death had just been read to
their master. They were both lodged in the Bastille, and it is not
known what will be done with them.
[284] His physician and his servant.
M. Fouquet went to the apartment of M. d’Artagnan: while he was there,
he saw M. d’Ormesson, who came for some papers that were in the hands
of M. d’Artagnan, pass by the window. On perceiving him, M. Fouquet
saluted him with an open countenance, expressive of joy and gratitude;
he even cried out to him that he was his humble servant. M. d’Ormesson
returned the salutation with very great civility, and came with grief
of heart to tell me what had passed.
At eleven o’clock a coach was ready, into which M. Fouquet entered,
with four guards. M. d’Artagnan was on horseback with fifty
musqueteers; he will escort him to Pignerol, where he will leave him
in prison, in the care of a man of the name of St. Mars, who is a very
honest fellow: he will have fifty soldiers to guard his prisoner. I do
not know whether another servant has been allowed our friend; you can
form no idea how cruel the circumstance of taking Pecquet and Lavalée
from him appears to every one: some even go so far as to draw dreadful
inferences from it. May God preserve him, as he has hitherto done: in
him we must put our trust, and leave our friend to the protection of
that Providence which has been so gracious to him. They still refuse
him his wife, but have permitted the mother to remain at Parc, with
the abbess her daughter. L’Ecuyer will follow his sister-in-law;
he has declared that he has no other means of subsistence. M. and
Madame de Charost are going immediately to Ancenis. M. Bailly, the
attorney-general, has been turned out of office, for having said to
Gisaucourt, before judgment was pronounced, that he ought to retrieve
the honor of the Grand Council, which would be disgraced if C***,
Poncet, and himself acted together in the business. I am sorry for this
upon your account: it is a rigorous measure. _Tantæne animis cœlestibus
iræ?_[285]
[285] Virgil’s Æneid, lib. i.
But no, it does not mount so high as that. Such harsh and low revenge
can not proceed from a heart like that of our monarch’s. His name is
employed, and, as you see, profaned. I will let you know the rest: how
much better could we converse upon these things! it is impossible to
communicate by letter all we have to say. Adieu, my dear sir, I have
not so much modesty as you, and, without taking refuge in the crowd,
I assure you I love and esteem you highly. I have seen the comet;
its train is of a beautiful length. I partly found my hopes on it. A
thousand compliments to your dear wife.
Tuesday.
I send you something to amuse you for a few minutes. You will certainly
find it worth reading. It is charity to entertain you both in your
solitude. If the friendship I bear the father and the son were a remedy
against dullness, it is an evil of which you would never have to
complain. I am just come from a place where, it seems, I have renewed
this sentiment, by talking of you with five or six persons, male and
female, who, like me, rank themselves among your friends; it was at the
Hôtel de Nevers. Your wife was of the party; she will tell you of the
delightful little comedians we met there. I believe our dear friend is
arrived, but I have had no certain intelligence. It is only known that
M. d’Artagnan, continuing his obliging manners, gave him the necessary
fur clothing, that he might pass the mountains without inconvenience.
I know also that M. d’Artagnan has received letters from the king,
and that he told M. Fouquet to keep up his spirits and his courage,
and that every thing would go well. We are always looking forward to
some mitigation, and I in particular: hope has been too kind for me to
abandon it. Whenever I see the king at our ballets, these two lines of
Tasso come into my head:
Goffredo ascolta, e in rigida sembianza
Porge piu di timor che di speranza.[286]
[286] Godfrey attends, and with a brow severe
But little gives to hope, and much to fear.
Hoole’s Translation.
But I care not to despond: we must follow the example of our poor
prisoner; he is tranquil and gay; let us be so too. It will give me
real pleasure to see you here. I can not think your exile will be of
long duration. Assure your good father of my affection; I can not help
expressing myself thus; and let me know your opinion of the stanzas.
Some of them are admired, as well as some of the couplets.
LETTER XI.
Thursday Evening, January, 1665.
At length, the mother, the daughter-in-law, and the brother have
obtained leave to be together; they are going to Montluçon in the heart
of Auvergne. The mother had permission to go to Parc-aux-Dames to her
daughter, but her daughter-in-law has prevailed on her to accompany
her. M. and Madame de Charost are on their way to Ancenis. Pecquet
and Lavalée are still in the Bastille. Can any thing be more dreadful
than this injustice? They have given M. Fouquet another servant. M.
d’Artagnan was his only comfort in his journey. It is said that the
person who is to have the care of him at Pignerol is a very worthy
creature. God grant he may be so! or rather, God protect our friend! He
has already protected him so visibly that we ought to think he has an
especial care of him. La Forêt, his old esquire, accosted him as he was
going away. “I am delighted to see you,” said Fouquet to him; “I know
your fidelity and affection: tell my wife and mother not to despair,
that my courage remains, and that I am in good health.” Is not this
admirable? Adieu, my dear sir; let us be like him; let us have courage,
and dwell on the joy occasioned by the glorious sentence of Saturday.
Madame de Grignan is dead.[287]
[287] Angélique Claire d’Angennes, M. de Grignan’s first wife.
Friday Evening.
It seems, by your thanks, as if you were giving me my dismissal; but I
will not receive it yet. I intend to write to you whenever I please,
and as soon as I have the verses from Pont-neuf, I shall send them to
you. Our dear friend is still upon the road: it was reported that he
had been ill; every body exclaimed, “What! already?” It was reported
also that M. d’Artagnan had sent to court to know what he was to do
with his sick prisoner, and that he had been answered unfeelingly,
that he must proceed with him, however ill he might be. This is all
false: but it shows the general feeling, and the danger of furnishing
materials with which to build whatever horrid castles we please.
Pecquet and Lavalée are still in the Bastille: this conduct is truly
unaccountable. The chamber will be resumed after the Epiphany.
I should think the poor exiles must be arrived ere this at the place of
their destination. When our poor friend has reached his, I will inform
you; for we must follow him to Pignerol: would to God we could bring
him thence to the place we wish![288] And how much longer, my dear sir,
will be your exile? I often think of this. A thousand compliments to
your father. I have been told your wife is here: I shall call upon her.
I supped last night with one of your lady friends, and we talked of
paying you a visit.
[288] It was the general opinion that Fouquet died in prison in
the year 1680. See _Le Siècle de Louis XIV_, and the note at the
beginning of the letter dated April 3, 1680.
LETTERS TO HER SON THE MARQUIS DE SÉVIGNÉ.[289]
[289] This only son of Madame de Sévigné inherited neither her
genius, her virtues, nor her energy of character. She treated him
always with great kindness, but was never blind to his faults.
Her judicious management seems to have had a salutary effect on
him, after the follies of his youth were over. He reformed in a
measure, and, in 1684, married Jeanne Marguerite de Brenant de
Mauron of a noble and rich family. This alliance was a great joy
to Madame de Sévigné, and it is to the illness of this beloved
daughter-in-law that she alludes in the second letter.
LETTER I.
PARIS, August 5, 1684.
While I am expecting your letters, I must relate to you a very amusing
little history. You remember how much you regretted Mademoiselle de
***, and how unfortunate you thought yourself in having missed her for
a wife: “Your best friends had all conspired against your happiness;
Madame de Lavardin and Madame de la Fayette had done you irreparable
injury! A young lady of noble birth, great beauty, and ample fortune,
was lost to you; surely a man must be doomed never to marry, and to
die like a beggar, to let such an opportunity escape him, when it was
in his own power! The Marquis de *** was not such a fool; he has made
his fortune, and is settled. You must certainly have been born under
an unlucky planet to miss such a match! Only observe her conduct; she
is a saint; an example to all married women.” You remember all this, I
suppose, my dear son, and that till you married Mademoiselle de Mauron,
you were ready to hang yourself; you could not have done better than
you have done: but now for the sequel.
All those amiable qualities of her youth, which made Madame de la
Fayette say she would not have her for a daughter-in-law if she could
bring millions to her son, were happily directed to the service of
religion: God was her lover, the only object of her affection, all
her desires centered in this single passion; but as every thing was
in extremes with her, her poor head could not bear the excess of zeal
and fervent devotion with which it was filled; and, to satisfy the
overflowings of her Magdalen heart, she resolved to profit by good
examples, by reading the Lives of the Holy Fathers of the Desert,
and of Female Penitents. She wished to become herself the heroine
of such admirable histories, and, full of this idea, left her house
and family about a fortnight ago, and, taking with her only five or
six pistoles, and a little foot-boy, set out at four o’clock in the
morning, and, taking a post-chaise at the skirts of the town, drove to
Rouen, fatigued and covered with mud. When she got there, she bargained
for a passage in a ship bound for the Indies: it was there, it seems,
God had called her; it was there she was to lead a life of penitence
and humiliation; it was there the map had pointed out to her an abode,
which invited her to pass the rest of her days in sackcloth and ashes;
it was there the Abbé Zosimus[290] was to visit her, and administer
to her the last holy rites before she expired. Satisfied with this
resolution, and convinced that Heaven inspired her with it, she
discharged her foot-boy, and sent him home to his own country, while
she waited with great impatience the departure of the ship: her good
angel consoled her for the delay; she piously forgot husband, daughter,
father, and relations, exclaiming:
Çà! courage, mon cœur, point de faiblesse humaine.[291]
[290] A famous hermit of the sixth century, who came on the
eve of every Good Friday to give the sacrament to St. Mary the
Egyptian, in a desert cave on the banks of the river Jordan. See
the Lives of the Fathers of the Desert.
[291] Courage, my heart! disdain all human weakness.
And now the moment arrived in which her prayers are heard; the happy
moment that was to separate her for ever from her native land; she
follows the law of the Gospel; she leaves all to follow Christ.
In the mean time, however, her family missed her, and finding she did
not return to dinner, sent to all the churches in the neighborhood;
she was not there. They supposed she would return at night; no
tidings were heard of her. They now begin to be uneasy, the servants
are all questioned, they can give no account of her further than
that she had taken her foot-boy with her. “She must certainly be at
her country-house.” No. “Where can she possibly be?” A messenger is
dispatched to the Curé of St. Jacques-du-Haut-Pas; the curé says he has
not had the direction of her conscience for a considerable time; for,
being a simple, honest man, and having observed her full of strange
chimerical ideas of religion, he would have nothing to do with her.
Every one was now at a loss what to think; two, three, four days, a
week passed, still no news of her; at length her friends thought of
sending to some of the sea-ports, and, by mere accident, found her at
Rouen, on the point of setting out for Dieppe, and from thence to the
other extremity of the globe. They secure her, and bring her back, a
little disconcerted at being disappointed of her journey:
J’allais, j’étais, l’amour a sur moi tant d’empire.[292]
[292] I went, I came, impelled by mighty Love.
A lady to whom she had imparted her design, revealed the whole to her
family, who, in despair at her folly, would fain have concealed it
from her husband, who happened to be absent from Paris at that time,
and who would have been better pleased at an exploit of gallantry in
his amiable consort, than such a ridiculous expedition as this. The
husband’s mother came to Madame de Lavardin, and, bathed in tears,
related the whole story, while the latter could scarcely refrain from
laughing in her face; and the next time she saw my daughter, asked her
if she could forgive her for having been the instrument of preventing
her brother from marrying this pretty creature. Madame de la Fayette
was also, in her turn, informed of this tragical story, and repeated it
to me with great glee. She desires me to ask you if you are still angry
with her; she maintains that no one can ever repent he did not marry a
mad woman.
We dare not mention a syllable of this to Mademoiselle de Grignan,[293]
her friend, who for some time past, has been ruminating upon a
pilgrimage, and, as a preparative, has lately observed a profound
silence toward us all. What think you of this curious narration? Has it
tired you? Are you satisfied now? Adieu, my son. Marshal de Schomberg
is marching to Germany at the head of twenty-five thousand men, to
hasten the emperor’s signing.[294] The gazette will inform you of the
rest. Adieu.
[293] Sister of Count de Grignan.
[294] This relates to the truce which was on the point of being
concluded at Ratisbon, and was published at Paris on the 5th of
October following.
LETTER II.
GRIGNAN, September 20, 1695.
And so you are at our poor Rocks, my dear children, experiencing there
the sweets of tranquillity, exempt from all duties and all fatigues,
and our dear little marchioness can breathe again! Good heavens! how
well you describe to me her situation, and her extreme delicacy! I
am so affected at it, and I enter so affectionately into your ideas,
that my heart is oppressed, and tears rush into my eyes. It is to
be hoped that you will only have the merit of bearing your sorrows
with resignation and submission; but if God should appoint otherwise,
like all unforeseen events, it would turn out differently from your
expectations; I will believe, however, that this dear being will
last, with care, as long as any one; we have a thousand examples of
recovery. Has not Mademoiselle de la Trousse suffered from almost every
kind of disorder? In the mean time, my dear child, I enter into your
feelings with infinite affection, and from the bottom of my heart. You
do me justice when you say you are afraid of affecting me too much by
relating to me the state of your mind; it does indeed affect me, be
assured I feel for you keenly. I hope this letter will find you calmer
and happier. Paris seems to be quite out of your thoughts, on account
of our marchioness. You are thinking only of Bourbon and the spring.
Continue to inform me of your plans, and do not leave me in ignorance
of any thing that concerns you.
Give me some account of the letters of the 23d and 30th of August.
There was also a note for Galois, which I desired M. Branjon to pay.
Give me an answer upon this subject. The good Branjon is married; he
has written me a very charming letter upon the occasion. Let me know
whether the match is as good as he represents it to be. The lady is
related to all the parliament, and to M. d’Arouys. Explain this to
me, my child. I also addressed a letter to you for our Abbé Charrier.
He will be sorry not to see you again; and M. de Toulon! you express
yourself well respecting this ox; it is for him to tame him, and for
you to stand firm where you are. Return the abbé’s letter to Quimperlé.
With regard to your poor sister’s health, it is not at all good. It is
no longer her loss of blood that alarms us, for that is over; but she
does not recover her strength; she is still so much altered that you
would scarcely know her, because her stomach does not regain its tone,
and no food seems to nourish her; this arises from the bad state of
her liver, of which you know she has long complained. It is so serious
an evil that I am really alarmed at it. Remedies might be used for her
liver, but they are unfavorable to the loss of blood, which we are in
continual apprehension may return, and which has produced a bad effect
upon the afflicted part. These two maladies, which require opposite
medicines, reduce her to a truly pitiable situation. Time, we hope,
will repair this devastation; I sincerely wish it; and if we enjoy this
blessing, we shall go to Paris with all expedition. This is the point
to which we are arrived, and which must be cleared up; I will be very
faithful in my communications.
This languor makes us say little yet of the return of the warriors. I
do not doubt, however, that the business will be concluded; it is too
far advanced: but it will be without any great joy; and even if we go
to Paris, they would set out two days after, to avoid the air of a
wedding, and visits, which they wish not to receive; _a burnt child,
etc._
As to M. de St. Amant’s grief, of which such a parade has been made
at Paris, it was founded upon my daughter’s having really proved by
memorandums, which she has showed to us all, that she had paid her
son nine thousand francs out of ten she had promised him; and having
in consequence sent him only a thousand, M. de St. Amant said he was
cheated, that they wanted to take advantage of him, and that he would
give no more, having already given the fifteen thousand francs of
his daughter’s portion (which he laid out at Paris in stock, and for
which he has the estates that were given up to him here,) and that the
marquis must seek for assistance in that quarter. You may suppose that
when _that quarter_ has paid, it may occasion some little chagrin; but
it is at an end. M. de St. Amant thought in himself that it would not
be advisable to quarrel with my daughter; so he came here as gentle as
a lamb, wishing for nothing but to please and to take his daughter back
with him to Paris; which he has done, though, in good truth, she ought
to have waited for us; but the advantage of being in the same house
with her husband, in that beautiful mansion of M. de St. Amant; of
being handsomely lodged, and living sumptuously at no expense; made my
daughter consent without hesitation to accept all these comforts. But
we did not see her depart without tears, for she is very amiable; and
was so much affected at bidding us adieu, that it could scarcely have
been supposed she was going to lead a life of pleasure in the midst of
plenty. She had become very fond of our society. She set out with her
father on the first of this month.
Be assured, my son, that no Grignan intends you harm; that you are
beloved by all; and that if this trifle had been a serious thing, they
would have felt that you would have taken as much interest in it as you
have done.
M. de Grignan is still at Versailles; we expect him shortly, for the
sea is clear, and Admiral Russel, who is no longer to be seen, will
give him leave to come here.
I shall seek for the two little writings you mention. I rely much upon
your taste. The letters to M. de la Trappe are books we can not send,
though in manuscript. You shall read them at Paris, where I still hope
to see you, for I love you in a much greater degree than you can love
me. It is the order of nature, and I do not complain.
I inclose you a letter from Madame de Chaulnes, which I send to you
entire, from confidence in your prudence. You will justify yourself
in things to which you well know what answer to make, and will pay no
attention to those that may offend you. I have said for myself all I
had to say, waiting for your answer respecting what I did not know;
and I added that I would inform you of what the duchess told me. Write
to her, therefore, candidly, as having learned from me what she writes
respecting you. After all, you should preserve this connection; they
love you, and have rendered you service; you must not wound gratitude.
I have said that you owed obligations to the intendant. But to you, my
child, I say, is this friendship incompatible with your ancient leagues
with the first president and the attorney-general? Is it necessary
that you should break with your old friends for the sake of securing
an intendant! M. de Pommereuil did not exact such conduct. I have also
said that you ought to be heard, and that it was impossible you should
have neglected to congratulate the attorney-general upon the marriage
of his daughter. In short, my child, defend yourself, and tell me what
you say, that I may second you.
LETTERS TO THE COUNT DE GRIGNAN.[295]
FROM 1670 TO 1696.
[295] Count de Grignan was of an ancient and noble Provençal
family. He was rich, and held a high office, that of
Lieutenant-General of the Government of Provence; and as the
governor, Vendôme, was rarely in his place, M. de Grignan was
virtually the governor. He had been twice married before his
union with Madame de Sévigné’s daughter, and it seems likely,
considering the fashion of those times, and indeed of French
marriages now, the mother was influenced by ambition. She found
it did not confer happiness. The count was extravagant and fond
of play, though he seems to have been a kind husband; still it
is evident that Madame de Sévigné was constrained in her letters
to him. She compliments him, professes much affection, and was
always on friendly terms with him, because he was the husband of
her darling daughter. But her letters to him never go beyond this.
LETTER I.
PARIS, Wednesday, 23d June, 1670.
You have written me the most charming letter in the world. I should
have answered it much sooner, had I not known that you were traversing
your province. I should likewise have sent you the music you desired,
but have not yet been able to procure it: in the mean time let me
tell you that I love you most affectionately, and if that is capable
of giving you the satisfaction you assure me it does, you ought to be
the most contented man in the world. You must certainly be so in the
correspondence you carry on with my daughter; it appears to me very
animated on her part, and I do not think any one can love another more
than she does you. I hope to return her to you safe and sound, with a
little one the same, or I will burn my books. I am not very skillful
indeed my self; but I can ask advice, and follow it, and my daughter on
her side takes all possible care of herself.
LETTER II.
PARIS, Wednesday, Aug. 6, 1670.
Is it not true that I have given you the prettiest wife in the world?
and can any one be more prudent, more regular in her conduct? Can any
one love you more, have more Christian sentiments, long more ardently
to be with you, or attend more strictly to the duties of her station?
It is ridiculous enough to say all this of my own daughter; but I
admire her as other people do, and perhaps more, as I am more an
eyewitness of her behavior; and to own the truth to you, whatever good
opinion I had of her as to the principal points, I never thought she
would have been so exact as she is in all the minuter ones. I assure
you, every body does her justice, and she loses none of the praises
which are so much her due.
LETTER III.
PARIS, Friday, August 15, 1670.
When I write to you so frequently, you must remember that it is on
condition that you do not answer me. Relying on this, I shall proceed
to tell you that I am heartily rejoiced at the many honors that are
conferred on you. It appears to me that the commandant has less share
in them than M. de Grignan himself; and I think I see a partiality for
you that another would not experience.
I find there is so brisk a correspondence kept up between a certain
lady and you, that it would be ridiculous to give you any news. I
have not so much as a hope of acquainting you that she loves you: her
every action, her whole conduct, with all her little anxieties and
cares about you, tell it plain enough. I am very delicate in the point
of friendship, and pretend to know something about it, and I own to
you that I am perfectly satisfied with what I see, and could not wish
it to be greater. Enjoy this pleasure to the utmost, and never be
ungrateful. If there is any little vacant place in your heart, allow
me the pleasure of occupying it; for, I assure you, you hold a very
considerable one in mine.
LETTER IV.
PARIS, Wednesday, December 10, 1670.
Madame de Coulanges has told me several times that you love me
sincerely, that you talk of me, that you wish me with you. As I made
the first advances toward this friendship, and loved first, you may
judge how happy I am to find that you return the partiality I have so
long had for you. All that you write of your daughter is admirable,
and I had no doubt that the good health of the mother would comfort
you for your disappointment. The joy I should have had in acquainting
you with the birth of a son would have been too great--it would have
been showering too many blessings at once; and the pleasure I naturally
take in being the messenger of good news, would have been carried to
excess. I shall soon be in the same condition you saw me in last year.
I must love you extremely to send my daughter to you at this inclement
season of the year. How foolish it is to leave a good mother, with
whom you assure me she is very well satisfied, to run after a man at
the furthest end of France! I give you my word, nothing can be more
indecorous than such behavior. I do believe you were greatly concerned
at the death of the amiable duchess. I was so afflicted myself that I
stood in need of comfort while I was writing to you about it.
My daughter desires me to acquaint you with the marriage of Monsieur
de Nevers;[296] that Monsieur de Nevers who was so difficult to be
caught, who used to slip so unexpectedly through the hands of the
fair, is at length going to wed. And whom think you? Not Mademoiselle
de Houdancourt, nor yet Mademoiselle de Grancei, but the young, the
handsome, the modest Mademoiselle de Thianges,[297] who was brought
up at the Abbaye aux Bois. Madame de Montespan[298] has the wedding
solemnized at her house next Sunday; she acts as mother on the
occasion, and receives the honors as such. The king restored Monsieur
de Nevers to all his posts, so that this _belle_, though she does
not bring him a penny of fortune, will be worth more to him than the
richest heiress in France. Madame de Montespan does wonders in every
thing.
[296] Philip Julian Mazarini Mancini, Duke of Nevers.
[297] Diana Gabriel de Damas, daughter of Claud Leonor, Marquis
de Thianges, and Gabriel de Rochechouart Mortemar, sister to
Madame de Montespan.
[298] Then mistress to Louis XIV.
I forbid you to write to me. Write to my daughter, and leave me to the
freedom of writing to you, without embarking you in a train of answers
which would rob me of the pleasure I have in acquainting you with every
little trifle. Continue to love me, my dear count. I dispense with your
honoring my motherly dignity, but you must love me, and assure yourself
that there is not a place in the world where you are so dearly beloved
as you are here.
LETTER V.
PARIS, Friday, January 16, 1671.
Alas! the poor dear child is still with me, for it was utterly
impossible for her, do what she would, to have set out the 10th of
this month, as she all along hoped and intended to do. The rains have
been, and are still, so very violent that it would have been downright
folly to have attempted it. The rivers are overflowed, the roads are
all under water, and the carriage-tracks so covered that she would have
run the risk of being overturned in every ford. In short, things are
in such a state that Madame de Rochefort, who is at her country-seat,
and is absolutely wild to be in Paris, where she is expected with the
greatest impatience by her husband and mother, does not dare to venture
till the roads are a little safer. Indeed, the winter is perfectly
dreadful. We have not had an hour’s frost, but there has been a
continual deluge of rain every day. Not a boat can pass under any of
the bridges; the arches of the Pont Neuf are in a manner choked up. In
short, it is something more than common. I own to you, that seeing the
season so very inclement, I warmly opposed her setting out. I would
not stop her for the cold, the dirt, or the fatigues of the journey,
but methinks I would not have her drowned. Yet, strong as the reasons
are for her stay, nothing could have prevailed on her had not the
coadjutor, who is to go with her, been engaged to perform the marriage
ceremony of his cousin De Harcourt,[299] which is to be solemnized at
the Louvre. Monsieur de Leonne is to stand proxy. The king has spoken
to the coadjutor upon this subject, but the affair has been put off day
after day, and may not be finished this week. My poor daughter is in
such extreme impatience to be gone that the time she now passes with
us can not be called living; and if the coadjutor does not disengage
himself from this same wedding, I think I see her ready to commit an
act of folly by setting out without him. It would be so extraordinary
to go by herself, and so happy on the contrary to have a brother-in-law
to accompany her, that I shall do all in my power to prevent their
separation. In the mean time the waters may be a little drained off.
But I can assure you that I have no sort of pleasure in her company.
I know that she must leave us. All that passes now is mere ceremony
and preparation. We make no parties, we take no amusement; our hearts
are heavy, and we talk of nothing but rains, bad roads, and dreadful
stories of persons who have lost their lives in attempting to pass them.
[299] Mary Angelica Henrietta of Lorraine, married the 7th
February, 1671, to Nugno Alvares Pereira de Mello, Duke of
Cadaval in Portugal.
LETTER VI.
THE ROCKS, Sunday, August 9, 1671.
You alone, my dear count, could have prevailed on me to give my
daughter to a Provençal; this is truth, as Caderousse and Merrinville
will witness for me; for if I had liked the latter as well as you, I
should not have found so many expedients to prevent a conclusion, and
she had been his. Do not entertain the least doubt of my having the
highest opinion of you; a moment’s reflection will convince you I am
sincere. I am not at all surprised that my daughter does not mention
me to you; she served me just the same by you last year; believe,
therefore, whether she tells you so or not, that I never forget you.
I think I hear her scold, and say, “Ah! this is a pretense of yours
to excuse your own laziness.” I shall leave you to dispute this among
yourselves, and assure you that, though you are perhaps the most
happily formed for general love and esteem of any man in the world,
yet you never were, and never will be, more sincerely loved by any one
than by me. I wish for you every day in my mall; but you are proud; I
see that you expect me to visit you first; you may think yourself very
happy that I am not an old woman, but am resolved to enjoy the remains
of life and health in taking that journey: our abbé seems to have as
strong an inclination to go there as myself; that is one good thing.
Adieu, my dear Grignan, love me always; treat me with a sight of you,
and you shall see my woods.
LETTER VII.
PARIS, June 20, 1673.
Come hither, my son-in-law. So, then, you are resolved to send my
daughter back to me in the first coach; you are displeased with her,
and quite angry that she admires your castle, and think that she takes
too great a liberty in pretending to reside there and command in every
thing. As you say you hate every thing that is worthy of hatred, you
certainly must hate her. I enter into all your displeasure; you could
not have addressed yourself to one who feels the force of it better
than myself. But do you know, after what you have said, that you make
me tremble to hear you talk of wishing me at Grignan, and I am quite
inconsolable for that reason; for there is nothing in futurity so dear
to me as the hope of seeing you there; and whatever I may say, I am
persuaded that you will be very glad of it too, and that you love me;
it is impossible it should be otherwise; I love you so well, that the
same sentiments must necessarily pass from me to you, and from you to
me. I commend the care of my daughter’s health to you above all earthly
things; watch over it, be absolute master in all that regards it; do
not behave as you did at the bridge of Avignon; keep your authority
in this one point, and in every thing else leave her to her own way;
she is more skillful than you. Ah, how I pity you for having lost the
pleasure of receiving her letters! You were much happier a year ago;
would to God you had that pleasure now, and I had the mortification of
seeing and embracing her! Adieu, my dearest count, though I believe you
are as much beloved as any man in the world, yet I do not think that
any of your mothers-in-law[300] ever loved you so well as I do.
[300] Madame de Sévigné was the third.
LETTER VIII.
THE ROCKS, July, 1614.
You flatter me too much, my dear count; I shall accept of but one part
of your fine speeches, and that is the thanks you return me for having
given you a wife, that constitutes all your happiness; for, indeed,
I think I contributed a little toward it: but the authority you have
acquired over her in Provence, has been wholly owing to yourself, to
your merit, your birth, and your conduct; all this I have nothing to
do with. Ah! how much you lose by my heart not being at ease! Le Camus
is delighted with me; he tells me I sing his airs extremely well: he
certainly composes divinely; but I am so dull and woebegone, that I
can learn nothing. You would sing them like an angel; I assure you Le
Camus has a high opinion both of your voice and judgment. I regret the
loss of these little accomplishments which we are too apt to neglect.
Why should we lose them? I have always said that we ought not to part
with them, and that they can never be an incumbrance; but what is to be
done with a rope round the neck? You have given my daughter one of the
most delightful journeys in the world; she is quite enchanted with it;
but then you have dragged her over hills and dales, and exposed her to
the dangers of the Alps, and to the uncivil waves of the Mediterranean;
in short, I have a month’s mind to chide you for it; but let me first
embrace you most affectionately.
LETTER IX.
THE ROCKS, November 6, 1675.
Count, I am delighted to hear that my daughter is satisfied with you.
Allow me to thank you by reason of the great interest I take in your
affairs, and which I entreat you to preserve. You can not fail of this
without ingratitude, and without doing injustice to the blood of the
Adhémars. I have read, in the Crusades, of one of these who was an
illustrious personage six hundred years ago. He was beloved as you are,
and would never have given a moment’s uneasiness to such a wife as
yours. His death was lamented by an army of three hundred thousand men,
and mourned by all the princes in Christendom. Not many pages after I
find a castellane, not altogether so ancient; he is, indeed, a mere
modern; it was but five hundred and twenty years since he made a great
figure. I conjure you, therefore, by these two noble ancestors, who are
my particular friends, to be guided by Madame de Grignan, and consider
how much you will consult your own interest in doing so.
LETTERS TO THE PRESIDENT DE MOULCEAU.[301]
FROM 1681 TO 1682.
[301] M. de Moulceau was President of the Chamber of Accounts
of Montpellier. It appears that Madame de Sévigné, at the time
of her journey into Provence, had found him on terms of strict
friendship with M. and Madame de Grignan, and M. de Vardes and
Corbinelli, and that she was so sensible of his worth and the
charms of his mind as to enter into a correspondence with him.
But we remark with astonishment that no mention is made of this
interesting man in any of the preceding letters.
LETTER I.
PARIS, Friday, January 8, 1681.
I should be very sorry, sir, if our correspondence were to end with
the temple of Montpellier; and all you say to this effect, in doing
the honors of your letters, by supposing the assurance of their
continuance to contain a threat to me, is so ungenerous that I should
be disposed to scold you; nor would the pretty turn you have given to
this guarantee you from my reproaches, were it not that the letter
you have written to my son makes me eager to tell you how much it has
delighted me. The neatness of the beginning has reminded me of our
merry stories, and the beauty of the verses has made me regret that you
have not continued them in good earnest. If you have done so, let us
share the pleasure of reading them. The two Latin verses you explain
are very just. In short, we esteem your verse, your prose, and all
your productions. My son is still your adorer; my daughter admires and
esteems you in the highest degree. I presume you know my own sentiments
for you, and that you see plainly there is not a family in the world
who so justly appreciates your merit. You do the same in regard to
M. de Carcassonne, by praising him as you do. The poor chevalier
has been here for these six weeks, laid up with the rheumatism. He
receives visits from persons almost as lame as himself. Those who are
left-handed show at least that their taste is right. You have returned
M. de Noailles to us in a very ill state of health. He has so violent
a diarrhœa that it seems as if he had eaten to his own share all that
he has expended at Montpellier; in short, he has been obliged to resign
the staff, the staff that was the object of his love, the staff he
went so far to assume, the staff which was the reward of all his other
services. It is natural to suppose that he must be very ill, when he
gives it himself to M. de Luxembourg. You say much in his favor when
you speak of the distinction and expansion of heart he showed you. I
wish his generosity had gone so far as to have induced him to return
our mortified friend’s visit.[302] Have I not heard you say that we
ought to respect the unfortunate? It can not be doubted that this
has increased the mortification. I pity him for having suffered this
feeling to take possession of him, and to have surmounted even his
Christian philosophy; but I pity him still more if your heart be yet
closed against him. A friend like you would be a true consolation in
all his afflictions. Our _friend_ (Corbinelli) is entirely occupied
here with his affairs. He does wonders. He is become the best lawyer
in Paris; and this qualification came to him unexpectedly along with
his peruke and brandenbourg, so that we should much sooner have taken
him for a captain of cavalry than a man of business. It is thus the
exterior often deceives us. If M. de Vardes had not thrown him into
this employment, his gratitude and inclination would lead him straight
to you. His heart is still perfect in all the moral virtues. They will
become Christian virtues when it shall please Providence, whom we still
adore, and who seems to treat you well, by the sentiments it inspires
you with. Adieu, my dear sir. We should have many things to say to
each other if we met. Who knows that some day or other we may not? Our
friend writes to you separately; so much the worse for him: he will not
know that I have the pleasure of assuring you here of my sincere and
faithful friendship.
[302] Anne Jules, Duke de Noailles, had been nominated to the
command in Languedoc, of which the Duke du Maine, then too young
to take it upon himself, had just been appointed governor.
Preparations were making for the destruction of Calvinism.
In conjunction with the intendant d’Aguesseau, father of the
celebrated chancellor, Noailles endeavored for a long time
to engage the court to employ mild measures; and even in the
execution of the most rigorous he at first showed some humanity;
but he afterward became one of the most violent persecutors, and
his dispatches, concerted with Louvois, did not fail to excite
the king to rigors of which he too late repented.
It appears that he thought he could not, with propriety, in the
situation he held, return the visit of M. de Vardes, then an
exile, and whom Madame de Sévigné designates by the title of the
mortified friend.
LETTER II.
PARIS, April 17, 1682.
If you are alarmed at the appearance of my neglect, be assured, sir,
it is a false alarm, and that appearances are deceitful; you do not
suffer yourself to be forgotten; Rochecourbières, Livri, and the days
in which we have seen you, are faithful guarantees of what I say; and
I am certain you believe it, and that, being so well informed on every
other subject, Christian humility does not prevent you from knowing
your own worth. It is a truth, therefore; you can not be forgotten.
Our _friend_ and I have said a thousand times, “Let us write to this
poor _reprobate_”; but by continually delaying it, we have embarrassed
ourselves by our miserable security. It seems to me as if Montpellier
has given a great deal to the jubilee. You know what a horror
Corbinelli has of this sort of parade, which he calls hypocrisy. I do
not know exactly how he has acted upon the occasion, and I have not
dared question him; but, considering the extreme respect he has for
this holy mystery, and how rigorously he enters into the preparations
for it, of which he will not abate a single iota, I have long been
tempted to say to him, _basta la meta_ (the half is sufficient); for,
in fact, if all the faithful were to follow his ideas upon the subject,
the ceremonials of religion would be done away. This is the inspiration
of God, and whether it be light or dereliction, some great change must
happen to alter his opinion. M. de Vardes has put the same question to
him, that you put to me on his jubilee; he has answered very honestly,
and has given him a _probet autem semetipsum homo_, which may occasion
great reflections. This is all I can tell you; you know and love the
soil, for, indeed, the more his heart is known, the more it must be
admired. I perceive his departure approach, and I perceive it with
sorrow; but what may not Providence reserve for M. de Vardes? M. de
Bussy is recalled after an exile of eighteen years; he has seen the
king, who received him most graciously: these are times of justice and
clemency; we not only do what is well, but what is perfectly well; I
doubt not, therefore, that this poor exile’s turn will come, and every
one else believes it so firmly that if any thing can do him injury,
it is this general report. You tell me the most agreeable truth I can
hear, in assuring me the young people will bring from Languedoc all
the politeness which failed them here.[303] They appear to me like the
Germans who are sent to Angers to learn the language; they were Germans
in manners, and if they had not learned them out of court, would seem
to conduct themselves ridiculously. It is easy to comprehend that,
having had so good a master as M. de Vardes for six months, they must
have profited more than they had done during their whole life.
[303] This refers to the daughter and son-in-law of M. de Vardes
(M. and Madame de Rohan), who had spent six months with him at
Montpellier.
LETTER III.
PARIS, May 26, 1682.
Were you not very much surprised, sir, to see M. de Vardes slip through
your fingers, whom you had held so firmly for nineteen years? This
is the time Providence had marked out for him; in reality, he was no
longer thought of, he appeared forgotten, and sacrificed to example.
The king, who reflects and arranges every thing in his head, declared
one morning that M. de Vardes would be at court in two or three days;
he said he had written to him by the post, that he wished to surprise
him, and that for more than six months no one had mentioned his name
to him. His majesty was gratified; he wished to create surprise,
and every one was surprised; never did intelligence make so great
an impression, nor so great a noise, as this. In short, he arrived
on Saturday morning, with a head singular in its kind, and an old
justaucorps à brevet,[304] such as was worn in the year 1663. He set
one knee to the ground in the king’s chamber, M. de Chateauneuf being
the only person present. The king told him that while his heart had
been wounded he had not recalled him, but that he now recalled him with
a whole heart, and that he was glad to see him. M. de Vardes made an
admirable reply, with an air of being deeply affected, and the gift
of tears, which God has given him, produced no ill effect upon this
occasion. After this first interview, the king caused the dauphin to
be called, and presented him to him as a young courtier. M. de Vardes
recognized, and saluted him; the king said to him, laughing: “Vardes,
this is a blunder; you know that no one is saluted in my presence.” M.
de Vardes replied in the same tone: “Sire, I have forgotten everything;
your majesty must pardon even thirty blunders.” “Well, I will,” said
the king; “stop at the twenty-ninth.” The king afterward laughed at
his coat. M. de Vardes said, “Sire, when a man is so wretched as to
be banished from your presence, he is not only unfortunate, but he
becomes ridiculous.” All this was said in a tone of perfect freedom and
playfulness. The courtiers performed wonders. He came one day to Paris,
and called upon me; I was just gone out to call upon him, but he found
my son and daughter at home, and in the evening I found him at his own
house: it was a joyful meeting; I mentioned our friend to him. “What,
madam! my master! my intimate friend! the man in the world to whom I
owe the greatest obligations! can you doubt that I love him with my
whole heart?” This pleased me highly. He resides with his daughter at
Versailles. The court goes to-day; I suppose he will return, to catch
the king again at Auxerre, for it appears to all his friends that he
ought to take this journey, in which he will certainly pay his court
well, by bestowing the most natural praises on three little things--the
troops, the fortifications, and his majesty’s conquests. Perhaps our
_friend_ will tell you all this, and my letter will be only a miserable
echo; but, at any rate, I have entered into the minutiæ, because I
should like, on such an occasion, to be written to in the same style,
and I judge you, my dear sir, by myself; I have often been deceived
by others, but never by you. It is said that your worthy and generous
friend, M. de Noailles, has rendered very important services to M.
de Vardes; he is so generous that it is impossible to doubt this. M.
de Calvisson is arrived; this must either break off, or conclude our
marriage. In reality, I am weary of this tedious affair, I am not in a
humor to talk of any thing but M. de Vardes. M. de Vardes forever; he
is the Gospel of the day.
[304] This was a blue great-coat, embroidered with gold and
silver, which distinguished the principal courtiers: an especial
permission was necessary to wear it. The fashion had passed when
Vardes returned to court.
LETTER IV.
PARIS, July 28, 1682
You are going to hear a beautiful and an admirable story; pay great
attention to every circumstance attending it. The Prince de Conti
having expressed himself dissatisfied with the Chevalier de Lorraine,
because he had said the Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon was in love with
his wife, found an opportunity of telling him, two days ago, in the
gardens of Versailles, that he would do him the honor of fighting him,
because he had offended him by his conversation, etc. The Chevalier
de Lorraine thanked him for the honor he intended him, and wished to
justify himself in what he had said; after which the prince told him
that he might have M. de Marsan for his second, who, hearing himself
named, stepped forward and accepted the office without hesitation,
desiring the Prince de Conti to allow M. de Soissons to be the other
second, as he had long been an enemy to their family. The proposal
was yielded to, the party was formed, the place appointed, the hour
chosen, and secrecy enjoined. Can not you fancy yourself in the times
of the late M. de Boutteville? Each went his way; but the Chevalier de
Lorraine went straight to Monsieur, to whom he related the whole story,
and Monsieur the next moment confided it to the king. You may guess
what he said to his son-in-law. He talked to him for more than two
hours with more of gayety than anger, but in a tone of authority, which
must have caused great repentance. Here the affair ended. The public
thinks the Chevalier de Lorraine ought to have refused upon the spot,
instead of consenting and then betraying every thing; but people of the
trade think that a refusal would have excited some angry words from the
prince, and perhaps some menace not very easy of digestion; and then
to have such a stigma cast upon him, and from a man who is so much to
be dreaded! In this way his conduct has been approved, and the more so
because his courage is unquestionable. What say you to this affair? How
does it appear to you to be handled? Alas! if that sainted princess
were to descend from heaven, and to find her dear son troubled with
such impetuosity, do you not think she would retrace her steps from
grief and affliction? You will talk this over with M. de Vardes. Would
to God that the birth of a Duke of Burgundy, which is hourly expected,
could restore him to us!
LETTER V.
June 13, 1684.
Word was sent me from Languedoc that I had a law-suit pending there,
that M. de Grignan was prosecuted with rigor, and that the judges were
strange people. I cursed them heartily, sir, and have since found that
you are one of the principals: it is _you_, therefore, I have loaded
with so many imprecations, you, whose protection I have claimed to
soften the rigor and to attend to the justice of my cause. It is to M.
d’Argouges I am indebted for the information, that this odious judge
and this highly-esteemed M. de Moulceau, are one and the same. All
the anger kindled against the first, has disappeared at the name of
the second, and the weapons have fallen from my hand, like those of
Arcabonne, when she recognized Amadis. It is to M. de Moulceau that
I address this quotation from the opera; you will suppose, that, in
virtue of your title of judge, I shall quote nothing but laws to you.
There is one established law in the world, particularly among honest
men, which is, never to condemn unheard: in this, sir, consists the
favor I have to ask you. The Prince de Conti claims an estate of which
we have been in possession for three hundred years. I know, from M.
de Corbinelli, that three hundred years is a strong title; we request
you, sir, to give us time to collect our proofs, to convince you of the
weakness of the Prince de Conti’s claim and of the solidity of ours.
LETTER VI.
PARIS, November, 24, 1685.
I have received no letter from you for more than fifteen months; I
know not whether our enraged and jealous friend[305] has intercepted
any; it is not, however, like him to do so; he would be more inclined
to assassinate you with the little sword you once used so pleasantly
in the garden of Rambouillet. We shall never forget your wisdom, nor
your folly; and I have spent a year with my son in Brittany, where we
have often mentioned you with sentiments with which your merit must
impress all hearts that are not unworthy of knowing it. We have been
twenty times on the point of writing some nonsense to you; we wished
to assure you that the _scarcity of the gratification_ did not prevent
you from being often in our remembrance, and twenty times has the demon
which turns aside good intentions perverted the course of this. At
length, sir, after having been overturned, drowned, and had a wound
in my leg, which has not been healed till within these six weeks, I
left my son, and his wife, who is very pretty, and arrived at Baville,
at M. de Lamoignon’s, on the tenth or twelfth of September, where I
found my daughter and all the Grignans, who received me with joy and
affection. To complete my happiness, my daughter will not leave me this
winter. I have found our dear Corbinelli just as I left him, except
a little more philosophical, and dying every day from some cause or
other: his freedom excites my envy; in changing his object he would
become a saint; he is, however, so kind and charitable to his neighbor,
that I really believe the grace of God is concealed under the name of
Cartesian. He converts more heretics by his good sense, and by not
irritating them by vain disputes, than others by all their controversy.
In short, every one now is a missionary, every one thinks he has a
mission, and particularly the magistrates and governors of provinces,
upheld by the dragoons: this is the greatest and most noble action that
has ever been conceived or performed. Like us, you have been surprised
with other news. What an event is the death of the Prince de Conti!
after having experienced all the perils of the Hungarian war, he came
here to die of a disorder which he scarcely felt! His lovely widow has
deeply bewailed him: she has an annuity of a hundred thousand crowns,
and has received from the king so many marks of friendship, and of his
natural affection for her, that with such assistance no one can doubt
that she will in time be comforted.
[305] A jest which refers to Corbinelli.
LETTER VII.
LIVRI, October 25, 1686.
I have received your letter, sir; it presented itself to me as if you
wished to make me ashamed of my silence, and to believe I had been
ill, for the purpose of entering into conversation with me. It reminds
me of a very pretty comedy, in which the person who wishes to come to
an explanation with the lady who enters, makes her believe she called
him, and thus obtains a hearing. If you have the same intention, sir,
I return you a thousand thanks; and I really can not comprehend how,
esteeming you as I do, remembering you with so much pleasure, speaking
of you so readily, having so high a relish for your understanding and
your worth, _to say no more for fear of exciting jealousy_, I can,
with so many things to promote a correspondence, have left you seven
or eight months without saying a word to you. It is horrible; but
what does it signify? let us remain in this freedom, since it is not
compatible with the sentiments I have just expressed for you. I have
seen M. de la Trousse; we talked of you the moment we had embraced;
I think him, by what he told me, highly deserving the esteem you
appear to entertain for him. The stroke is at least double. I found
him perfectly acquainted with, and as sensible of your worth as you
can possibly desire. He must pass through this place on his way to
La Trousse; I shall show him your letter, and I do not think it will
induce him to change his opinion. You have now M. de Noailles with
you: you are in such favor there that I shall rejoice with you on the
pleasure you will receive at seeing a man whom you have inspired with
such lively sentiments of esteem for you. I can easily imagine the
confusion which the derangement of the states must have occasioned you;
but you can not dispense with going to Nîmes. I must say a word to you
respecting Mademoiselle de Grignan. You know, I presume, that she has
been in the convent of the Carmelites for eight months, and that she
took the habit in form, with a zeal too violent to last. In the first
three months she found herself so reduced, from the severity of the
order, and her stomach so injured by the meagerness of the provision,
that she was obliged to eat meat by compulsion. This inability to
comply with the rules, even in her noviciate, induced her to quit the
convent; but with so true a sentiment of piety, of humiliation at the
delicacy of her health, and of such perfect contempt for the world,
that the holy nuns have preserved an affectionate friendship for her;
and she, who has only changed the habit, and not the sentiment, has
no false shame, like those who grow weary of the life, and is now
with us as usual, giving us the same edification. Her residence at
Paris is fixed at the Feuillantines, where she will board with several
others; she will return there at Martinmas, when we do. What attaches
her to this house is its vicinity to the Carmelites, where she goes
almost daily, and whenever a certain princess is there. She takes from
this holy convent all that agrees with her, that is, its devotion and
conversation, and leaves the strictness of the order, to which she was
by no means equal.
It is thus God has conducted her and gently repulsed her from the high
degree of perfection to which she aspired, to support her in another
a little inferior to it, which can not but be good, since He gives
her grace to love him alone, which is all that can be desired in this
world. But Providence has also inspired her with the most noble, just,
and praiseworthy thought it was possible to conceive for her family.
She was determined that her return to the world should not deprive
her father of what she wished to give him by her civil death: and at
quitting her convent, she made him a very handsome present of forty
thousand crowns, which he owed her; that is, twenty thousand crowns
principal, and the rest arrears and sums borrowed. This gift has been
duly estimated, not only by those who love M. de Grignan, but by
those who knew that all her property becoming personal at the age of
five-and-twenty, if she had not disposed of any thing by will, would go
almost wholly to her father; and that M. de Grignan would have eighty
thousand crowns to pay Mademoiselle d’Alerac, reckoning the principal
of the jointure at forty thousand. This is enough in conscience for
us not to pity the sister, and to rejoice that the family is relieved
from this double payment. I own I have been very much affected at
this seasonable and generous action; and I admire the goodness of her
disposition, which led her to do, without affectation, the only thing
in the world that could render her dear to her family, where she is now
received and considered as its benefactress. The understanding alone
might have wrought this effect in another, but it is best when produced
only by the heart. My daughter has contributed so well to this little
maneuvre, that she has received double pleasure from its success.
The chevalier has also done wonders; for you may suppose it has been
necessary to assist, and give a form to these good intentions. In
short, all has gone well: even Mademoiselle d’Alerac has entered into
the justice of the sentiment. I pray that God may reward her by a good
establishment, of which she still conceals from us every prospect, so
that at present there is no appearance of any thing of the kind. Do I
not weary you, sir, by this long account? you will have an indigestion
of the Grignans. To divert you, let us talk a little of poor Sévigné:
I should mention him with grief if I could not tell you that after
five months of horrible suffering from medicines which worked him to
the very bone, the poor child is at length restored to perfect health.
He has spent the whole of August with me in this retreat, which you
are now acquainted with. We were alone with the good abbé, we had
everlasting conversations, and this long intercourse has renewed
our acquaintance with each other, and our acquaintance renewed our
friendship. He is returned home with a stock of Christian philosophy,
sprinkled with a grain of anchoretism, and particularly with an extreme
affection for his wife, by whom he is equally beloved, which makes him
altogether the happiest man in the world, because he passes his life
agreeably to his own mind. We have talked of you twenty times with
friendship and delight, and twenty times have we said, “Let us write
to him, I wish it very much;” and when we have been on the point of
giving ourselves this pleasure, a demon has stepped in to distract our
attention, and turn aside our good resolutions. What is to be done, my
dear sir, in misfortunes like these? Perhaps you know the mortification
of forming good resolutions without the power of executing them. I fear
our dear jealous friend calculates upon spending the winter with you;
you will be very glad: you will laugh, and I shall cry; for I have so
perfect a confidence in him, and so true a friendship for him, that I
can not lose the society of such a man without feeling it painfully
every moment; M. de Vardes, however, whom he is delighted to follow,
will restore him to us, as he takes him away from us. I am pleased that
this attachment continues; you will act your part well, and I consider
the pleasure of seeing you, and of establishing himself again in your
heart, as a happy circumstance for our friend. M. de Vardes has not
been sufficiently particular in the information you omitted to tell me:
the surest way is to write ourselves, as you see. I do not write to you
often, but you will own when I do that it is not for nothing.
LETTER VIII.
PARIS, November 26, 1686.
I thought, sir, that in purchasing an office, nothing was necessary but
to find money; but I see that the manner of giving and receiving it is
also to be considered. You will soon be quit of this embarrassment,
from the desire you always have to contribute to your own tranquillity.
Good heavens! how rational and how worthy of you is this disposition,
and how just too is the choice of your company, when we come to speak
and point out its excellence! If we judge from appearances, it is
very superior to our parliaments. I can fancy I hear M. and Madame
de Verneuil say a thousand kind things to you, and receive yours in
return. When this princess mentions me, tell her it is impossible to be
more at her service than I am. You have a sister of Madame de la Troche
with you, who is very amiable; the eldest will place all the attentions
you pay her to her own account. I have presented your compliments to
the Chevalier de Grignan, who has received them graciously; he pointed
out to the prince[306] the silence and discretion of your departure;
nothing can exceed his concern and zeal for your interest: but we can
answer for nothing when we are left-handed. What you told me the other
day of a certain discourse he held with a certain person, makes me
exhort you to preserve the noble tranquility I have always witnessed
in you, on the success of this affair. We only returned from Livri
yesterday; the beauty of the weather, and the health of my daughter,
which has been nearly established there, made us stay out of gratitude.
In the two months we have been there, we have not been able to prevail
on our friend to give us his company for more than ten days. He has
a thousand little affairs there, to which he is accustomed: I know
nothing of his intentions with respect to his departure, I almost doubt
whether the society he meets at M. de Vardes’ will not prevent him
from setting out soon. I assure you I shall reap the advantage of his
inclination to do so with pleasure, but I only contribute toward it by
my wishes. Pray inform us how M. de Vardes finds himself in the midst
of this troop of Bohemians; I can not get this vision out of my eyes.
We shall have a thousand things to tell you of the son-in-law;[307] in
short, it struck us the other day that if Homer had been acquainted
with him, he would have chosen him in point of anger for his Achilles.
We have a new prince and a new princess here.
[306] The Prince de Conti. It has been seen in the letter of June
13, 1684, that M. de Moulceau was judge in a law-suit in which M.
de Grignan was engaged with this prince, and that he was moreover
attached to him for other reasons.
[307] M. de Rohan, who had married the daughter of the Count de
Vardes.
LETTER IX.
PARIS, December 15, 1686.
I wrote you a long letter, sir, more than a month ago, full of
friendship, secrets, and confidence. I know not what became of it; it
lost its way, perhaps, in seeking for you at the States, since you
have not answered it: but this will not prevent me from telling you a
melancholy, and at the same time a pleasing, piece of intelligence:
the death of the prince, which happened the day before yesterday,
the 11th instant, at a quarter after seven in the evening, and the
return of the Prince de Conti to court, through the kindness of the
prince, who asked this favor of the king in his last moments. The king
immediately granted it, and the prince had this consolation on his
death-bed; but never was joy drowned in so many tears. The Prince de
Conti is inconsolable at the loss he has sustained. It could not be
greater, particularly as he passed the whole time of his disgrace at
Chantilly, where he made an admirable use of the understanding and
abilities of the prince, and drew from the fountain-head all that
was to be acquired from so great a master, by whom he was tenderly
beloved. The prince flew, with a speed that has cost him his life,
from Chantilly to Fontainebleau, where Madame de Bourbon was seized
with the small-pox, in order to prevent the duke, who had not had the
disorder, from nursing her and being with her; for the duchess, who
has always nursed her, would have been sufficient to satisfy him of
the care that was taken of her health. He was very ill, and at length
died of an oppression with which he was seized, which made him say,
as he was on the point of returning to Paris, that he should take a
much longer journey. He sent for his confessor, Father Deschamps, and,
after lying in a state of insensibility for twenty-four hours, and
receiving all the sacraments, he died, regretted and bitterly lamented
by his family and his friends. The king was much afflicted at the
event, and, in short, the grief of losing so great a man and so great
a hero, whose place whole ages will not be able to supply, has been
felt by all ranks. A singular circumstance happened three weeks ago, a
little before the departure of the prince for Fontainebleau. Vernillon,
one of his gentlemen, returning from the chase at three o’clock, saw,
as he approached the castle, at one of the windows of the armory, an
apparition: that is, a man who had been dead and buried. He dismounted,
and came nearer; he still saw it. His valet, who was with him, said, “I
see the same, sir, that you see.” Vernillon had been silent, that his
valet might speak of his own accord. They entered the castle together,
and desired the keeper to give them the key of the armory. The keeper
went with them; they found all the windows closed, and a silence which
had been undisturbed for more than six months. This was told to the
prince: he appeared struck with it at first, and afterward laughed at
it. Every one heard the story and trembled for the prince. You see what
the event has been.
LETTER X.
PARIS, Monday, April 29, 1687.
So you like my letters, sir. I am delighted that you do; this is one
which will be worth a hundred. My robust health was slightly attacked,
about a month ago, by a little colic, a little rheumatism, a little
vexation; consequently, all this might excuse me from writing to you;
but I had rather die than another should tell you that the Prince de
Conti is at length returned to court. He is this night at Versailles,
and the king, like a kind father, has restored him to favor, after
having exiled him for a while, to leave him at leisure to make his own
reflections. No doubt he has done so, and the court will be very gay
and splendid on the occasion. His majesty will make several chevaliers
at Whitsuntide, but it will be only a family promotion: M. de Chartres,
the Duke de Bourbon, the Prince de Conti, and M. du Maine, but no one
else: all the other candidates must be pleased to have patience; but
they will not see without mortification the adjournment of their hopes.
The Duke de Vieuville is governor to the Duke de Chartres. Madame de
Polignac, who is not Mademoiselle d’Alerac, paid a visit yesterday to
Madame de Grignan. She was brilliant, lively, elated with the grandeur
of the house of Polignac, fond of talking of the name, and all the
personages belonging to it. She has taken upon herself the fortune
of the two brothers, and has supported, generously and courageously,
the frown and disapprobation of the king. She has employed skillful
artificers; and instead of deserting the deserted, like women in
general, she has made it a point of honor to reinstate them at court. I
could answer for it that she will revive and re-establish this family.
This is what Providence had in store for them, and which prevented us
from being able to read distinctly what it had written for Mademoiselle
d’Alerac. Adieu, sir; love me, for indeed you ought. I love your mind,
your worth, your wisdom, your folly, your virtue, your humor, your
goodness: in short, all that belongs to you, and wish you, and the
pretty covey under your wing, which must afford you so much pleasure
and comfort, every possible happiness. All here salute you, except our
_friend_, who knows nothing of this hasty letter. I shall talk of you a
great deal with Bourdaloüe. Madame Dangeau, formerly _Bavaria_, is very
prudent, very amiable, and makes her husband very happy; she might have
made him very ridiculous.
LETTER XI.
Wednesday, March 2, 1689.
What things, sir, may not be said! what a period in the history of our
monarch is the manner in which he has received the king of England! the
presents with which he has loaded him in setting out from hence for
Ireland; vessels at Brest, where he now is, frigates, troops, officers;
the Count d’Avaux as embassador extraordinary and adviser, and who is
also to have the care of the troops and money; two millions on his
departure, and as much afterward as he wants! Beside these great things
he has given him his arms, his helmet, his cuirass, which can not fail
of bringing good fortune to him. He has given him arms sufficient
for ten or twelve thousand men. And as to little conveniences they
are innumerable: post-chaises admirably made, calashes, carriage and
saddle-horses, services of gold and silver, toilets, linen, camp-beds,
magnificent swords of state, swords for service, pistols; in short,
every thing of every kind that can be thought of; and in embracing him
as he bid him adieu, he said to him, “You can not say that I am not
affected at your departure: I own to you, however, that I wish never to
see you again; but if, unfortunately, you should return, be assured you
will find me as you leave me.” Nothing could be better said, nothing
more just: generosity, magnificence, magnanimity were never exercised
as they have been by his majesty on this occasion.
We hope that the Irish war will be a powerful diversion, and prevent
the Prince of Orange from tormenting us by descents upon our coast; and
thus our three hundred thousand soldiers, our armies so well stationed
every where, will only serve to make the king feared, without any one
daring to attack him.
This is a time of political discussion: I should very much like to
hear you talk over these great events. I inclose the opinion of a
respectable upholsterer on the questions, respecting furniture, of
Madame de Moulceau: but whatever he may say of a gold fringe and double
taffeties for curtains, and though there are many such here, nothing is
so pretty, so suitable, or so cool for the summer, as curtains made of
these beautiful taffeties single, and tapestry the same. I have seen
them at several houses, and admire them exceedingly: every thing must
be looped up, and plaited, as he has directed: for the other kind of
furniture, you must have damask or brocade.
LETTER XII.
GRIGNAN, Friday, November 10, 1690.
Where do you think I am, sir? Did you not know I was in Brittany? Our
Corbinelli must have told you so. After having been there sixteen
months with my son, I thought it would be very pleasant to spend the
winter here with my daughter. This plan of a journey of a hundred and
fifty leagues at first appeared a castle in the air; but affection
rendered it so easy, that in fact I executed it between the 3d and
24th of October, on which day I arrived at Robinet’s gate, where I was
received by Madame de Grignan with open arms, and with so much joy,
affection, and gratitude, that I thought I had not come soon enough,
nor from a sufficiently great distance. After this, sir, tell me that
friendship is not a fine thing! it makes me often think of you, and
wish to see you here once more during my life. We shall be here the
whole of this winter, and the next summer; if you do not find a moment
to come and see us, I shall think you have forgotten me. You will not
know this house again, it is so much improved; but you will find its
owners still abounding with esteem for you; and me, sir, possessing a
regard for you, capable of driving our _friend_ to madness, and worthy
of your paying us this visit.
LETTER XIII.
GRIGNAN, June 5, 1695.
I intend, sir, to bring an action against you, and thus I set about
it. I wish you to judge it yourself. I have been here for more than
a year with my daughter, for whom I have as much love as ever. Since
that time you have no doubt heard of the marriage of the Marquis de
Grignan to Mademoiselle de Saint-Amand. You have seen her often enough
at Montpellier to be acquainted with her person; you have also heard
mention of the vast wealth of her father. You are not ignorant that
this marriage was solemnized with great pomp in the château which
you know. I suppose you can not have forgotten the time when the
true esteem we have always preserved for you began. On this subject
I measure your sentiments by my own, and I judge that, we not having
forgotten you, you can not have forgotten us.
I even include M. de Grignan, whose date is still more ancient than
ours. I collect all these things, and I find myself injured on every
side; I complain of it here, I complain of it to our friends, I
complain of it to our dear Corbinelli, the jealous confidant and
witness of all the esteem and friendship we bear you; and at length,
sir, I complain of it to yourself. Whence proceeds this silence? is it
from forgetfulness? from perfect indifference? I know not which to say:
what would you have me think? What does your conduct resemble? Give a
name to it, sir; the cause is now ready for your sentence. Pass it: I
consent that you should be both party and judge.
LETTER XIV.
GRIGNAN, Saturday, February 4, 1696.
I was right, sir, when I supposed you would be concerned at my anxiety,
and would use all the diligence in your power to relieve it. M.
Barbeirac’s prescription and your letter had wings, as you wished; and
it seems that this little fever, which appeared so low, had wings too,
for it vanished at the bare mention of M. Barbeirac’s name. Seriously,
sir, there is something miraculous in this sudden change; and I can
not doubt that your wishes and your prayers contributed to produce it.
Judge of my gratitude by their effect. My daughter goes halves with me
in all I say here; she returns you a thousand thanks, and entreats you
to give a great many to M. Barbeirac. We are happy in having no longer
any thing to do, but to take patience and rhubarb, which she finds
agree well with her. We doubt not that in this quiet state, rhubarb is
a medicine which M. Barbeirac must approve, with a regimen, which is
sometimes better than all. Thank God, sir, both for yourself and for
us; for we are certain that you are interested in this acknowledgment;
and then, sir, cast your eyes upon all the inhabitants of this château,
and judge of their sentiments for you.
LETTERS TO M. DE COULANGES.[308]
FROM 1676 TO 1696.
[308] Philip Emanuel de Coulanges, master of the requests, so
well known in the gay world for his wit, humor, and the singular
talent he had for a jovial song. He was cousin-german to Madame
de Sévigné.
LETTER I.
PARIS, Monday, Dec. 15, 1670.
I am going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the most
surprising, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most
magnificent, the most confounding, the most unheard of, the most
singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most
unforeseen, the greatest, the least, the rarest, the most common, the
most public, the most private till to-day, the most brilliant, the
most enviable; in short, a thing of which there is but one example in
past ages, and that not an exact one either; a thing that we can not
believe at Paris; how then will it gain credit at Lyons? a thing which
makes everybody cry, “Lord have mercy upon us!” a thing which causes
the greatest joy to Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive; a thing,
in fine, which is to happen on Sunday next, when those who are present
will doubt the evidence of their senses; a thing which, though it is to
be done on Sunday, yet perhaps will not be finished on Monday. I can
not bring myself to tell it you; guess what it is. I give you three
times to do it in. What, not a word to throw at a dog? Well then, I
find I must tell you. Monsieur de Lauzun[309] is to be married next
Sunday at the Louvre, to ---- pray guess to whom! I give you four
times to do it in, I give you six, I give you a hundred. Says Madame
de Coulanges, “It is really very hard to guess; perhaps it is Madame
de la Vallière.” Indeed, madam, it is not. “It is Mademoiselle de
Retz, then.” No, nor she neither; you are extremely provincial. “Lord
bless me,” say you, “what stupid wretches we are! it is Mademoiselle
de Colbert all the while.” Nay, now you are still further from the
mark. “Why then it must certainly be Mademoiselle de Crequy.” You have
it not yet. Well, I find I must tell you at last. He is to be married
next Sunday, at the Louvre, with the king’s leave, to Mademoiselle,
Mademoiselle de ---- Mademoiselle--guess, pray guess her name; he is
to be married to Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle; Mademoiselle,
daughter to the late Monsieur;[310] Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of
Henry the IVth; Mademoiselle d’Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle
de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d’Orleans, Mademoiselle, the king’s
cousin-german, Mademoiselle, destined to the throne, Mademoiselle, the
only match in France that was worthy of Monsieur. What glorious matter
for talk! If you should burst forth like a bedlamite, say we have told
you a lie, that it is false, that we are making a jest of you, and
that a pretty jest it is, without wit or invention; in short, if you
abuse us, we shall think you quite in the right; for we have done just
the same things ourselves. Farewell, you will find by the letters you
receive this post, whether we tell you truth or not.
[309] Antonius Nompar de Caumont, Marquis de Puiguilhem,
afterward Duke de Lauzun.
[310] Gaston of France, Duke of Orleans, brother to Louis XIII.
LETTER II.
PARIS, Friday, Dec. 19, 1670.
What is called “falling from the clouds,” happened last night at the
Tuileries; but I must go further back. You have already shared in
the joy, the transport, the ecstacies of the princess and her happy
lover. It was just as I told you, the affair was made public on
Monday. Tuesday was passed in talking, astonishment, and compliments.
Wednesday, mademoiselle made a deed of gift to Monsieur de Lauzun,
investing him with certain titles, names, and dignities, necessary to
be inserted in the marriage-contract, which was drawn up that day.
She gave him then, till she could give him something better, four
duchies; the first was that of Count d’Eu, which entitles him to rank
as first peer of France; the Dukedom of Montpensier, which title he
bore all that day; the Dukedom de Saint Fargeau; and the Dukedom de
Chatellerault, the whole valued at twenty-two millions of livres.
The contract was then drawn up, and he took the name of Montpensier.
Thursday morning, which was yesterday, mademoiselle was in expectation
of the king’s signing the contract, as he had said that he would do;
but, about seven o’clock in the evening, the queen, monsieur, and
several old dotards that were about him, had so persuaded his majesty
that his reputation would suffer in this affair, that, sending for
mademoiselle and Monsieur de Lauzun, he announced to them, before the
prince, that he forbade them to think any further of this marriage.
Monsieur de Lauzun received the prohibition with all the respect,
submission, firmness, and, at the same time, despair, that could
be expected in so great a reverse of fortune. As for mademoiselle,
she gave a loose to her feelings, and burst into tears, cries,
lamentations, and the most violent expressions of grief; she keeps her
bed all day long, and takes nothing within her lips but a little broth.
What a fine dream is here! what a glorious subject for a tragedy or
romance, but especially talking and reasoning eternally! This is what
we do day and night, morning and evening, without end, and without
intermission; we hope you do the same, _E fra tanto vi bacio le mani_:
“and with this I kiss your hand.”
LETTER III.
PARIS, Wednesday, Dec. 24, 1670.
You are now perfectly acquainted with the romantic story of
mademoiselle and of Monsieur de Lauzun. It is a story well adapted
for a tragedy, and in all the rules of the theater; we laid out the
acts and scenes the other day. We took four days instead of four and
twenty hours, and the piece was complete. Never was such a change
seen in so short a time; never was there known so general an emotion.
You certainly never received so extraordinary a piece of intelligence
before. M. de Lauzun behaved admirably; he supported his misfortune
with such courage and intrepidity, and at the same time showed so
deep a sorrow, mixed with such profound respect, that he has gained
the admiration of every body. His loss is doubtless great, but then
the king’s favor, which he has by this means preserved, is likewise
great; so that, upon the whole, his condition does not seem so very
deplorable. Mademoiselle, too, has behaved extremely well on her side.
She has wept much and bitterly; but yesterday, for the first time,
she returned to pay her duty at the Louvre, after having received the
visits of every one there; so the affair is all over. Adieu.
LETTER IV.
PARIS, Wednesday, Dec. 31, 1670.
I have received your answers to my letters. I can easily conceive the
astonishment you were in at what passed between the 15th and 20th of
this month; the subject called for it all. I admire likewise your
penetration and judgment, in imagining so great a machine could never
support itself from Monday to Sunday. Modesty prevents my launching out
in your praise on this head, because I said and thought exactly as you
did. I told my daughter on Monday, “This will never go on as it should
do till Sunday; I will wager, notwithstanding this wedding seems to be
sure, that it will never come to a conclusion.” In effect the sky was
overcast on Thursday morning, and about ten o’clock, as I told you,
the cloud burst. That very day I went about nine in the morning to pay
my respects to mademoiselle, having been informed that she was to go
out of town to be married, and that the coadjutor of Rheims[311] was
to perform the ceremony. These were the resolves on Wednesday night,
but matters had been determined otherwise at the Louvre ever since
Tuesday. Mademoiselle was writing; she made me place myself on my knees
at her bed-side; she told me to whom she was writing, and upon what
subject, and also of the fine presents she had made the night before,
and the titles she had conferred; and as there was no match in any of
the courts of Europe for her, she was resolved, she said, to provide
for herself. She related to me, word for word, a conversation she had
had with the king, and appeared overcome with joy, to think how happy
she should make a man of merit. She mentioned, with a great deal of
tenderness, the worth and gratitude of M. de Lauzun. To all which I
made her this answer: “Upon my word, mademoiselle, your highness seems
quite happy! but why was not this affair finished at once last Monday?
Do not you perceive that the delay will give time and opportunity to
the whole kingdom to talk, and that it is absolutely tempting God, and
the king, to protract an affair of so extraordinary a nature as this
is to so distant a period?” She allowed me to be in the right, but was
so sure of success, that what I said made little or no impression on
her at the time. She repeated the many amiable qualities of Monsieur de
Lauzun, and the noble house he was descended from. To which I replied
in these lines of Corneille’s Polyeuctus:
Du moins on ne la peut blâmer d’un mauvais choix,
Polyeucte a du nom, et sort du sang des rois.
Her choice of him no one can surely blame,
Who springs from kings, and boasts a noble name.
[311] Charles Maurice le Tellier.
Upon which she embraced me tenderly. Our conversation lasted above an
hour. It is impossible to repeat all that passed between us, but I may
without vanity say that my company was agreeable to her, for her heart
was so full that she was glad of any one to unburden it to. At ten
o’clock she devoted her time to the nobility, who crowded to pay their
compliments to her. She waited all the morning for news from court,
but none came. All the afternoon she amused herself with putting M. de
Montpensier’s apartment in order, which she did with her own hands.
You know what happened at night. The next morning, which was Friday, I
waited upon her, and found her in bed; her grief redoubled at seeing
me; she called me to her, embraced me, and whelmed me with tears.
“Ah!” said she, “you remember what you said to me yesterday? What
foresight! what cruel foresight!” In short, she made me weep to see her
weep so violently. I have seen her twice since; she still continues in
great affliction, but behaves to me as to a person that sympathizes
with her in her distress; in which she is not mistaken, for I really
feel sentiments for her that are seldom felt for persons of such
superior rank. This, however, between us two and Madame de Coulanges;
for you are sensible that this chit-chat would appear ridiculous to
others.
LETTER V.
THE ROCKS, January 8, 1690.
What a melancholy date, my amiable cousin, compared with yours! It
suits a recluse like me, and that of Rome suits one whose fate is to
wander uncontrolled, and “who stalks his idleness from one end of the
world to the other.” What a happy life! and how mildly has Fortune
treated you, as you say, notwithstanding her quarrel with you! Always
beloved, always esteemed, always carrying joy and pleasure along
with you, always the favorite of, and fascinated with, some friend
of consequence--a duke, a prince, or a pope (for I will add the holy
father by way of novelty); always in good health, never at the charge
of any one, no business, no ambition; but, above all, the advantage of
not growing old! This is the height of felicity. You doubt, sometimes,
whether you are not advancing, by certain calculations of time and
years; but old age is still at a distance. You do not approach it
with horror, as some persons I could name. This is reserved for your
neighbor, and you have not even the fears that are usually felt at
seeing a fire in your neighborhood. In short, after mature reflection,
I pronounce you the happiest man in the world. This last journey to
Rome is, in my opinion, the most delightful adventure that could have
happened to you, with an adorable embassador (the Duke de Chaulnes), on
a noble and grand occasion, and a visit to the beautiful mistress of
the world, whom, having once seen, we are always longing to see again.
I very much like the verses you have made on her. She can not be too
highly celebrated. I am sure my daughter will approve them. They are
well written and poetical; we sing them. I am delighted with what you
tell me of Paulina, whom you saw at Grignan in your way. I have judged
most favorably of her from your praises, and the unaffected letter you
wrote to Madame de Chaulnes, which she has sent to me. Oh, how much I
should like to take a journey to Rome, as you propose! but then it must
be with the face and air I had many years ago, and not with those I
now have. A woman, particularly, should not move her old bones except
to be embassadress. I believe that Madame de Coulanges, though still
young, is of the same opinion; but in my youth I should have been in
raptures with such an adventure. It is not the same with you. Every
thing becomes you. Enjoy, then, your privilege, and the jealousy you
excite to know who shall be favored with you. I will not waste my time
in arguing with you on the present state of affairs. All the duke’s
prosperities have given me real joy. You fear precisely what all his
friends apprehend, that, being the only one who can fill the place he
holds with equal success and reputation, he will be kept in it too
long. This apartment in your new palace creates new alarms; but let
us do better. Let us not anticipate evils; rather let us hope that
every thing will happen as we wish, and that we shall all meet again
at Paris. I was delighted with your remembrance, your letter, and your
songs. Write to me whenever it is agreeable and convenient. I take the
liberty of sending this by the embassadress; and I do more, my dear
cousin, for under her protection I take the liberty of embracing my
dear governor of Brittany, and his excellency the embassador, with real
affection, and without offense to respect. These high dignities do not
intimidate me. I am sure he still loves me. God bless him and bring
him back again. These are my wishes for the new year. Adieu, my dear
cousin; I embrace you. Continue to love me. I wish it--it is my whim,
and to love you more than you love me. But you are very amiable, and I
must not place myself on a par with you.
LETTER VI.
GRIGNAN, April 10, 1691.
We have received a letter dated the 31st of March from our dear
embassador. It came in less than a week. This expedition is delightful,
but what he tells us is still more so. It is impossible to write in
better spirits. My daughter takes upon herself to answer him, and as
I desire her to send the Holy Ghost with all diligence, not only to
create a pope,[312] but to put a speedy termination to business, that
he may be able to pay us a visit. She assures me that she will send him
word of the conquest of Nice in five days after opening the trenches
by M. de Catinet, and that this intelligence will produce the same
effect for our bulls. Tell us, my dear cousin, if we judge rightly.
We have received M. de Nevers’ epistle to the little Le Clerc of the
academy. It is accompanied by one of your letters; they always give us
great pleasure. The packet came very slowly; we know not why. There
is neither rhyme nor reason in the conduct of the post. We think the
epistle of M. de Nevers very pretty and very entertaining. In short,
all his productions have so peculiar and so excellent a character that
after them we can relish no others. The two last verses of the song he
made for you, charmed my daughter as a Cartesian. Speaking of the fine
wines of Italy, he says:
Sur la membrane de leur sens
Font des sillons charmans.[313]
[312] Alexander VIII. had been dead for two months and a few
days. Before he died, he distributed among his nephews all the
money he possessed, which made Pasquin say that it would have
been better for the church to have been his niece than his
daughter.
[313] They make charming furrows upon the membrane of the senses.
In short, it all deserves praise. For instance, can any thing be more
humorous, in his epistle, than the smallest human string wound up
to the highest pitch; and the other extreme, of a hundred crotchets
rolling in bass to the very depth of the abyss? This picture is
complete, and the opera of which he speaks is deservedly ridiculed; but
we can not comprehend why he has given his son’s name to this epistle:
_cui bono?_ and where is the wit of it? for the style resembles his own
as much as one drop of water resembles another. It would be impossible
to be deceived, and the subject can give offense to none. If you do not
explain this to us, we shall be ill.
But let us talk of your grief at having lost this delightful
family,[314] which has so well celebrated your merit in verse and
prose, while you at the same time were so much alive to the charms of
its society. It is easy to conceive the painfulness of this separation.
M. de Chaulnes will not suffer us to believe that he shares it with
you. An embassador must be occupied only with the business of the
king, his master, who on his side has taken Mons, with a hundred
thousand men, in a manner truly heroic, going every where, visiting
every place, and indeed, exposing himself too much. The policy of
the Prince of Orange, who was taking his measures very quietly with
the confederate princes for the beginning of May, has found itself
a little disconcerted by this promptitude. He threatens to come to
the assistance of this great place. A prisoner told this to the
king, who replied, coolly, “We came here to wait for him.” I defy
your imagination to frame a more perfect and more precise answer. I
therefore, suppose, my dear cousin, that by sending you the news of
this other conquest,[315] in four days, your Rome will not be sorry to
live paternally with her elder son. God knows whether our embassador
will ably support _the identity of the greatest king in the world_, as
M. de Nevers said.
[314] M. and Madame de Nevers.
[315] The town of Mons surrendered to the king on the 10th of
April, the day on which this letter is dated, after a siege of
eighteen days. To Boileau is attributed the following impromptu,
addressed to a lady who required him to write some verses upon
the occasion:
Mons était, disait-on, pucelle
Qu’un roi gardait avec grand soin;
Louis-le-Grand en eut besoin,
Mons se rendit: vous auriez fait comme elle.
Mons was a virgin, it is said,
Kept by a king with greatest care;
Louis the Great wished for the maid,
Mons yielded: so would you, my fair.
Let us return to our own country. Our little Marquis de Grignan went to
the siege of Nice like an adventurer, _vago di fama_ (eager for fame).
M. de Catinet gave him the command of the cavalry for several days,
that he might not be a volunteer. This did not prevent him from going
every where, from exposing himself to the fire, which was at first
very brisk, or from bearing fascines, for this is the fashion; but
what sort of fascines, my dear cousin? All from orange-trees, laurels,
and pomegranates! They feared nothing but too great a profusion of
perfumes. Never was there so beautiful or so delightful a country
seen. You can conceive what it must be from your knowledge of Italy.
This is the country M. de Savoie has taken pleasure in losing and
destroying. Can we call this good policy? We expect the little colonel
(the Marquis de Grignan), who is preparing to set out for Piedmont; for
this expedition to Nice is only _throwing the bait in expectation of
the game_. He will not be here when you pass; but do you know who will
find you here? My son, who is coming to spend the summer with us, and
to meet his governor, by following the footsteps of his mother.
By the by, speaking of mother and son, do you know, my dear cousin,
that I have been for these ten days or more in a sorrow of heart from
which you alone have had the power of relieving me, while I have been
employed in writing to you. This has been occasioned by the illness of
the dowager Madame de Lavardin, my most intimate and oldest friend;
this woman, of such excellent and sound understanding; this illustrious
widow, who gathered us all under her wing; this person of such exalted
merit, has fallen suddenly into a sort of apoplexy; she is drowsy,
paralytic, and feverish; when she is roused, she talks rationally, but
she soon relapses; in short, my child, my friendship could not sustain
a greater loss; I should feel it keenly. The Duchess de Chaulnes writes
to me respecting her, and is very much grieved at her illness; Madame
de la Fayette still more so. Indeed, her merit is so well known, that
every one is interested as in a public loss; judge, then, what her
friends must feel. I am informed that M. de Lavardin is very much
affected; I hope it is true; it is an honor to him to grieve for a
mother to whom he is in a manner indebted for whatever he is. Adieu, my
dear cousin; my heart is full, I can write no more. If I had begun with
this melancholy subject I should not have had the courage to chat with
you as I have done.
I shall say no more respecting the Temple, I have given my opinion of
it already; but I shall never like or approve it. Not so with regard to
you, for I love you, and shall love and approve you always.
LETTER VII.
GRIGNAN, July 24, 1691.
“Short reckonings make long friends:” I have received all your letters,
my dear neighbor; that of May 20, that of June 4, about which you were
uneasy, and the last of July 4; with the epistle M. de Nevers sent
you from Genoa, and, in short, all the works of this duke, who is the
true son of Apollo and the Muses. You ask me if I do not treasure all
his productions: indeed I do; I have not lost a single one; they have
highly amused us, as well as every one who has passed this way whom we
have deemed worthy of them. The last epistle is rather above Paulina’s
capacity; but we have had the pleasure of finding ourselves capable
of explaining to her what she did not understand. With respect to
the description of the dinner, it is suited to the taste of the best
guests; and it made M. de Grignan’s, the Chevalier de St. André’s, my
son’s, and all our mouths water. I never saw so excellent a repast. I
have just placed it among the other wonders of this duke. To conclude
the article of letters: when you have received that of the 25th of
June, and this, you will have received all.
Let us now come to yours, the beginning of which had nearly brought
me to tears. How can I fancy you confined to your bed, afflicted in
every limb and every joint of your poor little body; and your nerves
so affected that you can neither stir hand nor foot? This is enough
to drive us to despair; but to see that all this produces a song upon
your melancholy situation, accompanied by another, the most humorous
in the world, on a thing which you see daily; you may suppose, my poor
cousin, this is a real comfort to our hearts, as it proves that the
vital principle is not attacked. This fit of the gout has only given
you the blue devils, and made you look forward to futurity under the
most melancholy aspect in which it can present itself to you; but this
situation, so violent, and so contrary to your disposition, has not had
leisure to make any impression on you.
In spite of St. Peter, which is past, and of the predictions of the
physicians, a pope is made, and the cardinals will leave the conclave
without the event having cost them their lives; on the contrary, they
will recover their health and their liberty. It is not the first
time that gentlemen of the faculty have erred in judgment. The Duke
de Chaulnes has written us a letter by the courier, dated the 15th,
which brings the news of the exaltation: he thinks of nothing now but
of coming to see us; he will be with us a fortnight; and though the
pope[316] be a Neapolitan, he maintains that the affair of the bulls is
so well disposed of, that it will be the signal gun for saddling horses
and setting out for Grignan; this hope gives us great pleasure, and
very much abridges the share I wished to take in all your melancholy
calendars; it is at an end, however, my dear cousin; you are cured, you
are set out, you are on the point of arriving here. I embrace you a
thousand times. Let us talk a little of the table in the embassador’s
closet, of the chaos of letters, of the deep abyss of bags, of the
confusion of papers, from which, like the infernal regions, when once
a poor letter is thrown into it, it never comes out again. It was a
miracle, indeed, that mine was found; but it was my daughter’s letter,
in which I had written; she had a great inclination to be offended at
being thus lost and confounded with the rest; but I appeased her in
the best way I could, by assuring her that the embassador read what
she wrote to him with the deepest attention, and that it was upon my
lines he had not condescended to throw a single glance: and it is the
fact; for he said I had not written to him. She replied, “But as it was
my letter, why consign it to this chaos?” To this I knew not what to
answer; the embassador will think of it, if he pleases. It is true that
my poor letters have only the value you give to them, by reading them
as you do; for they have their tones, and are unbearable when they are
brayed out, or spelled word by word: be this as it may, my dear cousin,
you give them a thousand times more honor than they deserve.
[316] Cardinal Pignatelli was elected pope on the 12th of July,
and took the name of Innocent XII.
LETTER VIII.
GRIGNAN, July 26, 1691.
I am so astonished at the news of the sudden death of M. de
Louvois,[317] that I know not how or where to begin the subject to
you. This great minister then, this man of consequence, who held so
exalted a situation, whose _le moi_ (_I_), as M. Nicole says, was so
extensive; who was the center of so many things, is dead: how many
affairs, designs, projects, secrets, interests to unravel, wars begun,
intrigues, and noble moves at chess, had he not to make and to conduct!
“O God, grant me a little time; I want to give check to the Duke of
Savoy, check-mate to the Prince of Orange.” No, no, not a moment, a
single moment. Can we reason upon this strange event? indeed we can
not; it is in our closet we must reflect upon it. This is the second
minister[318] you have seen expire since you have been at Rome: nothing
is more different than the manner of their death; but nothing more
similar than their fortunes, and the hundred thousand chains which
attached them both to the world.
[317] The death of Louvois, as it is well known, has been the
subject of many discussions. It has been said that he was
poisoned. Saint Simon affirms it; and his account charges the
king with this crime. Voltaire says, with reason, that this is
repugnant to every idea that has been formed of the character
of Louis XIV. Of those who felt like him, some said that it was
a revenge of the Duke de Savoy’s; others, that Louvois poisoned
himself. The last opinion deserves to be inquired into. It is
agreed on all sides that he was on the eve of disgrace, that he
expected harsh treatment, that he spoke of death as preferable
to this fall, and that he was a violent and passionate man, whom
no scruple restrained. Under all these circumstances, there is
nothing very improbable in his suicide. But it appears that this
fact was never cleared up; and it is an inconvenience to which
we are easily resigned. It is certain, however, that the king
made no concealment that the event of his death happened very
opportunely to draw him out of difficulties; it is also certain
that the death of this man, who had done so much harm, was a
great loss. The epitaph of Louvois, which appeared at that time,
gave a good idea of the public opinion respecting him:
Ici gît, sous qui tout pliait,
Et qui de tout avait connaissance parfaite;
Louvois que personne n’aimait,
Et que tout le monde regrette.
Here lies one to whom all yielded;
And who knew of all the bent;
Louvois, who sense with power wielded,
Whom no one loved, and all lament.
[318] With M. de Seignelai.
With regard to the great objects which ought to lead you to God, you
say you find your religious sentiments shaken by what is passing at
Rome and in the conclave. My poor cousin, you are deceived; I have
heard that a man of very excellent understanding drew quite a contrary
inference from what he saw in that great city; he concluded that the
Christian religion must necessarily be all holy and all miraculous to
subsist thus, of itself, in the midst of so many disorders and so much
profanation. Do then as he did, draw the same inferences, and believe
that this very city was formerly washed with the blood of an infinite
number of martyrs; that in the first centuries, all the intrigues of
the conclave ended in choosing from among the priests him who appeared
to have the greatest zeal and strength to endure martyrdom; that there
were thirty-seven popes who suffered, one after the other; and that the
certainty of their fate had no influence over them to make them fly
from or refuse a situation to which death was attached, and a death
of the most horrible nature. You have only to read this history to be
convinced that a religion, subsisting by a continual miracle, both in
its establishment and its duration, can not be an invention of men. Men
do not think thus: read St. Augustin in his _Vérité de la Religion_
(Truth of Religion); read Abbadie,[319] very different indeed from that
great saint, but not unworthy of being compared with him when he speaks
of the Christian religion. Ask the Abbé de Polignac what he thinks of
this book. Collect all these ideas and do not judge so hastily: believe
that whatever intrigues may take place in the conclave, it is the Holy
Ghost that always makes the pope. God works all, he is the sovereign
of all, and this is what we ought to think: I have read this sentiment
in a good book: “What evil can happen to a man who knows that God does
all things, and who loves whatever God does?” And with this, my dear
cousin, I take my leave.
[319] Author of a book on the Truth of the Christian Religion. He
was a Protestant.
LETTER IX.
GRIGNAN, August 14, 1691.
Come hither, that I may embrace you, caress you, and tell you that my
daughter, whose approbation you so highly value, is delighted with your
two little couplets on the holy father. Nothing, in my opinion, could
be better imagined, or better executed: we have all been in raptures.
But, my dear cousin, the Duke de Chaulnes, in his letter of July 20,
says not a word respecting M. de Louvois;[320] his death seems to me
to demand an exclamation or two. His hopes are very sanguine as to the
new pope, though not the work of his hands; all our interest is that he
will give us our bulls, and that you will come and pay us a visit; that
day seems to me to be at our finger’s end, so swiftly does time pass.
You will find my son at Marseilles, who will be there to meet you;
this is an attention he owes to our governor, by way of amends for not
having gone to Rome.
[320] M. de Louvois died on the 16th July, and it is not
surprising that the news of this event should not have reached M.
de Chaulnes on the 20th.
I long to know what you thought of the return of M. de Pomponne to
the ministry: it was to us a subject of real joy; M. and Madame de
Grignan had no doubt of this event from a truly prophetic spirit; but
I wished it too much even to listen to them; and when Madame de Vins
sent the news to my daughter, I was so surprised and so transported
that I knew not what I heard: at length I comprehended that it was a
very agreeable truth, not only to me but to the rest of the world, for
you can not form an idea how generally his return is approved. I have
paid my compliments to Madame de Chaulnes and our embassador, on the
choice of M. de Beauvilliers; this is another strange man with whom the
king augments his council; which is now perfect, like every thing his
majesty does. He is the cleverest man in his kingdom, he is never idle,
and provides for every thing; nothing remains but to pray to God that
he may be preserved to us. The dauphin enters into all the councils; do
you not also approve this? it is truly associating him with the empire.
We have subjects for admiration every where. If your good pope would
make peace, it would be an act worthy of himself, and would place us in
a situation to praise, with a more tranquil mind, all the wonders we
see. Adieu, my dear cousin, you know how I am disposed toward you. M.
de Barillon and M. de Jannin are dead; we shall die too.
LETTER X.
PARIS, February 3, 1695.
Madame de Chaulnes sends me word that I am fortunate in being here
in the sunshine; she thinks all our days are woven with silk and
gold. Alas! my dear cousin, it is a hundred times colder here than
at Paris; we are exposed to every wind; it is the south wind, the
north-east wind, it is the devil; it is who shall insult us; they fight
among themselves which shall have the honor of confining us to our
apartments. All our rivers are taken; the Rhône, the furious Rhône, can
not resist them. Our writing-desks are frozen, our benumbed fingers can
no longer guide our pens. We breathe nothing but snow; our mountains
are charming in their excess of horror. I wish every day for a painter
who could take a good representation of these frightful beauties;
such is our situation. Relate it to our good Duchess de Chaulnes, who
fancies us to be in meadows with parasols, walking under the shadow
of orange-trees. You have formed an excellent idea of the rural
magnificence of our wedding;[321] every one has shared in the praises
you bestow, but we know not what you mean by the wedding-night. Alas,
how coarse you are! I was charmed with the manner and modesty of the
evening; I informed Madame de Coulanges so: the bride was conducted to
her apartment; her toilet, her linen, her night-clothes, were brought;
she took off her head-ornaments, was undressed, and went to bed. We
knew nothing of who came in or went out of her room; every one retired
to his own apartment. We arose the next morning without going to the
bride-folks. They also arose, dressed themselves. No foolish questions
were asked them: Are you my son-in-law? are you my daughter-in-law?
They are what they are. No gay breakfast was prepared; every one ate
and did as he pleased; every thing was conducted in silence and with
modesty; there were no uncomfortable looks, no confusion, no improper
jests; this is what I had never seen before, and what struck me as
being the most becoming and the pleasantest thing in the world. The
cold freezes me, and makes the pen fall from my hands. Where are you?
at St. Martin’s, at Meudon, or at Baville? What happy spot contains
the youthful and amiable Coulanges? I have just been railing against
avarice to Madame de Coulanges. It gives me great joy, from the riches
Madame de Meckelbourg has left, to think I shall die without any ready
money, but at the same time without debts; this is all I ask of God,
and is enough for a Christian.
[321] The marriage of the Marquis de Grignan.
LETTER XI.
GRIGNAN, May 28, 1695.
I have received your two letters from Chaulnes, my dear cousin! we
found some verses in them that delighted us; we have sung them with
extreme pleasure, and more than one person will tell you so, for you
must not be ignorant of the good taste we preserve here for every
thing you do. With respect to the gayety and charms of your mind, you
certainly advance, and go back with respect to your register; this
is all that can be wished, and is what naturally lays the foundation
of the desire every one has for your society. To whom are you not
welcome? with whom do you not accommodate yourself? and then, which is
best of all, your conduct in not obtruding yourself, and in allowing
room to the wish of seeing you, gives the true relish to your vanity.
The proverb must be forcible indeed, if it be true, that you are not
a prophet in your own country. I often receive news from Madame de
Coulanges; her correspondence is very entertaining, and her health
ought no longer to create alarm, especially having the resource which
we must have, that when she is tired of medicine, and undeceived with
respect to it, the most salutary remedy will be to take no more.
But to return to Chaulnes. I know its beauty, and can discern from
hence how dull our good governor is there. It is in vain for you to
give the best reasons in the world; he will constantly answer, “I do
not know:” and if you go on, he will silence you by saying, “I shall
die.” This is what will happen, no doubt, till he has acquired a taste
for repose, and for the charms of a quiet life. Habits are too strong,
and the agitation attached to command and to a high station has made
too deep an impression to be easily effaced. I wrote to this duke upon
the deputation of my son, and I jested with him, saying things I did
not believe respecting his solitude at Chaulnes; I treated him like a
true hermit, holding conversations with the beautiful fountain called
_the solitary_. I supposed his repasts suited to his situation, and
that dates and wild fruits would compose all his banquets; I pitied his
house-steward, and in saying all these trifles, I found that I stood
in great need of you; and that the braying[322] I know him to possess,
would make strange work with my poor letter. You came to my assistance,
as I supposed you would; and you are now in another country, where
you feel all the delight of paternal love; what say you? you could
not have believed it to be so strong if you had not experienced it;
it would have been a great pity if all the good instructions you have
given to little children had not been followed by some child of your
imagination. The little Count de Nicei is a master-piece,[323] and the
singularity of being invisible makes him superior to the rest. You make
so good a use of this story that I scarcely dare recall you; you have
immortalized it; nothing can be prettier than these couplets; we sing
them with pleasure. We have had a delightful introduction of spring;
but, for two days past, the rain, which we do not like here, has been
as violent as in Brittany and Paris, so that we have been accused of
having brought it into fashion; it interrupts our walks, but it does
not silence our nightingales; in short, my dear cousin, our days pass
too quickly. We dispense with great bustle, and with the great world;
our society, however, would not displease you; and if ever a puff of
wind should blow you to this _royal_ château--. But this is a chimera,
we must hope to see you again elsewhere in a more natural and probable
situation; we have yet a summer before us for writing to each other.
[322] M. de Chaulnes read as ill as M. de Coulanges read well.
[323] The whole of this pleasantry is explained in some songs
of M. de Coulanges to Madame de Louvois, and turns upon a story
which had come to them from Provence.
LETTER XII.
GRIGNAN, August 6, 1695.
I shall write you only a very short and poor letter, my dear friend,
to thank you for yours, which has given us great pleasure. I shall
never change my opinion with respect to long and circumstantial
details, while I read yours. We are charmed with Navarre;[324] the
situation, the building, like that of Marly, which I have never seen,
the excellent society--all this convinces me that the house ought to
rank with yours; as for Choisy, it is made on purpose for you. Your
couplets inform all who pass, of the nobility of its origin and its
fate; but you deserve to be exalted to the skies by the couplet, in
which you humble yourself to the foot of the mount _with the coachman
of Verthamont_;[325] any man who will place himself up to the ears in
this mud, and will croak such pretty couplets, deserves the situation
M. Tambonneau gives him. The couplet ranks with the best you have ever
made; the countess, whose approbation you always ask, entreats you
to believe it; it is charming, it surprises; in short, croak on, and
communicate your croakings to us.
[324] A château near Evreux, which belonged to the Duke de
Bouillon.
[325] A famous coachman, who made all the songs of the Pont-neuf.
But, good God, what an effusion of blood at Namur! how many tears! how
many widows! and how many afflicted mothers! And they are cruel enough
to think this is not sufficient, and they wish that Marshal de Villeroi
had also beaten, killed and massacred poor M. de Vaudemont?[326] what
madness! I am uneasy respecting your nephew de Sanzei; I pity his
mother; it is said that she is coming nearer to wait the event of the
siege, which appears to us to be worthy of the fury of the marshal (de
Boufflers) who defends it; no opportunity of fighting is lost. Our
Germany is very quiet; our principal anxiety is for her.[327] Adieu,
my dear cousin; did I not promise you that my letter would be dull?
We have sometimes sorrows, and we know why; I speak of them to Madame
de Coulanges. My daughter sends you her remembrances; you have highly
amused her by your songs and your chat, for your letter is a true
conversation. I have scattered your remembrances in every apartment;
they have been received, and are returned with zeal. I embrace you, my
amiable cousin, and exhort you still to spend your time delightfully in
honor of polygamy,[328] which, instead of being a hanging-case to you,
constitutes all the pleasure and happiness of your life.
[326] M. de Vaudemont made a noble retreat before Marshal de
Villeroi, who had lost time.
[327] On account of the Marquis de Grignan, who was in the army
of Germany.
[328] A jest on the subject of M. de Coulanges’ _second wife_,
Madame de Louvois.
LETTER XIII.
GRIGNAN, October 15, 1695.
I have just been writing to our Duke and Duchess de Chaulnes; but I
excuse you from reading my letters; they are not worth reading. I defy
all your emphasis, all your points and commas to produce any good
effect, therefore leave them as they are; besides, I have spoken of
several little things to our duchess, which are not very entertaining.
The best thing you could do for me, my good cousin, would be to send
us, by some subtle magic, all the blood, all the vigor, all the health,
and all the mirth which you have to spare, to transfuse it into my
child’s frame. For these three months she has been afflicted with a
species of disorder which is said to be not dangerous, and which I
think the most distressing and the most alarming of any. I own to you,
my dear cousin, that it destroys me, and that I have not fortitude
enough to endure all the bad nights she makes me pass; in short, her
last state has been so violent that it was necessary to have recourse
to bleeding in the arm; strange remedy, which makes blood to be shed
when too much has been shed already; it is burning the taper at both
ends; she has told me so, for, in the midst of her weakness and change,
nothing can exceed her courage and patience. If we could regain
strength, we should soon take the road to Paris; it is what we wish,
and then we would present the Marchioness of Grignan to you, with whom
you must already begin to be acquainted on the word of the Duke de
Chaulnes, who has very gallantly forced open her door, and has drawn a
very pleasing likeness of her. Preserve your friendship for us, my dear
cousin, however unworthy of it our sorrow may make us; we must love our
friends with all their faults; it is a great one to be ill: God grant,
my dear friend, that you may escape it. I write to Madame de Coulanges
in the same plaintive tone, which will not quit me; for how is it
possible not to be as ill in mind as this countess, whom I see daily
before my eyes, is in body? Madame de Coulanges is very fortunate in
being out of the scrape. It seems to me as if mothers ought not to live
long enough to see their daughters in such situations; I respectfully
complain of it to Providence.
LETTER XIV.
GRIGNAN, March, 1696.
I know not how the affairs of England go on; the Countess de Fiesque is
the only one who has a good opinion of them, and is still certain that
they will end well. I have taken three meals at the Marsans’, which
agree very well with me; I shall put their whole family into my basket.
M. de Marsan always reminds his wife that she is no longer Madame de
Seignelai; and that, being only Madame de Marsan, she must accommodate
herself to all his friends, of whatever form or rank, and let every
one live after his own way. I am to go on Saturday to Saint Martin’s,
and to-morrow I shall go to Versailles, to condole with my friend, and
pass the day with Mesdames de Villeroi and Mademoiselle de Bouillon,
whom I shall find there. Madame de Guise has ordered her funeral to be
conducted without ceremony, and has preferred the burial-ground of the
Carmelites of the great convent, to all the pomp of Saint Denis, with
the kings her ancestors. She was only forty-nine years of age. Father
de la Ferté will preach again on Wednesday; and on Friday, without
saying a word, he will set off for Canada. If he were not to take his
departure in this way, it would cause a tumult, he is so much liked by
the populace; the Church of the Jesuits was too small for the multitude
which crowded to his sermons.
I have just been dining at the Hôtel de Chaulnes, where I met the
Marquis de Grignan; he can tell you that I was not in a very ill
humor. Madame (La maréchale) de Villeroi yesterday announced to Madame
de Saint-Géran the death of her husband; and the duke has taken upon
himself the charge of the funeral this evening. He will probably be
the privileged creditor on the inheritance, for he will advance, no
doubt, what is necessary for the ceremony. This is all I know, madam;
I, therefore, conclude, and take leave of you till my return from Saint
Martin’s, which will be when it pleases God. Madame de Coulanges is
free from the colic; she only complains that she has sometimes the
_little colic_, which does not prevent her from eating and drinking,
and associating with the young. She is very partial to the Chevalier
de Bouillon and Count d’Albret, and she was delighted to meet M. de
Marsan again, with whom she has renewed a snuff acquaintance. Winter
is come back within these two days: it has snowed and frozen in such a
manner, that we must expect no apricots; I fear the peaches also will
suffer. Madame de Frontenac has a violent cold and fever; the fashion
of dying alarms us for her. Our poor D’Enclos has also a slow fever,
which returns slightly every evening, with a sore throat, that makes
her friends uneasy; in short, I very much fear that the work of death
is not at an end.
LETTER XV.[329]
GRIGNAN, March 29, 1696.
[329] As the death of Madame de Sévigné happened in the beginning
of April, it is probable that this letter is the last she wrote.
We consider its recovery as a fortunate circumstance.
When I have no other employment I weep and bewail aloud the death
of Blanchefort, that amiable, that excellent youth, who was held
up to all our young people as a model for imitation. A reputation
completely established, valor acknowledged and worthy of his name,
a disposition happy for himself (for a bad disposition is a torment
to its possessor), for his friends, and for his family; alive to the
affection of his mother and his grandmother, loving them, honoring
them, appreciating their merit, taking pleasure in proving to them
his gratitude, and thereby repaying them for their extreme affection;
uniting good sense with a fine person; not vain of his youth, as
most young people are, who seem to think themselves paragons of
perfection--and this dear boy, with all his perfections, gone in a
moment, like a blossom borne away by the wind, without being in battle,
without having an opportunity to fight, and without breathing even an
unhealthy air! Where, my dear cousin, can we find words to express
our ideas of the grief of these two mothers, and to convey to them an
adequate sense of what we feel here? We do not think of writing to
them, but if at any time you should have an opportunity of mentioning
my daughter, and me, and the Grignans, make known our regret at
this irreparable misfortune. Madame de Vins has lost every thing, I
own;[330] for when the heart has chosen between two sons, one only is
seen. I can talk of nothing else. I bow in reverence to the holy and
modest tomb of Madame de Guise, whose renunciation of that of the kings
her ancestors, merits an eternal crown. I think M. de Saint-Géran happy
indeed, and so I think you, for having to comfort his wife; say to her
for us every thing you think proper. And as for Madame de Miramion,
that mother of the church, she will be a public loss. Adieu, my dear
cousin, I can not change my tone. You have finished your jubilee. The
delightful trip to Saint Martin’s has closely followed the sackcloth
and ashes you mentioned to me. The happiness M. and Madame de Marsan
are now enjoying well deserves that you should sometimes see them, and
put them into your basket; and I deserve a place in that in which you
put those who love you; but I fear that for them you have no basket.
[330] Madame de Vins had lost an only son.
SELECTIONS FROM VARIOUS LETTERS.[331]
[331] These selections from letters necessarily omitted in our
plan, comprise nearly, if not quite all, that is of literary
or moral value in the whole series. We are thus able to give a
more distinct impression of Madame de Sévigné’s character as a
mother and a Christian. Besides the many amusing anecdotes here
collected, her sentiments on important duties of life are of
much value; and her religious feelings are deserving distinct
recognition. It will be seen that she studied her Bible, and
strove to follow its divine teachings; like Fénelon, though
nominally a Romanist, or rather Jansenist, she had in her heart
and mind protested against the corruptions of that Church. Her
clear insight, just principles, and heart-piety are remarkably
displayed in these extracts.
A SUPPER.--We supped again yesterday with Madame de Scarron and the
Abbé Têtu, at Madame de Coulanges’. We had a great deal of chat, in
which you had your share. We took it into our heads to conduct Madame
de Scarron home, at midnight to the very furthest end of the Faubourg
St. Germain, a great way beyond Madame de la Fayette’s, almost as far
as Vaugirard, and quite in the country, where she lives in a large
handsome house--the entrance of which is forbidden to every one--with
a large garden, and beautiful and spacious apartments; she has an
equipage, servants, and a genteel table; dresses neatly, but elegantly,
in the style of a woman who associates with people of rank; she is
amiable, handsome, good, free from affectation, and, in a word, an
excellent companion. We returned very merrily, in the midst of a number
of flambeaux, and in full security from thieves.
PORT ROYAL.--That Port Royal is a perfect Thebais, a very paradise; a
desert where all that is left of true Christian devotion is retired.
The whole country for a league round breathes the air of virtue and
holiness. The nuns are angels upon earth. Mademoiselle de Vertus
is wearing out the remains of a miserable life there, in the most
excruciating pain, but with inconceivable resignation. The very meanest
of the inhabitants have a virtuous serenity in their countenances, and
a modesty of deportment to be met with in no other place. I own to
you I was delighted to see this divine solitude of which I have heard
so much; it is a frightful valley, calculated to inspire a taste for
religion.
HINTS ABOUT CHILDREN.--A word about the little Marquis (de
Grignan);[332] I beseech you not to be under any apprehension about
his timidity. Remember that the charming Marquis (de la Châtre) used
to tremble and quake till he was twelve years old, and that La Troche,
when young, was so terrified at the least thing, that his mother
could not bear to have him in her sight; and yet you see how much
they have distinguished themselves since: let that comfort you. Fears
of this kind are the mere effect of childhood, and when childhood is
surmounted, instead of being afraid of raw-head and bloody bones,
these personages are afraid only of being thought fearful, are afraid
of being less esteemed than others, and that is sufficient to make
them brave, and kill their thousands and ten thousands: let me then
again beg you to make yourself easy on that score. As to his shape,
it is another matter: I would advise you to put him into breeches,
and then you will see better how his legs go on, and whether they are
straightened as he grows. You must let him have room to stir himself,
and unfold his little limbs: but you must put on him a pretty tight
vest, which will confine his shape. I shall receive some further
instructions, however, on this subject, which I will not fail to
transmit to you. It would be a fine thing indeed to see a Grignan
with a bad shape! Do you not remember how pretty he was in his
swaddling-clothes? I am no less uneasy than yourself at this alteration.
[332] Grandson of Madame de Sévigné.
REFLECTIONS.--What you say of death taking the liberty of interrupting
fortune is admirable; this ought to comfort those who are not in the
number of her favorites, and to diminish the bitterness of death. You
ask me if I am religious: alas! my dear, I am not sufficiently so, for
which I am very sorry; but yet I think I am somewhat detached from
what is called the world. Age and sickness give us leisure enough for
serious reflection; but what I retrench from the rest of the world
I bestow upon you, so that I make but small advances in the path of
detachment; and you know that the law of the game is to begin by
effacing a little what is dearest to our heart.
VERSAILLES IN 1676.--I was on Saturday at Versailles with the Villars.
You know the ceremony of attending on the queen at her toilet, at mass,
and at dinner; but there is now no necessity of being stifled with the
heat, and with the crowd, while their majesties dine: for at three,
the king and queen, monsieur, madame, mademoiselle, the princes and
princesses, Madame de Montespan, and her train, the courtiers, and
the ladies, in short the whole court of France, retire to that fine
apartment of the king’s which you know. It is furnished with the utmost
magnificence; they know not there what it is to be incommoded with
heat; and pass from one room to another without being crowded. A game
at reversis gives a form to the assembly, and fixes every thing. The
king and Madame de Montespan keep a bank together. Monsieur, the queen,
and Madame de Soubise, Dangeau, and Langlé, with their companies, are
at different tables. The baize is covered with a thousand louis-d’ors;
they use no other counters. I saw Dangeau play, and could not help
observing how awkward others appeared in comparison of him. He thinks
of nothing but his game, though he scarcely seems to attend to it; he
gains where others lose; takes every advantage; nothing escapes or
distracts him; in short, his good conduct defies fortune. Thus, two
hundred thousand francs in ten days, a hundred thousand crowns in a
month, are added to his account-book under the head _received_. He
had the complaisance to say I was a partner with him in the bank, by
which means I was seated very commodiously. I bowed to the king in the
way you taught me; and he returned my salutation, as if I had been
young and handsome. The queen talked to me of my illness, nor did she
leave you unmentioned. The duke paid me a thousand of those unmeaning
compliments which he bestows so liberally. M. de Lorges attacked me in
the name of the Chevalier de Grignan; and, in short, _tutti quanti_
(all the rest). You know what it is to receive a word from every one
who passes you. Madame de Montespan talked to me of Bourbon, and
desired me to tell her how I liked Vichi, and whether I had found any
benefit there. She said that Bourbon, instead of removing the pain from
her knee, had given her the tooth-ache. Her beauty and her shape are
really surprising; she is much thinner than she was; and yet neither
her eyes, her lips, nor her complexion are injured. She was dressed
in French point; her hair in a thousand curls, and the two from her
temples very low upon her cheeks; she wore on her head black ribbons,
intermixed with the pearls which once belonged to the Maréchale de
l’Hôpital, diamond pendants of great value, and three or four bodkins.
In a word, she appeared a triumphant beauty, calculated to raise
the admiration of all the foreign embassadors. She has heard that
complaints were made of her having prevented all France from seeing
the king; she has restored him, as you see, and you can not imagine
the delight this has occasioned, nor the splendor it has given to the
court. This agreeable confusion, without confusion, of all the most
select persons in the kingdom, lasts from three o’clock till six. If
any couriers arrive, the king retires to read his letters, and returns
to the assembly. There is always music, to which he sometimes listens,
and which has an admirable effect: in the mean time, he chats with the
ladies who are accustomed to have that honor. They leave off their game
at the hour I mentioned, without the trouble of reckoning, because they
use no marks or counters. The pools are of five, six, or seven hundred,
and sometimes of a thousand or twelve hundred louis-d’ors.
At six they take the air in calashes; the king and Madame de Montespan,
the prince and Madame de Thianges, and Mademoiselle d’Heudicourt, upon
the little seat before, which seems to her a seat in paradise. You know
how these calashes are made; they do not sit face to face in them, but
all look the same way. The queen was in another with the princesses:
the whole court followed in different equipages, according to their
different fancies. They went afterward in gondolas upon the canal,
where there was music: at ten the comedy began, and at twelve they
concluded the day with the Spanish entertainment of _media noche_; thus
we passed the Saturday.
THE TELESCOPE.--Apropos, did I mention to you an excellent telescope
that amused us exceedingly in the boat? It is really a master-piece
of its kind; it is a still better one than that which the abbé left
with you at Grignan. This glass brings objects quite home that are at
three leagues’ distance; alas! that it would bring those which are two
hundred! You may easily guess the use we made of it on the banks of the
Loire, but I have found a new method of using it, which is this: you
know that one end brings objects nearer to you, and the other throws
them to a great distance; now this end I turn toward Mademoiselle du
Plessis, and in a moment I see her three leagues from me. I tried this
experiment the other day on her, and the rest of my neighbors; this
was amusing, but nobody knew what I meant by it; if there had been any
one to whom I could have given the hint, the pleasure would have been
greater. When tired with disagreeable company, it is only to send for
the glass, and look through it at the end that distances the objects.
Ask Montgobert, if she would not have laughed heartily. This is a
pretty subject to talk nonsense upon. If you have Corbinelli with you,
let me recommend the use of the glass to you.
Adieu, my dear; we are not mountains, as you say, so I hope to embrace
you a little nearer than two hundred leagues: but you are going still
further off; I have a great mind to set out for Brest. It is very hard,
in my opinion, that the grand-duchess should not have the good Rarai as
her lady of honor; the Guisardes have appointed La Sainte-Même to the
office. I hear that La Trousse’s good fortune is doubled, and that he
will have De Froulai’s situation.
RULES OF LIVING.--I am never in bed more than seven hours, and I eat
sparingly: I add to your precepts walking a great deal, but the worst
is, that I can not prevent somber thoughts from intruding into my
long gloomy avenues. Sadness is poison to us, and the source of the
vapors. You are right in thinking this disorder is imaginary; you have
admirably defined it; it is sorrow that gives birth to, and fear that
nourishes it.
WORK.--I was employed yesterday on a piece of work as tedious as the
company I had: I never work but when I have company; when I am alone, I
walk, I read, or write. La Plessis incommodes me no more than Maria; I
am so happy as to have no inclination to listen to any thing she says,
and find as little interruption from her presence, as you do from some
whom you have the same kind of regard for. In other respects she has
the best sentiments in the world; I admire how all her good qualities
are spoiled by her impertinent and ridiculous manners. It is quite
laughable to hear what she says of my patience in bearing with her;
how she explains it; and the obligations she fancies it lays her under
to attach herself to me; and how I serve her for an excuse for not
visiting her friends at Vitré. It would make you smile, to observe her
little arts to satisfy her vanity (for vanity is the growth of every
soil); and her affected fears that I am growing jealous of a nun of
Vitré, for whom she has a partiality. All this would make an excellent
farce.
EVENING EMPLOYMENTS.--I was perfectly rejoiced to return here; I am
making a new walk, which employs me wholly. I pay my workmen in corn;
and find nothing so profitable as to amuse one’s self, and forget, if
possible, the evils of life. Neither do my evenings, my child, about
which you are so much in pain, hang more heavily on my hands: I am
almost always writing, or reading, and midnight overtakes me before I
know where I am. Our abbé (her uncle) takes his leave of me at ten,
and the two hours that I am alone, are no more irksome to me than the
rest. In the day I am either employed with the abbé, or among my dear
laborers, or in my favorite work. In short, my dear, life flies away
so swiftly, and we are always drawing so near our end, that I can
not conceive how people can make themselves so unhappy about worldly
affairs. I have here sufficient time for reflection, and it is my
fault, and not that of the place, if I do not indulge it. I am quite
well; all my people obey you admirably: they are ridiculously careful
of me; they come to guard me home in the evening armed cap-à-pie, and
it is against a squirrel they draw their swords.
AN IMPROMPTU MARRIAGE.--M. de Chaulnes concluded a marriage the other
day, which gave me pleasure, between the little Du Guesclin, and a very
pretty girl with a large fortune; when he had with great difficulty
settled the articles, he said, “Let us draw up the contract;” the
parties consented, and he immediately resumed, saying, “What prevents
their being married to-morrow?” Every one exclaimed, “There must be
wedding-clothes, a toilet, and linen.”--He laughed at this. M. de
Rennes gave a dispensation of two banns, and the next day being Sunday,
one was published in the morning, and they were married at noon; after
dinner the little bride danced like an angel; she had learned at Paris
of the duchess’ master, and had caught her air; the next day she was
Madame du Guesclin, and had saved 20,000 livres that would otherwise
have been spent in the wedding. It is consistent with good sense to
rise superior sometimes to trifles and customs.
A BRIDE.--Madame de Coulanges informs me that the new Madame de la
Fayette was reclined upon a magnificent bed in a noble house; the room
hung with beautiful tapestry belonging to the Keeper of the Seals;
the bed decorated with an ancient mantle of the order, and the room
hung with fine tapestry, having the arms ornamented with the staves of
the Marshal of France, and the collar of the order; looking-glasses,
chandeliers, glass plates, and crystals, according to the present
fashion, out of number; a great many servants, and valets-de-chambre
in livery; the bride in an elegant dress. In short, such taste reigns
in the house of the new-married couple and in their family, that our
Madame de la Fayette ought to be perfectly satisfied at her son’s
having formed so great and honorable an alliance.
BLEEDING.--You tell me you have found it necessary to be bled; the
trembling hand of your young surgeon makes me tremble. The prince said
one day to a new surgeon, “Does not the idea of bleeding me make you
tremble?”--“Faith sir,” replied the man, “your highness has most reason
to tremble.” He was in the right.
COMPANY.--I have for a long time adopted your opinion, that bad company
is preferable to good: how dismal it is to part with the good! and
what a pleasure it is to get rid of the bad! Do you remember how we
were tormented at Fouesnel, and how overjoyed we were when the company
thought proper to take their leave? I think we may then establish it as
a maxim, that nothing is more desirable than bad company, and nothing
more to be dreaded than good. Let whoever is puzzled with this enigma
call upon us for the solution of it.
QUARRELS IN HIGH LIFE.--I think I mentioned to you the quarrel between
the Duke de Ventadour and the Duke d’Aumont; the latter was returning
from Bourbon with his wife, and the Duchess de Ventadour and the
Chevalier de Tilladet. The Duke de Ventadour was at an estate he
has in the same county, called La Motte. He had desired his wife to
come to him there, and sent, at the same time, to invite the whole
company, but was refused; he then came himself, but was ill received,
because, following the company about from dinner-time till bed-time,
his conversation was mixed continually with menaces and reproaches;
in short, he was like Don Quixotte, pistol in hand, threatening and
challenging the gentlemen. The chevalier treated him as a person fit
only for Bedlam. At length the ladies arrived in great fear at Paris,
where the king, being informed of what had happened, sent a guard to
take care of Madame Ventadour, so that she is now under the protection
of his majesty. What think you the monster did? he went to the king,
attended by his neighbors, that is, the Princes de Condé, de Conti,
Messieurs de Luxembourg, Duras, Schomberg, Bellefond; and, with
incredible assurance, told the king that the Chevalier de Tilladet
had not paid him the _respect due to his rank_; mark the expression:
he places the dukedom where it was formerly. “Sire,” said he, “I want
to know why I am refused the company of my wife! what has happened
to my person of late? Am I uglier, or more ill made than formerly,
when I was as much courted as I am now avoided? If I am ugly, sire,
is it my fault? Had I been my own maker, I would have been like your
majesty; but these are things that are not in our own disposal.” In
short, partly owing to this natural and proper, and at the same time
unexpected, flattery, and partly to the justice of his argument, the
king was pleased with him, as well as the whole court, However, they
are to be separated; the difficulty is, that he insists that his
wife shall be shut up in a convent, which is a sad affair. M. de la
Rochefoucault is employed to accommodate this business, and settle
matters between the gentlemen.
EXTRAVAGANCE OF M. DE SÉVIGNÉ.--I have been ready to weep to see the
desolation of this estate; there were the finest trees in the world
upon it, and my son, in his last journey, gave the finishing stroke
to the last. He would even have sold a little copse, which was the
greatest ornament of the place. Is not this lamentable? He scraped
together four hundred pistoles by this plunder, of which he had not a
single penny left in a month. It is impossible to think with patience
how he acts, and what his Brittany journey cost him, notwithstanding
he discharged his coachman and footman at Paris, and took nobody but
Larmechin with him. He has found out the art of spending an immense
deal of money, without making any show for it, of losing without
playing, and of paying without discharging his debts. War or peace, he
is forever crying out for money; in short, he is a perpetual drain, and
what he does with his money I can not conceive, for he appears to have
no particular passion. I really think his hand is a crucible, which
melts money the instant it is put into it.
* * * * *
My son writes me word that he is going to play at reversis with his
young master:[333] this makes my blood run cold within me; two, three,
or four hundred pistoles are lost before we can look around us. “This
is nothing for Admetus, but a great deal for him.” If people, before
they play, would think that they may possibly lose a great deal, and
that debts of honor must be paid immediately, they would not be so
ready to engage in such parties; but the misfortune is, that every one
thinks he shall win, and this leads him on to destruction. If Dangeau
is one of the party, he will carry off every thing; for he is a perfect
harpy at play. However, it will all turn out as it shall please God,
and so it will be with the 6,000 francs which I expected to receive
from Nantes, and which a demon has interfered in the shape of a point
of law, that throws us as far back as ever.
[333] The Dauphin.
GAMING.--They play extravagantly high at Versailles: the _hoca_[334] is
forbidden at Paris under pain of death, and yet it is played at court:
five or six thousand pistoles of a morning is nothing to lose. This is
no better than picking of pockets. I beseech you to banish this game
from among you.
[334] A game at cards.
* * * * *
The other day the queen missed going to mass, and lost twenty thousand
crowns in one morning. The king said to her, “Let us calculate, madam,
how much this is a year.” And M. de Montausier asked her the next day,
if she intended staying away from mass for the _hoca_ again; upon which
she was in a great passion. I have heard these stories from persons who
have come from Versailles, and who collect them for me.
* * * * *
But now about this _breland_,[335] what a folly is it to lose so
much money at such a rascally game! It has been banished from us for
a downright cut-throat. We do things in a more serious manner. You
play against all chance: you lose forever: take my advice, and do not
continue it: consider it is throwing money away without having any
amusement for it: on the contrary, you have paid 5,000 or 6,000 francs
to be the mere dupe of fortune. But I am rather too warm, my dear, and
must say with Tartuffe, “’tis through excess of zeal.”
[335] A game at cards.
* * * * *
I will tell you, my dear child, a thought that has occurred to me on
the frequent losses you and M. de Grignan sustain at cards. I would
have you both be cautious. It is not pleasant to be made a dupe of;
and be assured that it is not natural to be perpetually the winner or
the loser. It is not long since I was led into the tricks of the Hôtel
de la Vieuville. You remember, I suppose, how our pockets were picked
there. You are not to imagine every body plays as fairly as you do
yourself. The concern I have for your interest makes me say so much;
and as it comes from a heart entirely devoted to you, I am persuaded
you will not be displeased at it.
PROVIDENCE.--You say you never mention Providence but when you have
a disorder on your lungs, whereas that subject always exhausts mine,
for I can find none that furnishes so large a field for discussion,
observation and inquiry; and why may we not discourse as well on this
as on natural philosophy? Why did you not still say, as you did last
year, that our fears, our reasonings, our decisions, our wills, our
desires, are only so many means employed by God for the execution of
his purposes? Is not this an inexhaustible subject, fraught with the
most entertaining variety?
* * * * *
Believe me there is no experiment in natural philosophy more
interesting than the investigation of the connection and diversity of
our several sentiments; so that you see, _It is God’s will_ may be
paraphrased in a thousand different ways.
FREE WILL.--I have no other answer to make you upon what St. Augustin
says, except that I hear and understand him, when he tells me, and
repeats to me five hundred times in the same book, that all things
depend, as the apostle says, “not on him that willeth, nor on him
that runneth, but on God, that showeth mercy to whom it pleaseth him;
that it is not for any merit in man, that God bestows his grace, but
according to his own good pleasure; that man may not glory in his own
strength, seeing he receives all things from God.” His whole book is in
this strain, filled with passages from Scripture, the writings of the
Apostle Paul, and the Homilies of the Church. He calls our free will,
a deliverance, and an aptitude to love God, because we are no longer
under the dominion of the devil, and are chosen from all eternity,
according to the decrees of the Almighty before all ages. When I
read in this book the following passage, “How could God call men to
judgment, if they were not free agents?” I confess I am at a loss to
understand it, and am disposed to think it a mystery: but as free will
can not put our salvation in our own power, and as we must always be
dependent on God, I have no desire to understand it better, and will
endeavor, as much as possible, to remain in a state of humility and
dependence.
DEVICES.--As to devices, my dear child, my poor brain is in a very bad
condition for thinking of any, much less for inventing them; however,
as there are twelve hours in the day, and above fifty in the night, my
memory has furnished me with a rocket raised to a great height in the
air, with these words; _Che peri, pur che s’innalzi_.[336] I am afraid
I have seen this somewhere in the late tournaments, though I can not
exactly say where or when; for I think it too pretty to be my own. I
remember also having seen in some book, a rocket on the subject of a
lover who had been bold enough to declare himself to his mistress, with
these words, _Da l’ardore l’ardire_,[337] which is pretty but does
not apply in this instance. I am not quite sure whether the first I
have mentioned is in strict conformity to the rules of devices: for I
do not perfectly understand them; all I know is, that it pleased me,
and whether it was in a tournament, or on a seal, is a matter of no
great importance; it is scarcely possible to invent new ones for every
occasion. You have heard me a thousand times repeat that part of a line
in Tasso, _L’alte non temo_:[338] I used to repeat this so often, that
the Count de Chapelles had a seal engraved, with an eagle flying toward
the sun, and _L’alte non temo_ for the motto: a very happy device.
* * * * *
M. de Montmoron came hither post: among other things we were talking
about devices: he assures me he does not remember to have seen any
where the one I proposed: he knew the one with these words, _Da
l’ardore l’ardire_, but that is not the thing: the other, he says, is
much more complete, _Che peri, pur che s’innalzi_. And whether it is
my own, or borrowed, he thinks it excellent.
* * * * *
I have seen a device which suits me exactly; it is a leafless tree,
apparently dead, with this inscription round it, _Fin che sol
ritorni_.[339] What think you of it, my child?
[336] Let it perish, so it be exalted.
[337] My boldness arises from my ardor.
[338] I rise without fear.
[339] Till the sun returns.
THE USE OF REASON.--I am still alone, my dear child, without being
dull: my health is good; I have plenty of books, work, and fine
weather; these, with a little reason, go a great way.
PECUNIARY EMBARRASSMENTS.--You ask, why am I not with you? Alas! I
could easily answer you, if I were inclined to debase my letter with
a detail of the reasons that obliged me to quit you, of the misery
of this country, the sums that are owing me here, the delays in the
payment of them, what I owe elsewhere, and the ruin my affairs must
have sustained had I not taken this resolution in time. You well know
that I put it off for two years with pleasure; but there are extremes,
my dear child, in which we should destroy every thing in attempting to
wrestle with necessity; the property I possess is no longer my own; I
must preserve the same honor and the same probity I have all my life
professed. This, this, my child is the cruel cause that tears me from
you; and is this a subject to entertain you with?
AN OBSTINATE SON.--In regard to my son, I find I have courage enough
to tell him my sentiments without disguise. I wrote him a letter which
I think unanswerable; but the more I enforce my reasons, the more he
urges his arguments, and he appears so determined, that I now perfectly
understand what is meant by an unconquerable wish. There is a degree of
ardor in the desire which animates him, that no prudence can withstand.
I can not accuse myself of having preferred my own interest to his. I
wish for nothing but to see him walk in the path I have traced out for
him. He is wrong in all his arguments, and far beside the mark; I have
endeavored to set him right by incontestable arguments, corroborated by
the opinion of all our friends; and ask him if he has not some doubts,
seeing he is alone in an opinion which every one else disapproves? He
answers me always by an obstinate perseverance; so that I am reduced to
the last expedient, that of keeping him from making a rash or injurious
bargain.
A FORGIVING MOTHER.--As I was returning from my walk yesterday, I
met the poor _frater_,[340] at the end of the mall, who immediately
fell upon his knees, so conscious of having done wrong in having been
three weeks under ground, singing matins, that he thought he dared
not approach me otherwise. I had resolved to scold him heartily, but
I was so glad to see him, that I could not find an angry word to use.
You know how entertaining he is; he embraced me a thousand times, and
gave me the worst reasons in the world; which, however, I received as
sterling; we chat, we read, we walk, and we wear away the year; or
rather, what is left of it.
[340] Her son.
LOVE--ITS SYMPTOMS.--You want to know the symptoms of this love, of
which I spoke to you the other day. _Imprimis_, To be the first on all
occasions to deny it: to affect an air of great indifference, which is
a sure mark of the contrary: the opinion of those who can judge from
being near: the public voice: an entire suspension of all motion in
the globular machine: a neglect of ordinary concerns to attend to a
single one: a continual satirizing old people who are so foolish as
to be in love. “Such nonsense! they must be idiots! fools! And with a
young woman too! Very pretty indeed! it would become me mighty well!
I had rather break both my arms and legs.” And then we make answer
internally: “Indeed what you say is very true; but, for all that you
are in love: you tell us all these fine things: your reflections are
doubtless very just, very true, very tormenting; but for all that you
are in love; reason is on your side, but love is stronger than reason;
at the same time you are sick, you weep, you are out of humor, and you
are in love.”
CHESS.--You tell me of chess what I have often thought before. In my
opinion, there could not have been contrived a better expedient to
humble pride than this game, which at once sets before our view the
narrowness and insignificance of the human mind. I think it would be
of real utility to any one fond of such reflections. But then, on the
other hand, the foresight, the penetration, the address in defending
ourselves, as in attacking our adversary, the success attending the
right management of the game, is so pleasing, and affords so much
inward satisfaction, that it may at the same time nourish our pride and
swell our self-sufficiency. I am still far from being cured of this
passion, and therefore want to be further convinced of my own weakness.
ALONE.--I am delighted to be alone; I walk out, I amuse myself with
reading and work, and I go to church; in short I ask pardon of the
company I expect, but I own I do wondrous well without them.
A COURTIER.--The other day the dauphin was shooting at a mark, and shot
very wide of it: M. de Montausier rallied him upon it; and told the
Marquis de Créqui, who is very skillful to fire, saying to the dauphin,
“See how well he will hit the mark.” The arch youth had the complaisance
to shoot a foot further from it than the dauphin, which turned the
laugh on M. de Montausier: “Ah! little wretch,” said he, “you deserve
to be hanged.”
THE KING.--The king, in reality, is well served: neither life nor
fortune is considered when his pleasure is the question. If we were as
well disposed toward God, we should be saints indeed.
CHRISTIAN HUMILITY.--I know very well that Jesus Christ, St. Paul,
and St. Augustine, preached and exhorted, it was their business; this
latter gives good reason for doing so. But a poor sinner, recovered
only three days from a worse state than ours, should keep silence,
penetrated with the mercy of God toward him, occupied only with his
happiness, and the true gratitude he owes to his Saviour, for having
selected and distinguished him from so many others, without any merit,
through free grace: such should be the sentiments of his heart, and if
charity should make him interest himself for his neighbor, it should
display itself in lamentations before God, and in supplicating the same
grace for others that has so plentifully been poured upon him. Such
was that penitent and holy princess, Madame de Longueville; she did
not forget her situation nor the abyss from which God had saved her;
she preserved the remembrance as a foundation for her penitence and
her lively acknowledgment to the Almighty. Thus is Christian humility
preserved and the grace of Jesus Christ honored. This does not preclude
reflection and Christian conversation with our friends; but no sermons,
no scolding; these revolt, and make us recollect and refer persons
to their past life, because we find they have forgotten it. I am
astonished that people of good sense should fall into this injustice;
but we ought to be astonished at nothing; for what do we not meet with
in our journey through life?
HOME LIFE.--We lead so regular a life that it is scarcely possible to
be ill. We rise at eight, and I often walk till nine, when the bell
rings for mass, to breathe the fresh air in the woods; after mass we
dress, bid each other good-day, return and gather orange-flowers,
dine, and work or read till five. Since my son’s absence, I read to
save his little wife’s lungs; I leave her at five, and return to those
delightful groves, with a servant who follows me: I take books with
me, change my route, and vary my walks; from a book of devotion I turn
to one of history, this creates a little change; I think of God, and
his over-ruling providence possesses my soul, and reflect on futurity;
at length, about eight o’clock I hear a bell. This is the summons to
supper. I prefer this life infinitely to that of Rennes; is it not a
fit solitude for a person who should think of her salvation, and who
either is or would be a Christian? In short, my dearest child, there is
nothing but you that I prefer to the tranquil repose I enjoy here; for
I own with pleasure, that I would willingly pass some more time with
you if it pleased God.
LIBERTY AT HOME.--What do you say my child? would you not suffer
me to have two or three hours to myself, after having been at
mass, to dinner, and till five o’clock working, or talking with my
daughter-in-law? she would, I believe, be as much vexed at this as
myself: she is a good little woman, and we agree wonderfully well
together; but we have a great taste for the liberty of parting and
meeting again afterward. When I am with you, my child, I own I never
leave you but with regret and consideration for you; with every other
person, it is from consideration for myself. Nothing can be more just
or more natural: it is impossible to feel for two persons what I feel
for you; leave us, therefore, a little to our sacred freedom; it agrees
with me, and by the help of books the time passes in this way as
quickly as it does at your brilliant castle.
READINGS.--Our readings are delightful. We have Abbadie[341] and the
History of the Church; this is marrying the lute to the voice. You
are not fond of wagers; I know not how we could captivate you a whole
winter here. You skim lightly, and are not fond of history; and we
have no pleasure but when we are attached to our subject and make it a
business. Sometimes, by way of change, we read _Les petites Lettres_
of Pascal; good heavens! how delightful they are, and how well my son
reads them! I constantly think of my daughter, and how worthy of her
this extreme propriety of reasoning would be: but your brother says
you find that it is always the same thing: ah! so much the better;
can there be a more perfect style, more finely wrought, more delicate
unaffected raillery, or more nearly allied to the dialogues of Plato,
which are so very beautiful! And when, after the first ten letters, he
addresses himself to the R. P.s, what seriousness! what solidity! what
force! what eloquence! what a way of supporting it and of making it
understood! All this is to be found in the last eight letters, which
are very different from the former. I am persuaded you never did more
than glance over them, selecting the most beautiful passages; but they
should be read leisurely.
[341] Author of _La Vérité de la Religion Chrétienne_.
* * * * *
You ask me what books we are reading. When we have company reading
is laid aside; but before the meeting of the states, we read some
little books that scarcely took us up a moment:--Mohammed II., who
took Constantinople from the last emperor of the East; this is a
great event, so singular, brilliant, and extraordinary, that we are
carried away with it; and it happened but two hundred and thirty-six
years ago:--the Conspiracy of Portugal, which is very fine: the
Variations of M. de Maux: a volume of the History of the Church, the
second is too full of the detail of the councils, and therefore might
be tedious: _Les Iconoclastes_ and the Arianism of Maimbourg; this
author is detestable, his style disagreeable; he is always desirous of
being satirical, and compares Arius, a princess and a courtier, to M.
Arnauld, Madame de Longueville, and Treville; but setting aside these
fooleries, the historical passages are so very fine, the Council of
Nice so admirable, that it is read with pleasure; and as he brings us
down to Theodosius, we shall find consolation for all our evils in the
elegant style of M. de Flechier.[342]
[342] Esprit Flechier, Bishop of Nîmes, author of the Life of
Theodosius.
ARIANISM.--I am at present reading the history of Arianism; I neither
like the author[343] nor his style: but the history itself is
admirable; it is indeed that of the whole world: it has a share in
every thing, and seems to have springs that move all the powers of the
earth. The genius of Arius was astonishing; as it likewise is, to see
how his heresy spread itself over the world; almost all the bishops
join in the error; St. Athanasius alone stands forth to defend the
divinity of Jesus. These great events are truly worthy of admiration.
When I wish to feast my understanding and my soul, I retire into my
closet; I listen to _our fathers_, and their glorious morality, which
makes us so well acquainted with our own hearts.
[343] Louis Maimbourg.
* * * * *
I am employed in reading my Arianism: it is a strange history, in
which nothing displeases me but the author and the style; but I have
a pencil, and am revenged on him, by marking some passages which I
think highly diverting from the earnest desire he shows of drawing
parallels between the Arians and the Jansenists, and the perplexity he
is under to reconcile the conduct of the Church in the first ages of
Christianity with that of the Church at present. Instead of passing
slightly over them, he says, that the Church for _good reasons_ does
not act now as it did then.
ADORATION.--I find communion is frequent in Provence; to my shame be it
spoken, I neglected the immaculate conception of the Mother, to reserve
myself wholly for the nativity of the Son; for this we can not be too
well prepared.
JEALOUSY.--You are doubtless convinced that my sentiments and yours are
the same; but I want to teach you jealousy, at least in theory, and
assure you, _credi a me pur che l’ho provato_,[344] that we often say
things we do not think; and even if we did think them, would that be a
sign of not loving? Quite the contrary; for if we were to analyze these
speeches, so full of anger and resentment, we should find a great deal
of affection and attachment at the bottom. Some hearts are remarkably
delicate; when these happen to meet with a cool or indifferent
disposition, a very considerable progress is made in the region of
jealousy. This I have thought myself obliged in conscience to say to
you; make your own reflections upon it, for I can not pretend to enter
into particulars at the distance of two hundred leagues.
[344] Believe me for I have proved it.
FOLLY.--A young man came to visit me the other day, who is the son of a
gentleman of Anjou, with whom I was formerly intimately acquainted. At
his entrance I beheld a fine, graceful, handsome figure, which struck
me with pleasure; but, alas! as soon as he opened his mouth, he laughed
at every word he spoke, which made _me_ almost ready to cry. He has
a smattering of Paris and the opera; he sings; is familiar and airy;
and repeats with great gravity, “Quand on n’a point ce qu’on aime,
qu’importe, qu’importe, à quel prix?”[345] instead of _to obtain what
we love_, which you know are the words of the opera. I recommend this
charming alteration to M. de Grignan, to set it to music.
[345] To obtain what we do not love, what price is too great?
[Transcription note: a more accurate translation would be
“When we love but do not possess, what price is too great?”]
THE LOT OF MANKIND.--I wish to write in my prayer-book what M. de
Comines says of the cross purposes of human life. It is pleasant to see
that, even in his time, tribulation and misery were the lot of mankind.
His style gives peculiar grace to the solidity of his argument.
For my part, I am determined to be more than ever convinced of the
impossibility of being happy in this world, since God keeps _loyally_
to what he has promised.[346]
[346] This is the passage from Comines.
“No creature is exempt from suffering. All eat their bread in
pain.”
EXPENSES, RETRENCHMENTS, ETC.--I readily conceive that you are fearful
of looking into the expense you have incurred: it is a machine that
must not be touched, lest it fall and crush you with its weight. There
is something of enchantment in the magnificence of your castle, and the
elegance of your table. The dilapidation must be ruinous, and I can not
conceive what you mean by saying that it is not considerable. It is a
kind of black art, like that among courtiers, who, though they have not
a penny in their pockets, undertake the most expensive journeys both by
land and water, follow every fashion, are at every ball, masquerade,
and ring, in every lottery, and still go the same round, though
overwhelmed in debts. I forgot to mention gaming, which is another
curious article. Then estates dwindle away; but no matter, they still
go on. Just so it is with you.
* * * * *
I fancy that by this time you are somewhat cured of your Grignan
economy, where you were to live for little or nothing; for it was
nothing, it seems, nothing at all, to have four or five tables, to keep
open house, and furnish entertainment for man and horse; a thing that
no one in the world now thinks of doing: in short, say what you please,
that famous caravansera of yours appears to me to teem with ruin; this
concourse of people seems to me like the flood which carries all before
it. In short, my child, I dare not think of this vortex; Paris will
prove your resting-place: stay here at least till you have confronted
your expenses, and can look your return in the face.
* * * * *
There are many things yet to settle, which concern you as much as
myself, and I might as well not have made this journey at all, as to
make it too short; so that I must resolve to drain the bitter cup to
the bottom. Besides, as I observed to you in a former letter, the money
I save by being here, serves to pay off a part of my debts elsewhere;
without this expedient, what could I have done? You well know what I
mean; it has cost me many an uneasy moment: and, indeed, what could you
yourself have done, but for the assistance you received? At present, I
fancy, you have made matters up tolerably well.
BAPTISM.--What you said the other day, as to humor and memory, was
perfectly just; they are certainly things which are not sufficiently
known. I also intend to convict you of heresy, my child; and, be as
angry as you please, I insist, that the death of Jesus Christ is not
alone sufficient, without baptism: he requires the water, the spirit,
and the blood, and it is on these conditions alone that his death can
be of service to us. No part of the old man can enter into heaven,
but by regeneration through Jesus Christ. If you ask me my reasons, I
shall reply with St. Augustine, that I can give none, any more than I
can tell why, having come into the world to save all men, he saves so
very few; or why he concealed himself during his life-time, and would
not let any one know or follow him. I can give no reason for all these
things; but of this I am certain, that since he thought fit they should
be so, they must be right and proper, seeing that his will is truth and
justice.
ORDER.--If Providence delights in order, and order is no other than
the will of God, there must be many things contrary to his will. The
persecutions against St. Athanasius, and other orthodox divines,
and the calm prosperity of tyrants, are all contrary to order, and
consequently to the will of God; therefore, with leave of Father
Malebranche,[347] would it not be as well to confine ourselves to what
St. Augustine says, that God permits all things that come to pass, that
he may derive glory from them to himself, by ways unknown to man? St.
Augustine acknowledges no rule or order but the will of God, and if we
do not follow his doctrine, we shall have the mortification of finding,
that, as scarcely any thing in this world is agreeable to order, every
thing must pass contrary to his will who made all things; which, in my
mind, is a shocking supposition.
[347] Father Malebranche says, that “all that is done in nature
is done from the nature of order.”
MARY BLANCHE.[348]--You give me an excellent idea of your eldest
daughter; I see her before me; pray embrace her for me; I rejoice that
she is happy. For your son, you may love him as much as you please;
he deserves it; every one speaks highly of him, and praises him in a
way that would give you pleasure; we expect him this week. I have felt
all the force of the phrase he made use of to gain esteem, “which must
come, or tell the reason why:” it brought tears into my eyes at the
moment; but esteem is come already, and will not have to say why it
staid away. The reputation of this child is already commenced, and will
now only increase.
[348] Mary Blanche, eldest daughter of Madame de Grignan. She was
a nun at St. Mary at Aix.
THE YOUNG MARQUIS DE GRIGNAN.[349]--Your son was last night at the Duke
de Chartres’ ball; he was very handsome, and will inform you of his
success. You must not, however, calculate upon his studying much; he
owned to us yesterday, very sincerely, that he is at present incapable
of paying proper attention; his youth hurries him away, and he does
not understand what he reads. We grieve that he has not, at least, a
taste for reading, and that he wants inclination more than time. His
frankness prevented our scolding him; I know not what we did not say
to him; I mean the chevalier, myself and Corbinelli, who was rather
warm upon the occasion. But we must not fatigue or force him; this
taste will come in time, my dear; for it is not possible, that, with so
much spirit, good sense, and love for his profession, he should have
no desire to be made acquainted with the exploits of the heroes of
antiquity, and particularly _Cæsar at the head of his Commentaries_.
Have patience, and do not fret: he would be too perfect were he fond of
reading.
[349] Grandson of Madame the Sévigné.
* * * * *
I am also of opinion, that by reading we learn to write; I know some
officers of rank, whose style is vulgar; it is, however, a delightful
thing to be able to communicate our thoughts; but it also often happens
that these people write as they think, and as they speak; every thing
is in unison.
PAULINA.[350]--I am pleased with Coulanges’ praise of Paulina; it
is well applied, and makes me understand what sort of charms she
possesses, curbed however by persons who have not given her the best
nose[351] in the world. If the count had given her his fine eyes and
fine person, and left the rest to you, Paulina would have set the world
on fire; she would have been irresistible; this pretty mixture is a
thousand times better, and must certainly form a very pretty personage.
Her sprightliness resembles yours; your wit always bore away the palm,
as you say of hers; I like this panegyric. She will soon learn Italian,
with the assistance of a better mistress than you had. You deserve as
excellent a daughter as mine has been. I told you that you might do
what you wished with yours, from her disposition to please you; she
appears to me worthy of your love.
[350] Paulina de Grignan, born in 1674, and married in 1695, to
the Marquis de Simiane, was noticed at five or six years of age,
for the agreeableness of her wit, as well as the beauty of her
person. Her letters were already looked upon as performances in
which the pleasing and the natural were equally combined. She had
scarcely entered her fourth year, when she would occasionally
utter repartees full of wit and pleasantry. She was not more
than thirteen when she wrote, at Madame de Grignan’s request, a
small piece of devotion which the brightest genius might have
been proud of. It is easy to guess how a person thus favored by
nature must turn out, educated under the eyes of a mother and
grandmother whose good sense seemed as it were transfused into
her. She excelled not only in the epistolary style, but also in
the poetic, though she never wrote but for amusement. The solid
principles of true religion, in which she was brought up, shone
forth in her, amid the bustle of courts and secular affairs; and
never with so much splendor as in the last year of her life,
which she employed wholly in the exercise of the most sublime
virtues of Christianity.
[351] Paulina’s nose resembled her grandmother’s.
* * * * *
Paulina then is not perfect; I could never have supposed that her chief
imperfection would have been ignorance of religion. You must instruct
her in this, which you are very capable of doing; it is your duty, and
you have good books to assist you: in return, your sister-in-law, the
abbess, will teach her the world.
* * * * *
You astonish me by what you say of Paulina; pray, pray, my dear child,
keep her with you; think not that a convent can repair the errors of
education, whether as to religion, with which the sisterhood are very
little acquainted, or as to any thing else. You will do much better at
Grignan, when you have time for application. You will make her read
good authors; you will converse with her, and M. de la Garde will
assist you: I am convinced that this is preferable to a convent.
FAITH IN CHRIST.--So then, you read St. Paul and St. Augustine; two
excellent laborers to establish the absolute will of God. They never
scruple to assert, that God disposes of his creatures as the potter
does of his clay; some he chooses, some he rejects. They are no loss
to apologize for his justice, since there is no other justice but his
will. It is justice itself, it is the rule of right; and, after all,
what does he owe to man? Is he in any way dependent on him? Not at all.
He, therefore, does them justice in rejecting them, on account of the
stain of original sin, which is communicated to all; and he selects
a few, whom he saves by his son Jesus Christ, who himself says, “I
know my sheep, and am known of mine: I will lead them forth to the
pasture, and not one shall be lost.” “I have chosen you,” saith he in
another place to his apostles, “and you have not chosen me.” There are
numberless passages of this nature; I meet with them continually, and
understand them all; and when I find others that seem to contradict
them, I say to myself, This is to be understood figuratively, as when
we read that “God was in wrath,” that “God repented him,” and the like:
and I always abide by that first and great truth, which represents God
to me as he is, the sovereign master, the supreme creator and author
of the universe; in a word, as a being infinitely perfect, agreeably
to Descartes’ idea. Such are my humble and reverential thoughts, from
which, however, I deduce no ridiculous consequences, nor do they
deprive me of the hope of being of the number of the elect of God,
after the mercies he has bestowed on me, which are so many foundations
upon which to ground my confidence.
THE FIRE-EATER.--Yesterday a young man came here from Vitré, whom I
knew to have lived formerly as footman with M. Coulanges. M. de Grignan
has seen him at Aix. He showed me a printed list of the feats he
performed with fire; he has the secret of the man you have heard spoken
of at Paris. Among a thousand wonderful things that he did, and which I
am astonished the government permits, on account of the consequences,
I was struck with one in particular, which is soon done; this was
the letting fall from his hand into his mouth ten or twelve drops of
flaming sealing-wax, with which he appeared to be no more affected than
if it had been so much cold water; he did not make the least grimace,
or sign of uneasiness, and his tongue looked as fair and unhurt after
the operation as before. I have often heard of these fire-eaters; but I
must confess, that to see the thing performed in my own room, and under
my very eye, struck me with astonishment.
BOOKS.--We pass our time here very quietly; this you can not doubt; but
very swiftly, which will surprise you: work, walking, conversation,
reading, all these are called in to our assistance. Speaking of books,
you tell me wonders of M. Nicole’s last production; I have read some
passages that appeared to me very fine; the author’s style enlightens,
as you say, and makes us enter into ourselves, in such a way as
discovers the beauty of his mind and the goodness of his heart; for
he never scolds out of season, which is the worst thing in the world,
and never produces the desired effect. I did not purchase the book
at the time, which was in Lent: I contented myself with the good Le
Tourneux.[352] We are reading a treatise of the pious man of Port-Royal
upon continual prayer, which is a sequel to certain pious works that
are very fine; but this, which is much larger, is so spiritual, so
luminous, and so holy, that though it be a thousand degrees above
our understandings, it does not fail to please and charm us. We are
delighted to find that there have been, and still are, people in the
world, to whom God has communicated his Holy Spirit and grace in such
abundance; but, good heavens! when shall we be possessed of one little
spark, of one single degree? How sad it is to find ourselves so far
behind here, and so near in other things! fie, fie, let us not name
this misfortune! we ought to humble ourselves at it a hundred times a
day.
[352] Nicholas de Tourneux, confessor of Port-Royal, so
well-known by his excellent work, entitled “The Christian Year,”
and by a great number of other important works.
LIBERTY OF MIND.--There are certain periods of life in which we attend
to nothing but ourselves. You indeed have never been much occupied
in that way; but when we came down this river together, we were more
engaged in disputing about the Count des Chapelles than in admiring
the beauties of the rural scenes that surrounded us. Now, the case is
exactly the reverse: we observe a profound silence, are perfectly at
our ease, reading, musing, admiring, out of the way of all sorts of
news, and living upon our own reflections. The good abbé (her uncle)
is always praying: I listen attentively to his pious ejaculations; but
when he has got to his beads I beg to be excused, finding that I can
meditate much better without them. In short, we manage to pass twelve
or fourteen hours without being very unhappy; such a fine thing is
liberty.
THE NUNS OF SAINT-MARIE.--My greatest satisfaction is in visiting the
nuns of Saint-Marie; they are truly amiable women; they still retain
the remembrance of you, of which they do not fail to make a merit with
me: they are neither silly nor conceited, like some you know; they do
not believe the present Pope[353] to be a heretic; they understand
the religion they profess, and will never reject the Holy Scriptures
because they have been translated by worthy men; they pay all due
honor to the saving grace of Christ; they acknowledge the power of
providence; they educate the young girls committed to their care very
properly, and neither teach them to lie nor to dissemble; no chimeras,
no idolatry is to be found among them. In short, I have a great regard
for them. M. de Grignan would think them Jansenists; for my part, I
think them Christians: there are two of them who have an infinite deal
of wit. I shall go to their house to-morrow to write, and I shall dine
with them on Saturday: they are all the comfort I have here.
[353] Innocent XI., who passed for favoring the Jansenists,
merely because he took no steps against them.
MORAL ESSAYS.--Do you not intend to read the Moral Essays, and to give
me your opinion of them? For my part, I am charmed with them; and so
I am with the funeral oration on M. de Turenne; there are passages in
it which must have affected all that were present. I do not doubt but
it has been sent you; tell me if you do not think it very fine. Do
you not intend to finish Josephus? We read a great deal of serious as
well as lighter subjects; fable and history. We are so deeply engaged
with these, that we have scarcely leisure for any other employments.
They pity us at Paris; they think us confined to a fire-side by the
inclemency of the season, and languishing under a dearth of amusement;
but, my dear, I walk; I find a thousand diversions; the woods are
neither wild nor inhospitable. It is not for passing my time here
instead of at Paris that I am to be pitied.
HISTORY OF THE BIBLE.--I am, moreover, reading the emblems of the Holy
Scriptures,[354] which begin from Adam. I have begun with the creation
of the world, which you are so fond of, and shall end with the death
of our Saviour, which you know is an admirable series. We find in it
every circumstance, though related concisely; the style is fine; it
is done by an eminent hand: the history is interspersed throughout
with excellent reflections, taken from the fathers, and is very
entertaining. For my own part, I go much further than the Jesuits; and
when I see the reproaches of ingratitude, and the dreadful punishments
with which God afflicted his people, I can not help concluding, that
we, who are freed from the yoke to which they were subjected, are, in
consequence, highly culpable, and justly deserve those scourges of fire
and water which the Almighty employs when he thinks fit. The Jesuits do
not say enough on this subject, and others give cause to murmur against
the justice of the Deity, in weakening the supports of our spiritual
liberty, as they do. You see what fruit I derive from my reading. I
fancy my confessor will enjoin me to read the philosophy of Descartes.
[354] History of the Old and New Testament, by M. de Saci, Sieur
de Royaumont. He composed this book in the Bastille. It is, they
say, filled with allusions to the vicissitudes of Jansenism in
that age, M. de Saci was president of the nuns at Port-Royal.
AFFECTION.--I fancy myself qualified to write a treatise on affection;
there are a thousand things depending on it, a thousand things to be
shunned, in order to prevent those we love from smarting for it: there
are innumerable instances where we give them pain, and in which we
might alleviate their feelings, were we to reflect and to turn things
in all the points of view we ought, out of regard to the object of our
love. In short, I could make it appear in my book, that there are a
thousand different ways of proving our regard without talking of it; as
well as of saying by actions that we have no real regard, even while
the treacherous tongue is making protestations to the contrary. I mean
no one in particular, but what I have written, I have written.
SUBMISSION.--I beg you will read the second part of the second treatise
in the first volume of _Moral Essays_; I am sure you know it, but you
may not perhaps have observed it particularly; it is on the subject of
_submission to the will of God_. You will there see how clearly it is
demonstrated that Providence governs all things; that is my creed, by
that I abide: and though a contrary doctrine may be advanced elsewhere,
to keep fair with all sides, I shall consider such conduct only in the
light of a political stratagem, and follow the example of those who
believe as I do, though they may change their note.
PHILOSOPHY.--You say that I make God the author of every thing that
happens; read, read, I say, that part of the treatise I have pointed
out to you, and you will find that we are to look to Him for every
thing, but with reverence and humility, and consider man only as the
executor of his orders, from whose agency he can draw what effects he
thinks proper. It is thus we reason, when our eyes are lifted up to
heaven, but, in general, we are apt to confine our views to the poor
contemptible second causes that strike our bodily senses, and bear with
impatience what we ought to receive with submission; and such, alas!
is my present wretched situation. I join with you in believing that
philosophy is good for little, except to those who do not stand in need
of it. You desire me to love you more and more: indeed, you embarrass
me; I know not where to find that degree of comparison; it is beyond
my conception: but this I am certain of, that I never can, in thought,
word, or deed, evince the thousandth part of the affection I bear you;
and this is that sometimes distracts me.
OLD AGE.--So then you were struck with an expression of Madame de la
Fayette’s (“you are old,”) blended with so much friendship. Though I
say to myself that this is a truth which should not be forgotten, I
confess I was all astonishment at it; for I yet feel no sort of decay
that puts me in mind of it. I can not, however refrain from calculating
and reflecting, and I find that the conditions of life are very hard.
It seems to me that I have been dragged against my will to the fatal
period, when _old age_ must be endured; I see it, I have attained it;
and I would, at least, contrive not to go beyond it, not to advance
in the road of infirmities, pain, loss of memory, _disfigurements_
which are ready to lay hold of me; and I hear a voice which says, You
must go on in spite of yourself; or, if you will not, you must die,
an alternative at which nature recoils. Such, however, is the fate
of those who have reached a certain period.
* * * * *
I contemplate this evil, which has not yet proved itself so, with
heroic courage; I prepare myself for its consequences with peace and
tranquillity; and seeing there is no way of escape, and that I am not
the strongest, I think of the obligation I owe to God, for conducting
me so gently to the grave. I thank him for the desire he daily gives
me to prepare for death, and the wish of not draining my life to
the dregs. Extreme old age is frightful and humiliating: the good
Corbinelli and I see a painful instance of this truth hourly, in the
poor Abbé de Coulanges, whose helplessness and infirmities make us
wish never to reach this period.
SERMONS.--When I am as good as M. de la Garde, if ever God grants me
this grace, I shall like all sermons; in the mean while I content
myself with the Gospels as explained by M. le Tourneux; these are real
sermons, and nothing but the vanity of man could load modern discourses
with their present contents. We sometimes read the Homilies of St. John
Chrysostom; these are divine, and please us so highly, that I persist
in not going to Rennes till passion week, to avoid being exposed to the
eloquence of the preachers who hold forth in behalf of the parliament.
* * * * *
The Marshal de Grammont was so transported the other day, at a sermon
of Bourdaloüe’s, that he cried out, in the middle of a passage that
struck him, “By ----, he is right.” Madame burst out a-laughing, and
the sermon was interrupted so long that nobody knew what would be the
consequence. If your preachers are as you represent them, I am apt to
think they will be in no great danger of their being interrupted by
such praises.
JOSEPHUS.--I am glad you like Josephus, Herod, and Aristobulus. I beg
you to go on, and see the end of the siege of Jerusalem, and the fate
of Josaphat. Take courage; every thing is beautiful in this historian,
every thing is grand, every thing is magnificent, every thing is worthy
of you; let not an idle fancy prevail with you to lay him aside. I
am in the History of France; that of the Crusades has occasioned my
looking into it, but it is not to be compared to a single leaf of
Josephus. Alas! with what pleasure we weep over the misfortunes of
Aristobulus and Mariamne.
HOPE EVER.--We should never despair of our good fortune. I thought my
son’s situation quite hopeless, after so many storms and shipwrecks,
without employments, and out of the way of fortune; and while I was
indulging these melancholy reflections, Providence destined, or had
destined, us to so advantageous a marriage, that I could not have
wished for a better alliance, even at the time when my son had the
greatest reason to expect it. It is thus we grope in the dark, not
knowing our way, taking good for evil, and evil for good, in entire
ignorance.
TWILIGHT.--I hate twilight when I have nobody to chat with; and I
had rather be alone in the woods, than alone in a room. This is like
plunging up to the neck in water to save one’s self from the rain: but
any thing rather than an arm-chair.
A PRESENTIMENT.--Good Heavens! my dear child, what fools your women
are, both living and dead! your top-knots[355] shock me! What a
profanation! it smells of paganism; foh! It would make me shudder at
the thoughts of dying in Provence; I would, at least, be assured that
the milliner and undertaker were not sent for at the same time. Fie,
fie, indeed! but no more of this.[356]
[355] It was the custom in Provence to bury the dead with their
faces uncovered; and the women who wore ribbons as a head-dress,
retained them in their coffins.
[356] This passage might deserve the name of presentiment. All
she feared came to pass. She died in Provence, and the very
head-dress which was so repugnant to her mind, adorned her in her
coffin.
LETTERS ON THE DEATH OF MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ.
LETTER I.
FROM THE COUNTESS DE GRIGNAN TO THE PRESIDENT DE MOULCEAU.
PARIS, April 18, 1696.
Your politeness, sir, need not lead you to fear the renewal of my
grief,[357] in speaking to me of the afflicting loss I have sustained.
This is an object which my mind bears constantly in view, and which is
so deeply engraven in my heart that nothing has power to increase or
diminish it. I am convinced, sir, that you could not have heard the
dreadful misfortune which has happened to me without shedding tears; I
can answer for your heart: you lose a friend of incomparable merit and
fidelity; nothing is more worthy of your regret; and what, sir, do not
I lose? what perfections were not united in her to me, by different
characters, most dear and most precious? A loss so complete and so
irreparable, leads me to seek for consolation only in the bitterness
of tears and groans. I have not strength to raise my eyes to the place
whence comfort flows; I can yet only cast them around me, and I no
longer see the dear being who has loaded me with blessings, whose
attention from day to day has been occupied in adding fresh proofs of
her love to the charms of her society. It is too true, sir, that it
requires more than human fortitude to bear so cruel a disunion and
so much privation. I was far from being prepared for it: the perfect
health I saw her enjoy, and a year’s illness, which a hundred times
endangered my own life, had taken from me the idea that the order of
nature could be fulfilled by her dying first. I flattered myself that I
should never have this great evil to endure: it is come upon me, and I
feel it in all its severity. I deserve your pity, sir; and some share
in the honor of your friendship, if sincere esteem and high veneration
for your virtue can deserve it. My sentiments have been the same toward
you since I had the pleasure of knowing you; and I believe I have more
than once told you that it is impossible for any one to respect you
more than I do.
[357] Madame de Sévigné, as it appears, died early in April.
LETTER II.
FROM M. DE COULANGES TO MADAME DE SIMIANE.[358]
PARIS, May 25, 1696.
[358] The dear _Pauline_, the favorite grand-daughter of Madame
de Sévigné. See page 418.
Far from taking it unkindly, madam, that you did not write to me with
your own hand, I am very much surprised that you even thought of me
at a time so cruel and so fatal as the present. I did not doubt your
sensibility at the loss we have sustained; and I could easily conceive
what it would cost your excellent heart. God of heaven, what a blow
is this to us all! For myself, I am lost in the thought that I shall
no longer see the dear cousin to whom I have been from infancy so
affectionately attached, and who returned this attachment so tenderly
and so faithfully. If you could see, madam, all that passes here, you
would be still better acquainted with the merit of your grandmother,
for never was worth more truly acknowledged than hers; and the public
renders her, with pious regret, all the honor which is due to her.
Madame de Coulanges is grieved to an excess that it is impossible to
describe, and I tremble for its effect upon her own health. From the
day that announced to us the fatal illness, which in the end took our
friend from us forever, we have lost all peace of mind. The Duchess
de Chaulnes is almost dead, and poor Madame de la Troche--.[359] In
short, we meet together to weep, and to regret what we have lost; and
in the midst of our grief, we are not without anxiety for the health of
your mother. Do not write to me; order one of your meanest attendants
to inform us how you are: I entreat you to believe that your mother’s
health and your own are very precious to me, for more reasons than one;
for I think I owe it to the memory of Madame de Sévigné, to be more
attached to you and Madame de Grignan than before, from knowing so
well the sentiments she entertained for her and for you. I shall not
write to your mother for a long time, for fear of increasing her grief
by my letters; but omit me not, whenever an opportunity offers; make
mention of my name; be assured that of all your servants, relations,
friends, no one is more deeply afflicted than I am, no one feels a
greater interest in all that concerns you. I shall not show your
letter immediately to Madame de Coulanges; but I shall not fail to
tell her that you do not forget her. I can assure you that you owe her
this justice on account of her love for you. Allow me to pay my sad
compliments to M. de Simiane, the Chevalier de Grignan, and M. de la
Garde. Heavens, what a scene in this royal château! Poor Mademoiselle
de Marsillac too, who has so well discharged all the duties of
friendship, how I feel for her!
[359] This phrase is incomplete.
LETTER III.
FROM MADAME DE COULANGES TO MADAME DE SIMIANE.
PARIS, May 2, 1696.
I am truly obliged to you, madame, for still thinking of me. I knew
all your excellences; but the affection of your heart, and the regard
you have felt for a person so worthy of being beloved as she whom
you regret, appear to me to be above all praise. Ah! madam, how much
reason have you to believe me to be deeply affected! I can think of
no other subject; I can talk of nothing else. I am ignorant of the
particulars of this fatal illness, and the eagerness with which I seek
for them shows that I have little power over myself. I spent the whole
of yesterday with the prior of St. Catharine’s. You may guess upon
what our conversation turned. I showed him the letter you have done me
the honor to write to me. It gave him real pleasure, for persons of
his turn of mind are so convinced that this life ought only to serve
as a passport to the other, that the dispositions in which we leave
the world are to them the only ones that are worthy of attention. But
we think of what we have lost, and we lament it. For myself, I have
no female friend left. My turn will soon come; it is reasonable to
expect it; but to hear a person of your age entertain such serious and
melancholy thoughts is rare indeed. Your understanding, madam, makes me
forget your youth; and this, added to the natural partiality I feel for
you, seems to authorize me to address you as I do.
LETTER IV.
FROM THE COUNT DE GRIGNAN TO M. DE COULANGES.
GRIGNAN, May 23, 1696.
You, sir, can understand better than any one the magnitude of the loss
we have sustained, and my just grief. Madame de Sévigné’s distinguished
merit was perfectly known to you. It is not merely a mother-in-law
that I regret; this name does not always command esteem; it is an
amiable and excellent friend, and a delightful companion. But it is
a circumstance more worthy of our admiration than our regret, that
this noble-minded woman contemplated the approach of death, which she
expected from the moment of her attack, with astonishing firmness and
submission. She, who was so tender and so timid respecting those she
loved, displayed the utmost fortitude and piety when she believed that
she ought to think only of herself; and we can not but remark how
useful and important it is to fill the mind with good things and sacred
subjects, for which Madame de Sévigné appears to have had a peculiar
taste, not to say a surprising avidity, by the use she made of these
excellent provisions in the last moments of her life. I relate these
particulars to you, sir, because they accord with your sentiments, and
will be gratifying to the friendship you have borne for her whom we
lament; and at the same time my mind is so full of them that it is a
relief to me to find a man so well disposed as you are to listen to the
recital, and take pleasure in hearing it. I hope, sir, that the memory
of a friend who highly esteemed you will contribute to preserve to me
the regard with which you have long honored me. I prize it too highly,
and wish it too much, not to deserve it a little.
INDEX.
PAGE
Adhémar, Count (see note 16), 30
Adoration, 413
Affection, 423
Alone, 409
Apparition, An, 362
Arianism, 413
Baptism, 416
Bellefond, Marshal, 75, 152
Blanchfort, 392
Bleeding, An anecdote, 401
Books, 421
Bouillon, Duchess de, 189, 191
Bourdaloüe, 91, 111
Brancas, 43
Bride, A, 401
Brinon, Madame de, 260, 270
Brinvilliers, Madame de, 154, 155
Brittany, Disturbances in, 124, 238
Bussy, Count de (see note 3), 19, 350
Bussy, Count de, Letters to, 19-28
Calprenedre, La, 62
Chantal, Baroness de, 7
Charles II. of England, 245, 246
Chaulnes, Madame de, 66
Châtelet, Magdelen de (see note 43), 56
Chaulnes, Madame de, 66
Chaulnes, Duke de, 386
Chess, 409
Children, Hints about, 395
Christian Humility, 410
Colbert, 178
Company, 401
Condé, Prince de, 87
Conti, Prince de, 353, 356, 361
Corbinelli, 181, 217, 355
Coulanges, M. de, Letters to, 368-393
Coulanges, M. de, Letters from, 425
Coulanges, Madame de, 187, 212, 223, 426
Court News, 38
Courtier, A, 409
Dauphiness, 208, 216
Death, 79
Death of Madame de Sévigné, 428
Departure of Madame de Sévigné, 28
Descartes (termed _Father_ in the Letters), 238
Devices, Several, 406
Dreux, Madame de, 214
Dubois, 220
Dullness, 134
Elopement, 331
Esther, Tragedy of, 283
Evening employments, 400
Expenses, 415
Faith in Christ, 419
Fayette, Madame de La, 211, 212, 294
Feuillade, M. de, 129
Fire-eater, The, 420
Flechier, (see note 185), 217
Folly, 414
Forgiving Mother, A, 408
Fortune, Calculation of her, 51
Fouquet, M., 205, 208, 297-329
Fouquet, Madame de, 300, 303
Free will, 405
Gaming, 404
General Preface, III
Geneviève, 121
Gourville, M., 8
Grammont, Countess de, 182
Grammont, Marshal de, 91, 422
Grignan, Count de, 26, 27
Grignan, Count de, Letter from, 427
Grignan, Count de, Letters to, 338-346
Grignan, Madame or Countess, Letters to, 28-296
Grignan, Countess de, Letters from, 424
Grignan, Mademoiselle, 357
Grignan, the young Marquis, 417
Guiche, Count de, 91, 92
Harcourt, Countess de, 63
History of the Bible, 423
Home Life, 411
Hope ever, 426
Jealousy, 414
Jews, their religion, 147
Joli, Claude, 29
Josephus, 426
King, The (see note 175), 410
King of England, 265, 269, 271, 280, 282
King of France, Anecdote of, 308
King of France, Generosity of, 364
La Marans, 76, 89, 107
La Trousse, 129
Launoi, Mademoiselle de, 112
Lauzun, Duke de, Marriage of, 369
Lavardin, M. de, 228, 234, 378
La Voisin, The prisoner, 184, 190, 200
Liberty at Home, 411
Liberty of Mind, 421
Living, Rules of, 399
Longueville, Madame de, 89, 210, 211
Lot of Mankind, The, 414
Louvois, M. de, 381, 383
Love, its symptoms, 408
Luxembourg, M. de, 185, 188, 192, 215
Mainbourg, Father (see note 132), 143
Maine, Duke of, 102
Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Marriage of, 368-373
Maintenon, Madame de (see note 156), 181, 182, 223
Marriage, The impromptu, 400
Mary Blanche, 417
Mary Stuart (see note 225), 253
Maxims, 57, 67
Méri, Chevalier de, 181
Montespan, Madame de, 118, 119, 160, 396, 397
Montmort, Abbé, 40
Moonlight Walk, 230
Moral Essays, 422
Moulceau, President de, Letters to, 347-367
Namur, 388
Nicole, 61, 70, 72
Ninon de l’Enclos, 8, 39
Noailles, Duke de (see note 302), 348
Nuns of St. Marie, 422
Obstinate Son, 407
Old age, 425
Order, 56, 416
Order de la St. Esprit, 255
Pain, 81
Paulina, 162, 164, 279, 289, 291, 418
Pecuniary embarrassments, 407
Philipsburg, 252
Philosophy, 424
Plessis, Mademoiselle du, 49, 51, 60, 225
Polignac, Madame de, 363
Pomponne, M. de, his dismissal, 177, 187, 193
Pomponne, M. de, Letters to, 297-329
Port Royal, 395
Potable Gold (see note 148), 167
Preface, General, 7
Presentiment, 427
Providence, 405
Puissort (see note 278), 302
Quarrels in High Life, 402
Queen of England, 261, 271, 273
Queen of France, Illness of, 312
Queen of Spain poisoned (see note 149), 277
Rabutin-Chantal, Marie de, 7
Racine, 75, 80
Readings, 412
Reason, Use of, 405
Reflections, 396
Regrets, 32
Reproaches, 161
Retz, Cardinal de, 114, 117, 120
Rheims, Archbishop of, 111
Rheumatism, 151
Richelieu, Cardinal (see note 199), 229
Robbery (see note 104), 109
Rochefoucault, M. de la, 42, 82, 202, 204
Rocks, The (Madame de Sévigné’s estate), 48
Roquette, Gabriel de (see note 182), 210
Saint Simon, Duke of, 109
Scarron, Madame de, 74, 394
Schomberg, Count de, 253
Schomberg, Madame de (see note 95), 102
Selections from various letters, 394
Sermons, 426
Sévigné, Madame de, and her times, 5
Sévigné, Marguerite de (see note 11), 28
Sévigné, Marquis de, 172, 183, 198
Sévigné, Marquis de, Letters to, 330-337
Sévigné, Madame de, Death of, 428
Sévigné, Marquis de, Extravagance of, 403
Sobieski, John (see note 86), 95
Soissons, Countess de, 186, 190
St. Augustine, 157, 414
St. Cyr, 275
Submission, 424
Supper at Madame Coulanges, 394
Telescope, The, 398
Termes, M. de, 168, 169
Thianges, Madame de, 100
Thianges, Mademoiselle de, 341
Transparencies, 159
Trappe, La, 37
Turenne, Marshall de (see note 49), 64, 126-135
Twilight, 427
Vallière, Duchess de la, 33, 104, 114
Vardes, M. de, 54, 351
Vatel, 44, 45
Vendôme, Chevalier, 93, 94
Ventadour, M. de, 38
Versailles in 1676, 396
Villars, Abbé (see note 52), 68
Villeroi, Marshal de, 189
Vivonne, M. de, 93, 94, 110
Whims, 123
Words, The use of, 139
Work, 399
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Section Page
Preface to the Revised Edition III
Madame de Sévigné and her times 5
Letters of Madame de Sévigné, from 1655 to 1669,
addressed to the Count de Bussy 19
Letters to Madame de Grignan from 1671 to 1690 28
Letters to M. de Pomponne 297
Letters to her son the Marquis de Sévigné 330
Letters to the Count de Grignan from 1670 to 1696 338
Letters to the President de Moulceau from 1681
to 1682 347
Letters to M. de Coulanges from 1676 to 1696 368
Selections from various letters 394
Letters on the death of Madame de Sévigné 428
Index 433
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