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.