LIVRI, Friday, Nov. 6, 1676.
Surely there never was so brilliant a letter as your last; I had some
thoughts of sending it back, that you might have the pleasure of
perusing it. I could not help wondering while I read it, how it was
possible to wish so ardently to receive no more. This, however, is the
affront I put on your letters: you seem to treat mine much more civilly.
This Reimond is certainly _hem! hem!_ with the head-dress you know so
well; she has dressed in this style, as you properly observe, that
she might seem qualified to hear the music of the blessed above; and
our sisters have done the same from the wish of obtaining a fund of
seven thousand livres, with a pension of a thousand, by which she
is enabled[142] “to go abroad when she likes, and she likes it very
often.” We have never had such merchandize before; but the beauty of
our house causes us to overlook every thing; for my own part, I am
quite delighted with it: for in my opinion both her apartments and her
voice are divine, _hem, hem_.
[142] Madame de Sévigné recants a little. See the Letter of the
21st October.
The dates you mention in speaking of Madame de Soubise, are, thank
God, among those which have escaped my memory. Some marked incivility
must certainly have been shown during the festivities at Versailles.
Madame de Coulanges informs me that the tooth has disappeared since the
day before yesterday; in that case, you will conclude they can have no
tooth against her. You are very amusing upon my friend’s[143] illness,
and at the same time it is all true. The quartan ague of our friend of
the suburbs,[144] is happily at an end. I have sent your letter to the
chevalier,[145] without apprehension or reproof. I love him sincerely;
and as for my _pigeon_, I wish I could give him a kiss; I have some
idea in my head, I know not how truly, that leads me to think I shall
one day or other see all these little folks. I can not understand the
eight months’ child; pray is she likely to live a century? I fancy
the gentlemen that fought it out so bravely in the streets, are in a
fair way to live as long. It would really be a very pretty and just
punishment for a battle in the midst of summer. Adieu, my dear lovely
child, I shall finish this in the good city of Paris.
[143] Madame de Coulanges.
[144] Madame de la Fayette.
[145] De Grignan.
Friday, at Paris.
So! here I am. I have been dining at the worthy Bagnol’s, where I
found Madame de Coulanges in this charming apartment, embellished
with the golden rays of the sun, where I have often seen you, almost
as beautiful and as brilliant as he. The poor convalescent gave me a
hearty welcome, and is now going to write two lines to you; it is,
for aught I know, something from the other world, which I am sure
you will be very glad to hear. She has been giving me an account of
a new dress called transparencies. Pray, have you heard of it? It is
an entire suit of the finest gold and azure brocade that can be seen,
over which is a black robe, either of beautiful English lace, or velvet
chenille like the winter laces you have seen; this occasions the name
of transparency, which is, you see, a black suit, and a suit of gold
and azure, or any other color, according to the fancy of the wearer,
as is all the fashion at present. This was the dress worn at the ball
on St. Hubert’s day, which lasted a whole half-hour, for nobody would
dance. The king pushed Madame d’Heudicourt into the middle of the room
by main force; she obeyed, but at length the combat ended for want of
combatants. The fine embroidered boddices destined for Villers-Côterets
serve to walk out on an evening, and were worn on St. Hubert’s day.
The prince informed the ladies at Chantilly, that their transparencies
would be a thousand times more beautiful if they would wear them next
their skin, which I very much doubt. The Granceis and Monacos did not
share in the amusements, because the mother of the latter is ill, and
the mother of the _angels_ has been at death’s door. It is said, the
Marchioness de la Ferté has been in labor there, ever since Sunday, and
that Bouchet is at his wit’s end.
M. de Langlée has made Madame de Montespan a present of a robe of
gold cloth, on a gold ground, with a double gold border embroidered
and worked with gold, so that it makes the finest gold stuff ever
imagined by the wit of man. It was contrived by fairies in secret,
for no living wight could have conceived any thing so beautiful. The
manner of presenting it was equally mysterious. Madame de Montespan’s
mantua-maker carried home the suit she had bespoke, having made it
to fit ill on purpose; you need not be told what exclamations and
scoldings there were upon the occasion. “Madam,” said the mantua-maker,
trembling with fear, “as there is so little time to alter it in, will
you have the goodness to try whether this other dress may not fit you
better?” It was produced. “Ah!” cried the lady, “how beautiful! What
an elegant stuff is this? Pray, where did you get? It must have fallen
from the clouds, for a mortal could never have executed any thing like
it.” The dress was tried on; it fitted to a hair. In came the king. “It
was made for you, madam,” said the mantua-maker. Immediately it was
concluded that it must be a present from some one; but from whom? was
the question. “It is Langlée,” said the king. “It must be Langlée,”
said Madame de Montespan; “nobody but Langlée could have thought of
so magnificent a present--it is Langlée, it is Langlée!” Every body
exclaims, “It is Langlée, it is Langlée!” The echoes repeat the sound.
And I, my child, to be in the fashion, say, “It is Langlée.”