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.