PARIS, February 3, 1695.
Madame de Chaulnes sends me word that I am fortunate in being here
in the sunshine; she thinks all our days are woven with silk and
gold. Alas! my dear cousin, it is a hundred times colder here than
at Paris; we are exposed to every wind; it is the south wind, the
north-east wind, it is the devil; it is who shall insult us; they fight
among themselves which shall have the honor of confining us to our
apartments. All our rivers are taken; the Rhône, the furious Rhône, can
not resist them. Our writing-desks are frozen, our benumbed fingers can
no longer guide our pens. We breathe nothing but snow; our mountains
are charming in their excess of horror. I wish every day for a painter
who could take a good representation of these frightful beauties;
such is our situation. Relate it to our good Duchess de Chaulnes, who
fancies us to be in meadows with parasols, walking under the shadow
of orange-trees. You have formed an excellent idea of the rural
magnificence of our wedding;[321] every one has shared in the praises
you bestow, but we know not what you mean by the wedding-night. Alas,
how coarse you are! I was charmed with the manner and modesty of the
evening; I informed Madame de Coulanges so: the bride was conducted to
her apartment; her toilet, her linen, her night-clothes, were brought;
she took off her head-ornaments, was undressed, and went to bed. We
knew nothing of who came in or went out of her room; every one retired
to his own apartment. We arose the next morning without going to the
bride-folks. They also arose, dressed themselves. No foolish questions
were asked them: Are you my son-in-law? are you my daughter-in-law?
They are what they are. No gay breakfast was prepared; every one ate
and did as he pleased; every thing was conducted in silence and with
modesty; there were no uncomfortable looks, no confusion, no improper
jests; this is what I had never seen before, and what struck me as
being the most becoming and the pleasantest thing in the world. The
cold freezes me, and makes the pen fall from my hands. Where are you?
at St. Martin’s, at Meudon, or at Baville? What happy spot contains
the youthful and amiable Coulanges? I have just been railing against
avarice to Madame de Coulanges. It gives me great joy, from the riches
Madame de Meckelbourg has left, to think I shall die without any ready
money, but at the same time without debts; this is all I ask of God,
and is enough for a Christian.
[321] The marriage of the Marquis de Grignan.