PARIS, Wednesday, May 1, 1680.
I know not what weather you may have in Provence, but we have had for
these weeks past such horrible weather here that several journeys have
been delayed by it, and mine among the rest. The good abbé had like to
have perished in going and coming from La Trousse; so says M. de la
Trousse--you would not have believed me. They had an architect with
them, and went to give orders about some alterations, which will make
this house, which we before thought so beautiful, hardly to be known
again.
We have a new moon to-day, which I hope will bring fine weather with
it, and let me set out; I have not yet fixed on what day I shall go. I
can not express the concern this second parting gives me; I must surely
be out of my senses to remove so much further from you, and to place a
distance of a hundred leagues more between us than there is already.
I have a mortal aversion to business; it takes up so great a portion
of our time, and makes us run hither and thither just as it pleases. I
shall be so affected when I am setting out, that those who hand me into
my carriage may very naturally think it is at parting with them. I am
certain I shall not be able to refrain from tears, and yet I must go,
if it is only that I may come back again.
Mademoiselle de Méri is now in possession of your apartment; the noise
of that little door opening and shutting, and the circumstance of not
finding you there, have affected me more than I can express. All my
people do their best to serve her. And if I were vain, I could show
you a letter I received from her the other day, full of thanks for the
assistance I have given her; but as I am very modest, you know, I will
content myself with placing it in my archives.
I have seen Madame de Vins; she is buried in her law-suits. However,
we find time to chat together, and express our mutual wonder at the
odd medley of good and evil in this world, and the impossibility of
being truly happy. You know all that fortune has hitherto done for the
Duchess of Fontanges. What she has reserved for her is this: so violent
a flux, with some degree of fever, that she is confined to her bed at
Maubuisson, and her fine face already begins to swell. The Prior of
Cabrières does not quit her for an instant; if he effects a cure, he
will not make his fortune badly at court. Think whether her situation
does not derogate somewhat from her happiness. Here is further room for
reflection. But to another subject.
Madame de Dreux was liberated from prison yesterday; she was only
_reprimanded_, which is a very slight punishment, and fined five
hundred livres, which are to be distributed in alms. This poor lady
has been confined a whole year in a room, where the light came in only
by a small hole at the top, without tidings of any thing going on, or
without comfort. Her mother, who doted on her, who was herself still
young and handsome, and who was equally beloved by her daughter, died
about two months ago, of grief at her child’s situation. Madame de
Dreux was ignorant of this event; and yesterday, when her husband and
all the family went with open arms to the place where she was confined,
to receive her, the first word she spoke on seeing them enter her room,
was, “Where is my mother? Why is she not here?” M. de Dreux told her
she was waiting for her at home. The poor creature could not, however,
enjoy the satisfaction of being at liberty; but was incessantly
inquiring what ailed her mother, that she was certain she must be ill,
or she would have come to embrace her after so long a separation. At
length she got home. “What! my mother not here? I do not see her, I do
not hear her!” She flew up stairs. No one knew what to say to her; all
were in tears. She ran into her mother’s apartment, she looked about
her, called, but received no answer; at length a Celestine friar, who
was her confessor, appeared, and told her that she must not hope to see
her mother again till they met in heaven, and that she must submit with
resignation to the Divine will. Upon hearing this she fainted away, and
when she recovered, burst into tears and lamentations, which pierced
the hearts of all present, crying that it was she who had killed her
mother; that she had rather have died in prison, than have been set
at liberty to know the loss of so excellent a parent. Coulanges, who
had run to M. de Dreux’s, like many other friends, was witness to
the whole of this affecting scene, which he related to us yesterday
so naturally and pathetically, that Madame de Coulanges’ eyes looked
red, and I wept heartily, being wholly unable to suppress my tears.
What think you, my child, of this bitter ingredient thrown into the
cup of joy and triumph, to overpower the congratulations and embraces
of a whole family and their friends? The poor soul is still in tears,
notwithstanding all M. de Richelieu’s endeavors to dry them for her. He
has indeed done wonders in this affair.
I have been insensibly led into this long detail, which you will
comprehend better than any one, and which has affected every heart.
It is believed that M. de Luxembourg will be set at liberty upon as
easy terms as Madame de Dreux; for some of the judges would have
released her without even being _reprimanded_. And, upon the whole,
the treatment of the accused persons has been shocking and scandalous,
considering that nothing was proved against them. This, however, shows
the integrity of the judges.
We all approve the discourses of your preacher; we have envied and
admired him. The passion-sermon, which we heard not far from hence,
was a most extraordinary one; I assure you the terms _rascal_ and
_scoundrel_ were made use of, to express the humiliation of our blessed
Saviour. Do not these terms convey noble and sublime ideas? Bourdaloüe
preached like an angel from heaven, both last year and this, for it is
the same sermon.
What you write me about this world appearing quite another world, if we
could draw aside the curtain in every family, is both well expressed
and perfectly true. Good heavens! who can tell whether even the heart
of the princess, whom we praise so much, is thoroughly contented? She
has appeared dull these three or four days past; who knows how things
are with her? She would be with child, and she is not. Perhaps she
wants to see Paris and St. Cloud, and she has not yet seen them. She is
extremely affable; she studies to please. Who knows but this may cost
her some uneasiness? Who knows whether she is pleased alike with all
the ladies who have the honor of attending upon her? And lastly, who
knows but she may be weary of so retired a life?
I have this very moment received your amiable melancholy letter of the
24th. Believe me, my dear child, it sensibly affects me. I am not yet
set out, the bad weather detains me, for it would have been folly to
expose myself in such a season. This has unhinged every thing. I shall
write to you from Paris again, on Friday, and will tell you about the
alterations that are going on: I gave my opinion first, and am not so
silly as you think, when you are in the case. We read in history[184]
of greater miracles: there are _affections_ which do not yield to the
_other_ passion; hence I am become an architect.
[184] Every one knows that painting and sculpture took their rise
from love, and that a marshal, who fell in love with a painter’s
daughter, became an excellent painter, merely by endeavoring to
please his mistress.
I admire extremely what you say respecting devotion. Good heavens! how
truly may it be said that we are all like Tantalus with water close to
our lips, and unable to drink! Let the heart be cold, the understanding
enlightened, it is just the same. I have no need of the dispute between
the Jansenists and Molinists to decide this matter. What I feel myself
is sufficient, and how can I doubt it, if I observe myself an instant?
I could talk a long time, and with infinite pleasure on this subject,
if we were together, but you stop short, and I am silent. Corbinelli
had his share of your letter, for I am fond of his frank truths. He
has just heard a sermon of the Abbé Flechier’s,[185] at the taking the
vail of a young Capuchin nun, which has charmed him. The subject was
the freedom of the children of God, which he explained in a bold and
masterly style. He showed “that this young person alone could be called
free, because she partook of the freedom of Christ and his saints; and
she was released from the slavery in which we are held by our passions;
that it was she who was free, and not we; that she had but one master,
whereas we had a hundred; and that instead of lamenting for her, as we
did, with a worldly sorrow which was blamable, we ought to consider,
respect, and even envy her, as a person chosen from all eternity to be
of the number of the elect.” I have not repeated the tenth part of what
he said on this subject; but it was altogether a finished piece. The
funeral oration on Madame de Longueville is not to be printed.
[185] Esprit Flechier, made Bishop of Lauvar in 1685, and removed
from thence to Nîmes in 1687.
You ask me why I do not take Corbinelli with me? He is going into
Languedoc, loaded with the favors and civilities of M. de Vardes,
who has accompanied his pension of 120 francs with so excellent a
seasoning, I mean so many kind and affectionate sentiments, that
our friend’s philosophy could not withstand it. Vardes is always in
extremes; and as I am persuaded that he formerly hated him, because
he had used him ill, he now loves him, because he uses him well: this
is the Italian proverb and its reverse.[186] I am going there with
only the good abbé, and a few books, and your idea, which will prove
the source of all my pleasure or pain. I assure you it will keep me
from staying out in the evening dews: I shall recollect that it would
displease you; and this will not be the only time you have prevented
me from continuing my evening walk, and made me return home. I promise
to consult you, and to follow your advice at all times; do the same
by me, and be under no alarms; rest assured that I will take care of
myself; I wish I could put the same confidence in you; but I have many
subjects of complaint against you on this score; and without going
further than Monaco, have I not the banks of the Rhône, whither you
forced the stoutest hearts in your family to accompany you, in spite
of themselves? I repeat it, in spite of themselves; and be pleased to
remember, on the other hand, that I should die with fear even to pass
les vaux D’Olioules[187] on foot. This confession of my cowardice is
sufficient to prove my apprehensions and ensure your confidence. Let
then, my dear child, the remembrance of me govern you, in some degree,
as yours always governs me.
[186] _Chi offende non perdona._ The offender never pardons.
[187] _Les vaux D’Olioules_, or, as it is called in the dialect
of that country, _leis baous D’Oulioules_, is a narrow pass by
the side of a river, about a league in length, running between
two steep hills, in Provence.
I fancy my son will meet me at Orléans. I am aware of the attentions
of M. de Grignan: he has politeness, nobleness, and even affectionate
tenderness; but he has some points which are not so agreeable, and more
difficult to be conceived; and as every thing is cut diamond-wise, he
has many sides which are inimitable, so that we are at once tempted to
love and to scold him, to esteem and to blame, to embrace and to beat
him.
Adieu, my dear child; I must now leave you. Surely you mean to laugh at
me when you express your apprehensions lest I should write too much. My
lungs are almost as delicate as Georget’s:[188] excuse the comparison,
it comes from hence. But for you, my child, let me conjure you not to
write. Montgobert, pray do not abandon me, but step in and take the pen
from her hand.
[188] A celebrated ladies’ shoemaker at Paris.