PARIS, Wednesday, Aug. 28, 1675.
If I had the means of sending letters to you every day I could easily
contrive to write them. I sometimes do so even now, though my letters
do not go; but the pleasure of writing is reserved for you alone: to
every one else I write, because I must. I have particulars to relate
respecting M. de Turenne. Madame d’Elbeuf,[119] who is for a few days
at the Cardinal de Bouillon’s, invited me to dine with them yesterday,
and to share in their grief. Madame de la Fayette was likewise there;
the purpose of our meeting was fully answered, for there was not a dry
eye among us. Madame d’Elbeuf had a picture of the hero, admirably
executed. All his people arrived at eleven o’clock; the poor creatures
were already in deep mourning, and bathed in tears; three gentlemen
came in who were ready to die at the sight of the picture; their
cries pierced every heart; they could not utter a word; his footmen,
his pages, his trumpeters, were all in tears, and made every body
else weep to see them. The first who was able to speak, answered our
mournful questions, and we prevailed on him to relate the manner of
his death. It seems he was desirous of confessing, and when he retired
for that purpose, he gave his orders for the evening, and was to
have communicated the next day, which was Sunday, when he expected
to give battle. He mounted on horseback at two o’clock the Saturday,
after having taken a little refreshment, and as he had many people
with him, he left them all at about thirty paces from the hill, and
said to young d’Elbeuf, “Nephew, stay you there: you move round me so
much, that I shall be known.” M. Hamilton, who happened to be near
the place where he was going, said to him, “Sir, come this way if you
please, the enemy’s fire is directed to the place in which you are.”
“You are right, sir,” replied M. de Turenne; “I would not willingly be
killed to-day; this will do extremely well.” He had scarcely turned
his horse, when he saw St. Hilaire, who, coming up to him with his
hat in his hand, desired him to cast his eye on a battery he had just
raised, pointing to the place. M. de Turenne turned back, and at that
very instant, without having time to stop his horse, he had his arm
and part of his body torn to pieces by the same ball that carried off
St. Hilaire’s arm and hand in which he held his hat. The gentleman,
who was watching him attentively, did not see him fall, for his horse
ran away with him as far as the spot where he had left young d’Elbeuf;
he was leaning with his face over the pommel of the saddle. The moment
his horse stopped, this great man fell off into the arms of his people,
who were gathered round him, twice opened wide his eyes, moved his
lips a little, and sank to eternal rest. Think of his death, and of
part of his heart being carried away! His people immediately burst
into loud cries of lamentations, but M. Hamilton quieted them as well
as he could, and had young d’Elbeuf removed, who had thrown himself
upon his uncle’s body frantic with grief, and would not be dragged
from it without violence. A cloak was immediately thrown over the
body, and it was placed by the side of a hedge, where they kept watch
over it in silence till a carriage could be sent for to carry it to
his tent; there it was met by M. de Lorges, M. de Roye, and several
others, who were ready to expire with grief; but they were obliged
to restrain themselves, and think of the important business that had
devolved on them. A military service was performed in the camp, where
tears and sorrow were the mourning; the officers, however, had each
a crape scarf, the drums were covered with the same, they beat only
a single stroke, the soldiers marched with their pikes trailing and
pieces reversed; but the cries and lamentations of a whole army can
not be described without emotion. His two nephews assisted at this
mournful ceremony, I leave you to judge in what condition. M. de Roye,
though much wounded, would be carried thither. I suppose the poor
Chevalier de Grignan was overwhelmed with grief. When the body was
removed from the camp, to be brought to Paris, the same scene of grief
was renewed, and in every place through which it passed, nothing was
heard but lamentations: at Langres, however, they exceeded even this;
the bier was met by more than two hundred of the principal inhabitants
in mourning, followed by the common people, and all the clergy in
sacerdotal habits. In the town a solemn service was performed, and
they all voluntarily entered into a contribution toward defraying the
expenses, which amounted to five thousand francs; for they conducted
the body as far as the next town. What say you to these natural marks
of affection, founded on the most extraordinary merit? He is to be
brought to St. Denis this evening; the people are all gone to meet
the body at a place about two leagues distant, from whence they will
conduct it to a chapel, where it is to be deposited for the present;
there will be a service performed at St. Denis, till that at Notre-Dame
is celebrated, which will be a solemn one. Such was our entertainment
at the cardinal’s; we dined, as you may suppose, melancholy enough, and
afterward did nothing but sigh till four o’clock. Cardinal de Bouillon
mentioned you, and took upon him to answer for you, that, had you been
in Paris you would have made one in our sad party; I assured him that
you took no small share in his grief. He intends to answer both your
letter and M. de Grignan’s; he desired me to say a thousand kind things
to you, and so did the worthy d’Elbeuf, who, as well as her son, has
lost every thing. It was a good idea to undertake thus to tell you what
you know already as well as myself; but these originals struck me, and
I was glad to show you in what way we forget M. de Turenne in this part
of the world.
[119] Sister to Cardinal de Bouillon.
M. de la Garde told me the other day, that in the enthusiasm of the
wonders which were related of the Chevalier de Grignan, he had advised
his brothers[120] to bestir themselves on the occasion, to support his
interest at least for the present year; and that he found them both
very well disposed to do extraordinary things. This good La Garde is
at Fontainebleau, from whence he is to return in three days, to set
out at last; for he longs to be gone, though courtiers in general seem
to be very leaden-heeled. The situation of poor Madame de Sanzei is
really deplorable; we know nothing yet respecting her husband; he is
neither dead nor alive, wounded nor prisoner. His people do not take
the least notice of him in their letters. M. de la Trousse, after
having mentioned the report of his being killed (this was the day of
the action), has never since mentioned a syllable about him, either to
Madame de Sanzei or to Coulanges,[121] so that we are quite at a loss
what to say to this distracted woman; and yet it is cruel to let her
remain in this state of uncertainty; for my part, I am persuaded her
husband is killed; the dust and blood must probably disfigure him so
much as not to be known again, and he has been stripped with the rest
of the slain. Or he was perhaps killed at a distance from any of the
rest; or by the country-people on the road, and thrown into a hedge.
I think it is more probable that he has met with some such melancholy
fate, than that he has been taken prisoner without a word having been
heard respecting him.
[120] The Coadjutor of Arles, and the Abbé de Grignan.
[121] Madame de Sévigné was sister to M. de Coulanges, and M. de
la Trousse was first cousin to both.
And now, my dear, I must tell you that the abbé thinks my journey so
necessary, that I no longer oppose it; I shall not have him always with
me, and therefore I ought to take advantage of his good intentions
toward me. It will be only a trip of two months, for the good abbé
is not the least disposed to pass the winter there. He expresses
himself very sincerely on the subject, and you know I am always the
dupe of every thing that has the appearance of sincerity; so much the
worse for those who deceive me. I conceive that it would be very dull
there in the winter; long evenings may be compared to long marches
for tediousness. I was not dull the winter you were with me; you, who
are young, might have felt so, but do you remember our readings? It
is true, that if every thing had been taken away that surrounded the
table, and even the book too, it is impossible to tell what would have
become of me. Providence will arrange every thing. I treasure up all
your sayings; we get out of our dullness as we do out of bad roads; we
see no one stop short in the middle of a month, because he has not the
courage to go through it; it is like dying, we see no one who does not
know how to keep out of this dilemma; there are parts in your letters
which I neither can nor will forget. Are my friends Corbinelli and M.
de Vardes with you? I hope they are. In that case, I dare say, there
has been no deficiency of conversation among you; you have talked
incessantly of the state of affairs, of the death of M. de Turenne, and
are at a loss to guess what will be the consequences of it; in fact,
you are just like ourselves, though you are in Provence. M. de Barillon
supped here last night. The conversation turned upon M. de Turenne,
and the universal grief occasioned by his loss; he entered largely
into his virtues, his love of truth, his love of virtue for its own
sake, and his reward in the practice of it; he finished this eulogium
with adding, that no one could love and esteem M. de Turenne without
being the better for it. His company and conversation inspired such
hatred of deceit and double-dealing, as raised his friends above the
generality of mankind. In this number the chevalier was particularly
distinguished as one for whom this great man showed more than common
esteem and affection, and who, on his side, was one of his greatest
admirers. We shall never see his equal in any age: I do not think we
are quite blind in the present day, at least those I meet are not so,
and this perhaps is boasting that I keep good company. But I must tell
you one word more of M. de Turenne, which I heard yesterday. You know
Pertuis well, and his adoration and attachment to M. de Turenne; as
soon as he heard of his death, he wrote his majesty the following note:
“Sire, I have lost M. de Turenne; I feel my heart unable to support
this blow; and being incapable of serving your majesty as I ought
to do, I humbly request your permission to resign my government of
Courtrai.” Cardinal de Bouillon prevented the letter from being given
to the king; but, fearing he might come in person, he informed his
majesty of the effect Pertuis’ grief had on him. The king appeared to
enter with great goodness and indulgence into his sentiments, and told
Cardinal de Bouillon that he esteemed Pertuis the more for this mark of
attachment to his friend and benefactor,[122] and that he thought him
too honest a man not to discharge his duty in whatever situation he was
in. This is a specimen of grief for this hero. He had a patrimony of
40,000 livres a year; and M. Boucherat says, that after all his debts,
and the several legacies he has bequeathed, are paid, there will not
remain more than 10,000. These are the vast treasures he had amassed
during a service of fifty years! Adieu, my dearest child, I embrace you
a thousand times, and with inexpressible tenderness.
[122] He had been captain of the guard to M. de Turenne.