LIVRI, October 25, 1686.
I have received your letter, sir; it presented itself to me as if you
wished to make me ashamed of my silence, and to believe I had been
ill, for the purpose of entering into conversation with me. It reminds
me of a very pretty comedy, in which the person who wishes to come to
an explanation with the lady who enters, makes her believe she called
him, and thus obtains a hearing. If you have the same intention, sir,
I return you a thousand thanks; and I really can not comprehend how,
esteeming you as I do, remembering you with so much pleasure, speaking
of you so readily, having so high a relish for your understanding and
your worth, _to say no more for fear of exciting jealousy_, I can,
with so many things to promote a correspondence, have left you seven
or eight months without saying a word to you. It is horrible; but
what does it signify? let us remain in this freedom, since it is not
compatible with the sentiments I have just expressed for you. I have
seen M. de la Trousse; we talked of you the moment we had embraced;
I think him, by what he told me, highly deserving the esteem you
appear to entertain for him. The stroke is at least double. I found
him perfectly acquainted with, and as sensible of your worth as you
can possibly desire. He must pass through this place on his way to
La Trousse; I shall show him your letter, and I do not think it will
induce him to change his opinion. You have now M. de Noailles with
you: you are in such favor there that I shall rejoice with you on the
pleasure you will receive at seeing a man whom you have inspired with
such lively sentiments of esteem for you. I can easily imagine the
confusion which the derangement of the states must have occasioned you;
but you can not dispense with going to Nîmes. I must say a word to you
respecting Mademoiselle de Grignan. You know, I presume, that she has
been in the convent of the Carmelites for eight months, and that she
took the habit in form, with a zeal too violent to last. In the first
three months she found herself so reduced, from the severity of the
order, and her stomach so injured by the meagerness of the provision,
that she was obliged to eat meat by compulsion. This inability to
comply with the rules, even in her noviciate, induced her to quit the
convent; but with so true a sentiment of piety, of humiliation at the
delicacy of her health, and of such perfect contempt for the world,
that the holy nuns have preserved an affectionate friendship for her;
and she, who has only changed the habit, and not the sentiment, has
no false shame, like those who grow weary of the life, and is now
with us as usual, giving us the same edification. Her residence at
Paris is fixed at the Feuillantines, where she will board with several
others; she will return there at Martinmas, when we do. What attaches
her to this house is its vicinity to the Carmelites, where she goes
almost daily, and whenever a certain princess is there. She takes from
this holy convent all that agrees with her, that is, its devotion and
conversation, and leaves the strictness of the order, to which she was
by no means equal.
It is thus God has conducted her and gently repulsed her from the high
degree of perfection to which she aspired, to support her in another
a little inferior to it, which can not but be good, since He gives
her grace to love him alone, which is all that can be desired in this
world. But Providence has also inspired her with the most noble, just,
and praiseworthy thought it was possible to conceive for her family.
She was determined that her return to the world should not deprive
her father of what she wished to give him by her civil death: and at
quitting her convent, she made him a very handsome present of forty
thousand crowns, which he owed her; that is, twenty thousand crowns
principal, and the rest arrears and sums borrowed. This gift has been
duly estimated, not only by those who love M. de Grignan, but by
those who knew that all her property becoming personal at the age of
five-and-twenty, if she had not disposed of any thing by will, would go
almost wholly to her father; and that M. de Grignan would have eighty
thousand crowns to pay Mademoiselle d’Alerac, reckoning the principal
of the jointure at forty thousand. This is enough in conscience for
us not to pity the sister, and to rejoice that the family is relieved
from this double payment. I own I have been very much affected at
this seasonable and generous action; and I admire the goodness of her
disposition, which led her to do, without affectation, the only thing
in the world that could render her dear to her family, where she is now
received and considered as its benefactress. The understanding alone
might have wrought this effect in another, but it is best when produced
only by the heart. My daughter has contributed so well to this little
maneuvre, that she has received double pleasure from its success.
The chevalier has also done wonders; for you may suppose it has been
necessary to assist, and give a form to these good intentions. In
short, all has gone well: even Mademoiselle d’Alerac has entered into
the justice of the sentiment. I pray that God may reward her by a good
establishment, of which she still conceals from us every prospect, so
that at present there is no appearance of any thing of the kind. Do I
not weary you, sir, by this long account? you will have an indigestion
of the Grignans. To divert you, let us talk a little of poor Sévigné:
I should mention him with grief if I could not tell you that after
five months of horrible suffering from medicines which worked him to
the very bone, the poor child is at length restored to perfect health.
He has spent the whole of August with me in this retreat, which you
are now acquainted with. We were alone with the good abbé, we had
everlasting conversations, and this long intercourse has renewed
our acquaintance with each other, and our acquaintance renewed our
friendship. He is returned home with a stock of Christian philosophy,
sprinkled with a grain of anchoretism, and particularly with an extreme
affection for his wife, by whom he is equally beloved, which makes him
altogether the happiest man in the world, because he passes his life
agreeably to his own mind. We have talked of you twenty times with
friendship and delight, and twenty times have we said, “Let us write
to him, I wish it very much;” and when we have been on the point of
giving ourselves this pleasure, a demon has stepped in to distract our
attention, and turn aside our good resolutions. What is to be done, my
dear sir, in misfortunes like these? Perhaps you know the mortification
of forming good resolutions without the power of executing them. I fear
our dear jealous friend calculates upon spending the winter with you;
you will be very glad: you will laugh, and I shall cry; for I have so
perfect a confidence in him, and so true a friendship for him, that I
can not lose the society of such a man without feeling it painfully
every moment; M. de Vardes, however, whom he is delighted to follow,
will restore him to us, as he takes him away from us. I am pleased that
this attachment continues; you will act your part well, and I consider
the pleasure of seeing you, and of establishing himself again in your
heart, as a happy circumstance for our friend. M. de Vardes has not
been sufficiently particular in the information you omitted to tell me:
the surest way is to write ourselves, as you see. I do not write to you
often, but you will own when I do that it is not for nothing.