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.