PARIS, November, 24, 1685.
I have received no letter from you for more than fifteen months; I
know not whether our enraged and jealous friend[305] has intercepted
any; it is not, however, like him to do so; he would be more inclined
to assassinate you with the little sword you once used so pleasantly
in the garden of Rambouillet. We shall never forget your wisdom, nor
your folly; and I have spent a year with my son in Brittany, where we
have often mentioned you with sentiments with which your merit must
impress all hearts that are not unworthy of knowing it. We have been
twenty times on the point of writing some nonsense to you; we wished
to assure you that the _scarcity of the gratification_ did not prevent
you from being often in our remembrance, and twenty times has the demon
which turns aside good intentions perverted the course of this. At
length, sir, after having been overturned, drowned, and had a wound
in my leg, which has not been healed till within these six weeks, I
left my son, and his wife, who is very pretty, and arrived at Baville,
at M. de Lamoignon’s, on the tenth or twelfth of September, where I
found my daughter and all the Grignans, who received me with joy and
affection. To complete my happiness, my daughter will not leave me this
winter. I have found our dear Corbinelli just as I left him, except
a little more philosophical, and dying every day from some cause or
other: his freedom excites my envy; in changing his object he would
become a saint; he is, however, so kind and charitable to his neighbor,
that I really believe the grace of God is concealed under the name of
Cartesian. He converts more heretics by his good sense, and by not
irritating them by vain disputes, than others by all their controversy.
In short, every one now is a missionary, every one thinks he has a
mission, and particularly the magistrates and governors of provinces,
upheld by the dragoons: this is the greatest and most noble action that
has ever been conceived or performed. Like us, you have been surprised
with other news. What an event is the death of the Prince de Conti!
after having experienced all the perils of the Hungarian war, he came
here to die of a disorder which he scarcely felt! His lovely widow has
deeply bewailed him: she has an annuity of a hundred thousand crowns,
and has received from the king so many marks of friendship, and of his
natural affection for her, that with such assistance no one can doubt
that she will in time be comforted.
[305] A jest which refers to Corbinelli.