PARIS, Wednesday, April 3, 1680.
My dear child, poor M. Fouquet is dead,[179] and I am affected at the
intelligence: I never knew so many friends lost in a manner at once,
and it overwhelms me with sorrow to see so many dead around me; but
what is not around me pierces my heart, and that is the apprehension I
suffer from the return of your former disorders; for though you would
conceal it from me, I can perceive your flushings, your heaviness,
and shortness of breath. In short, that flattering interval is now
over, and what was thought a cure has turned out a mere palliative.
I remember your words: that a flame half-quenched is easily revived.
The remedies you treasure up against an evil day, and which you
reckon infallible, ought to be used immediately. Has M. de Grignan
no authority on this occasion? Is he not alarmed at your situation?
I have seen young Beaumont; I leave you to guess whether I asked him
any questions. When I recollected that he had seen you within a week,
he appeared to me the most desirable companion in the world. He said
you were not quite so well when he set out as you had been during the
winter. He mentioned your supper and entertainment, which he praised
highly; as also the kind attentions both of you and of M. de Grignan,
and the care M. de Grignan’s daughters took that you might not be
missed when you retired to rest. He said wonders of Pauline and the
little marquis; I should never have been the first to put an end to
the conversation, but he wanted to go to St. Germain; for, as he said,
he had paid me the first visit, even before that which he owed to the
king his master. His grandfather had the same place which Marshal de
Bellefond has had:[180] he was a very intimate friend of my father’s;
and instead of seeking out for relations, as is generally the custom,
my father chose him, without further ceremony, to stand sponsor to his
daughter; so that he is my godfather. I am perfectly acquainted with
all the family. I think the grandson handsome, extremely handsome.
You did well to say nothing to him about your brother: I have myself
mentioned it to no one, except to such persons as my son had previously
informed of it, in order to find a purchaser.
[179] Gourville affirms, in his Memoirs, that he was liberated
before his death, and Voltaire believed it, from the account
of his daughter-in-law, Madame de Vaux. But Madame de Sévigné
believed he died at Pignerol, and so did the public. Mademoiselle
de Montpensier confirms the general opinion.
[180] Of steward of the household.
I conclude you must by this time be at Grignan. I see with affliction
the bustle of taking leave; I see, on your quitting your retirement,
which appeared to you so short, a journey to Arles; another fatigue;
and I see your journey to Grignan, where you may possibly be saluted on
your arrival by a northeast wind; ah! I can not behold all these things
for a person so delicate as you are, and not tremble.
You have sent me an account of Anfossi infinitely preferable to all
mine. I do not wonder you can not think of parting with an estate
where there are so many diverting gipsies. There could not be a more
agreeable or novel reception; you are indeed so much a Stoic, and
so full of reflections, that I should fear joining mine to yours,
lest I should double the sorrow; but I think it would be prudent and
reasonable, and worthy of M. de Grignan’s affection, to use his utmost
endeavors to be here about the beginning of October. There is no other
place where you can think of passing the winter. But I will say no more
at present; things urged prematurely lose all their force, and often
create disgust.
There are no more long journeys talked of here; the only one spoken of
is that to Fontainebleau. You will most assuredly have M. de Vendôme
with you this year. For my part, I am preparing to set out for Brittany
with inexpressible regret; but I must go in order to be there, stay a
little while, and return. After the loss of health, which I always,
with reason, place first, nothing gives me so much vexation as the
disorder of my private affairs. It is to this cruel reason I sacrifice
my ease and gratification; for I leave you to judge what a situation I
am likely to be in, with so much time and solitude on my hands, to add
new force to my anxiety at being separated from you. This cup, however,
I must swallow, bitter as it is, in hopes of seeing you at my return;
for all my movements tend to that point. And, however superior I may be
to other things, that is always superior to me; it is my fate. And the
sufferings which attend my affection for you, being offered to God, are
a penance due for a love which I ought to bear for him alone.
My son is just arrived from Douay, where he commanded the gendarmerie
during March. M. de Pomponne has spent the day here; he loves, honors,
and esteems you perfectly. My being resident for you with Madame de
Vins, occasions my being often with her; and, indeed, I could not wish
to be better any where. Poor Madame de la Fayette is now wholly at a
loss how to dispose of herself; the loss of M. de la Rochefoucault has
made so terrible a void in her life, as to render her a better judge of
the value of so precious a friendship. Every one else will be comforted
in time; but she, alas! has nothing to occupy her mind, whereas the
rest will return to their several avocations.
Mademoiselle de Scuderi is greatly afflicted with the death of M.
Fouquet; that life is at length terminated, which so many pains have
been taken to preserve. His illness was convulsions, and a constant
retching, without being able to vomit. I depend on the chevalier
for news, especially what relates to the dauphiness, whose court is
composed exactly as you guessed; your notions are very just. The king
is often there, which keeps the crowd somewhat at a distance. Adieu, my
dear, affectionate child; I love you a thousand times more than I can
express.