THE ROCKS, Sunday, August 9, 1671.
You alone, my dear count, could have prevailed on me to give my
daughter to a Provençal; this is truth, as Caderousse and Merrinville
will witness for me; for if I had liked the latter as well as you, I
should not have found so many expedients to prevent a conclusion, and
she had been his. Do not entertain the least doubt of my having the
highest opinion of you; a moment’s reflection will convince you I am
sincere. I am not at all surprised that my daughter does not mention
me to you; she served me just the same by you last year; believe,
therefore, whether she tells you so or not, that I never forget you.
I think I hear her scold, and say, “Ah! this is a pretense of yours
to excuse your own laziness.” I shall leave you to dispute this among
yourselves, and assure you that, though you are perhaps the most
happily formed for general love and esteem of any man in the world,
yet you never were, and never will be, more sincerely loved by any one
than by me. I wish for you every day in my mall; but you are proud; I
see that you expect me to visit you first; you may think yourself very
happy that I am not an old woman, but am resolved to enjoy the remains
of life and health in taking that journey: our abbé seems to have as
strong an inclination to go there as myself; that is one good thing.
Adieu, my dear Grignan, love me always; treat me with a sight of you,
and you shall see my woods.