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.