PARIS, April 18, 1696.
Your politeness, sir, need not lead you to fear the renewal of my
grief,[357] in speaking to me of the afflicting loss I have sustained.
This is an object which my mind bears constantly in view, and which is
so deeply engraven in my heart that nothing has power to increase or
diminish it. I am convinced, sir, that you could not have heard the
dreadful misfortune which has happened to me without shedding tears; I
can answer for your heart: you lose a friend of incomparable merit and
fidelity; nothing is more worthy of your regret; and what, sir, do not
I lose? what perfections were not united in her to me, by different
characters, most dear and most precious? A loss so complete and so
irreparable, leads me to seek for consolation only in the bitterness
of tears and groans. I have not strength to raise my eyes to the place
whence comfort flows; I can yet only cast them around me, and I no
longer see the dear being who has loaded me with blessings, whose
attention from day to day has been occupied in adding fresh proofs of
her love to the charms of her society. It is too true, sir, that it
requires more than human fortitude to bear so cruel a disunion and
so much privation. I was far from being prepared for it: the perfect
health I saw her enjoy, and a year’s illness, which a hundred times
endangered my own life, had taken from me the idea that the order of
nature could be fulfilled by her dying first. I flattered myself that I
should never have this great evil to endure: it is come upon me, and I
feel it in all its severity. I deserve your pity, sir; and some share
in the honor of your friendship, if sincere esteem and high veneration
for your virtue can deserve it. My sentiments have been the same toward
you since I had the pleasure of knowing you; and I believe I have more
than once told you that it is impossible for any one to respect you
more than I do.
[357] Madame de Sévigné, as it appears, died early in April.