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.