PARIS, Friday, Nov. 10, 1679.
I am no longer a shepherdess, my poor child; I have left with regret
my solitary conversation with your letters, and your image, aided by
_Louison_, our cows and sheep, and the twilight, which I embraced with
eagerness, because I would neither spare nor flatter myself. I am now
in the refinements of the Hôtel de Carnavalet, where I find I am not
less occupied with you, that your letters are not less dear to me, or
that any thing in the world is capable of driving you from my thoughts.
I shall have little news to tell you; I know scarcely any at present;
but what I hear comes from good authority, and may be depended on. You
assure me, my dearest child, you are perfectly well. God grant it be
so; this is soon said. I wish you would not write me such long letters;
I am certain they do you harm. Were it not for this consideration, you
may believe I should be glad they were as long as possible; but this
apprehension damps all the pleasure I receive from them. Du Chêne told
me the other day nothing could be worse for you than much writing. The
time must come, my child, when you will write less; and when you are
here, you must think of your health, and your recovery. We will take
care to put the Hôtel de Carnavalet in as good order as possible for
you. The good abbé wishes this as much as I do. Pray, write me no more
bad accounts of yourself, nor imagine that your letters are better than
your conversation; I should be unworthy of your love were I capable of
entertaining such a thought. I am convinced of your affection, and I
have as much relish for your society as those who are most delighted
with your conversation. Ah! did you know the power of a word, a look, a
kind expression, or a caress from you, and from what distant countries
one of these could bring me, you would be convinced, my beauty, that
nothing is equal to your presence! The account of your devotion on
All-Saints’ day has affected me strangely. It was delightful to cram
all your little ones into the same litter--dear little party! Had I
been of your council, I should have given my vote for doing just as you
did, as you will see by my advice to Paulina, in the regular answer
I have written her. Lovely child! it is impossible she can ever tire
you. Enjoy, my love, all these little comforts, and instead of thinking
of depriving yourself of them, think of the numberless evils of this
mortal and transitory life.
I finish this letter at Mademoiselle de Méri’s, where I also close my
packet. She is quite exhausted with the vapors and evacuations, and
is incapable of writing a single syllable; she tells you by me all
she should write to you if she were able. I have been just visiting
that poor chevalier who keeps his bed with pains in his neck and hip.
This rheumatic humor never leaves him; I have more compassion than
other people for this disorder. I am of opinion his illness will not
be of long continuance. He feels the serosities already beginning to
dissipate. He wants a good pumping, if the season permitted it. He gave
me his letter to inclose in my packet; these poor sick people must be
taken care of; all the rest of Paris is ill of a cold:
Ils ne mouraient pas tous; mais tous étaient frappés.