THE ROCKS, Wednesday, Aug. 11, 1685.
You see, my dear, that we are now come to reckon by days only, not by
months! not even by weeks! But, alas! what you say is very true: there
could not be a more cruel damp to our pleasures than the thought that
we might be obliged to part again almost as soon as we met; this is
a painful idea; it occurs to me but too often; day or night I am not
free from it; it came in my head the last time I was writing to you,
and I could not forbear saying to myself, Surely this evil ought to be
sufficient to secure me from the danger of experiencing a greater; but
I dare not dwell upon this melancholy reflection, and shall now divert
it by the thought that I am soon to see you at Baville. I shall not be
at all ashamed of my equipage; my children have very elegant ones, and
I have had the same; but now the times are altered; I have only two
horses of my own, and shall hire four horses from the postmaster of
Mans; and in that manner I shall make my entrance into Paris without
the least concern. You will find my leg in a state of perfection,
which will make you love Charlotte all your life; she has fancied you
from hence more beautiful than the day, and this idea has given her an
extreme desire to restore this leg to you, worthy of your admiration,
when you know from what a situation it has been extricated. All this
is past, and so is the visit of little Coulanges; he set out on Monday
morning with your brother. I accompanied them as far as the gate that
leads to Vitré; there we stopped to await the arrival of your letters
from Paris, which came as expected, and were read with the usual
pleasure. As you only mentioned that M. d’Ormesson’s wife was at the
point of death, I have not dared to write to him; but as soon as you
let me know she is buried, I will venture to send him a line or two by
way of condolence and comfort; but indeed, considering the state she
was in, what could be more desirable for herself and her family than
her death? Ah, my dear child, how humiliating it is to be obliged to
drag about the lees of life and understanding! how much preferable
would it be, could we have our wish, to leave behind us a remembrance
worthy of being preserved, rather than spoil and disfigure it by the
infirmities and weakness of old age! I should like to be an inhabitant
of that country where they kill their parents out of kindness, when
they become old and helpless, if such a practice could be reconciled to
Christianity.
Our gentlemen sung _Gaudeamus_ on Monday evening at Marbeuf’s. Your
brother is not quite recovered of his slight disorder. I have had some
delightful conversations with Coulanges on the subject he is so much
at a loss to comprehend: scenes have passed between us not inferior to
some of Molière’s. When do you expect _Saint Grignan_?
N.B. No more letters are found from Madame de Sévigné to her
daughter till toward the end of 1688, both having passed the
intermediate time together at Paris.