GRIGNAN, May 28, 1695.
I have received your two letters from Chaulnes, my dear cousin! we
found some verses in them that delighted us; we have sung them with
extreme pleasure, and more than one person will tell you so, for you
must not be ignorant of the good taste we preserve here for every
thing you do. With respect to the gayety and charms of your mind, you
certainly advance, and go back with respect to your register; this
is all that can be wished, and is what naturally lays the foundation
of the desire every one has for your society. To whom are you not
welcome? with whom do you not accommodate yourself? and then, which is
best of all, your conduct in not obtruding yourself, and in allowing
room to the wish of seeing you, gives the true relish to your vanity.
The proverb must be forcible indeed, if it be true, that you are not
a prophet in your own country. I often receive news from Madame de
Coulanges; her correspondence is very entertaining, and her health
ought no longer to create alarm, especially having the resource which
we must have, that when she is tired of medicine, and undeceived with
respect to it, the most salutary remedy will be to take no more.
But to return to Chaulnes. I know its beauty, and can discern from
hence how dull our good governor is there. It is in vain for you to
give the best reasons in the world; he will constantly answer, “I do
not know:” and if you go on, he will silence you by saying, “I shall
die.” This is what will happen, no doubt, till he has acquired a taste
for repose, and for the charms of a quiet life. Habits are too strong,
and the agitation attached to command and to a high station has made
too deep an impression to be easily effaced. I wrote to this duke upon
the deputation of my son, and I jested with him, saying things I did
not believe respecting his solitude at Chaulnes; I treated him like a
true hermit, holding conversations with the beautiful fountain called
_the solitary_. I supposed his repasts suited to his situation, and
that dates and wild fruits would compose all his banquets; I pitied his
house-steward, and in saying all these trifles, I found that I stood
in great need of you; and that the braying[322] I know him to possess,
would make strange work with my poor letter. You came to my assistance,
as I supposed you would; and you are now in another country, where
you feel all the delight of paternal love; what say you? you could
not have believed it to be so strong if you had not experienced it;
it would have been a great pity if all the good instructions you have
given to little children had not been followed by some child of your
imagination. The little Count de Nicei is a master-piece,[323] and the
singularity of being invisible makes him superior to the rest. You make
so good a use of this story that I scarcely dare recall you; you have
immortalized it; nothing can be prettier than these couplets; we sing
them with pleasure. We have had a delightful introduction of spring;
but, for two days past, the rain, which we do not like here, has been
as violent as in Brittany and Paris, so that we have been accused of
having brought it into fashion; it interrupts our walks, but it does
not silence our nightingales; in short, my dear cousin, our days pass
too quickly. We dispense with great bustle, and with the great world;
our society, however, would not displease you; and if ever a puff of
wind should blow you to this _royal_ château--. But this is a chimera,
we must hope to see you again elsewhere in a more natural and probable
situation; we have yet a summer before us for writing to each other.
[322] M. de Chaulnes read as ill as M. de Coulanges read well.
[323] The whole of this pleasantry is explained in some songs
of M. de Coulanges to Madame de Louvois, and turns upon a story
which had come to them from Provence.