would not tell you the real state of the disorder, but left you to be made acquainted with it by a letter that was not addressed to you, and which certainly made more of the affair than it deserved. I hope, my child, that what I have written respecting your little brother's illness, will not give you fresh uneasiness: he has indeed a great deal more to suffer; but as he has great patience, is resolved to be completely cured, and as there is no danger, you will not, I trust, alarm yourself upon his account or mine: his disorder does not increase, and we chat and read continually. He is so happy in being here, that I could not prevail on him to listen to a proposal I made to him, of setting out immediately for Paris in a litter, on account of the pains in his head, while I would follow him in my carriage. He has the fullest confidence in the person who has the care of him here; he has staid within during a week or ten days of bad weather, that he may come out at length as pure as if he had been washed seven times in the river Jordan. In short, I will inform you of the end of this curious adventure. M. de la Rochefoucault, who wrote so many extraordinary things, would certainly never have let this have escaped him. What think you of my son, while he was at Paris, telling the whole history of his misfortunes to madame de la Fayette, and a dozen more of his female acquaintance? Was not this a fine way of keeping a secret, to intrust it to so many persons? For my part, I never was more surprised in my life than to find how light he made of this affair. I imagined he would have died rather than have opened his lips upon the subject to any one; but, since he is so very communicative, I see no reason why I may not be the same.

Madame de Vins informs me, that M. de Vendôme and M. de Morant are upon the point of setting out for

Provence; this will determine M. Grignan's plans, by giving him a prospect of the end of the career which he has run so nobly, and by which he has merited the brightest rewards: who knows but fate may have them yet in store for him? M. de Hautefort is dead, so there is another blue ribbon vacant. He could never be prevailed on to take the English medicine, because it was too expensive. He was told that at most it would not cost more than forty pistoles: "It is too much," said he, and then expired. Monseigneur has been cured by this specific; what will now become of the faculty?

Montgobert tells me, that you will certainly go to Paris; I shall write and thank her for this good news, and assure her how happy it makes me. Your brother's illness, by giving me a little concern, frees me from the apprehension that an uninterrupted joy would otherwise occasion me. Adieu, my beloved child; continue well, gather strength, eat, sleep, and recover your former health. Madame de Marbeuf is still here; she sends you a thousand compliments: she is determined not to leave my son, till she has seen him hanged *; she is the most friendly creature in the world. Poor count! he had reason, indeed, to hurry away to Toulon and Marseilles, to be at great pains to spend an immense sum of money, and, after all, to be obliged to go and meet M. de Vendôme: the thought of all this almost turns my poor head.

See Moliere's Médecin malgré Lui, Act III. Scene 9.

LETTER DCLXXIII.

to recover.

TO THE SAME.

The Rocks, Sunday, October 13, 1680. My son is in a truly pitiable situation; he is so thin, so shrivelled, so dejected, and his beard is of such a frightful length, that you would not know him again; in his intervals of ease, however, he plays at ombre, and chats he loves to be petted, and thinks he begins It vexes me when I reflect for whom he suffers! for an ungrateful woman, nay, what is still worse, for a Sylvia, for whom he has not, nor ever had, any real love. Madame de Coulanges writes me very humorously, that his cure will be a source of public rejoicing. Her letter is very entertaining. She anticipates, as every one does that knows you, no small pleasure in the enjoyment of your society this winter, and in renewing old connexions. As M. de Coulanges is with you, I doubt not that you are very much pleased: now is the time for playing M. de Grignan a trick; it would be a good idea to put Coulanges in a box, or the abbé Viani's theorbo-case; for you cannot produce him simply as you would another person. I must confess I was altogether for the journey to Rome* : there were a thousand circumstances that rendered it agreeable; and I had, besides, a thousand little reasons of my own, which I could still produce if they were wanted, but it would be like bringing an army into the field when there was no enemy to engage. I am extremely glad Coulanges has followed your advice, which was infinitely preferable to any other; I should be glad to see

* See Letter 18th September.

the little man again. Madame de Coulanges had no reason on her side to wish him to take this journey, for his company is far from being irksome to her.

What say you now, my dear child, of Montgobert's mind, or rather of her heart? Is it not exactly what I pronounced it to be? I was intimately acquainted with it, though it was hid under thorns, briers, and mists, which all proceeded from friendship, attachment, and jealousy: and when you said,

Qu'importe de mon cœur, si je fais mon devoir *?

I, you know, said just the reverse; I always wished some of those happy conversations to take place which so much contribute to restore drooping friendship, and in which every accent, every look, has its effect. I mentioned this to you, but the time was not come; every thing must have its time, even to the boiling of an egg; but, after all, I am surprised that Montgobert has not informed me of this good news, knowing, as she does, how much I am interested in it. Thus you see we must not always judge by appearances; you imagined there was no stability in her heart, and you have found the contrary. You may possibly find the same, with regard to that of your neighbour†; I have observed great affection and sensibility in that quarter. I am sorry you have not yet met with one of those eloquent moments in which you express yourself so well. This was not a friendship formed for saying, "I loved you once, but I love you no longer;" but to be solid. and unshaken. The coolness that at present subsists between you and him is so much the more dangerous, as it is concealed beneath a smiling exterior, and the

* What signifies my heart, if I do my duty?

†The person here hinted at by madame de Sévigné was M. de la Garde, whose barony lay contiguous to that of M. de Grignan.

mask of civility; in short, there is an appearance of something without any foundation: this is your own description of it, "a perfect cessation of every kind of tie, confidence, and sentiment;" a curious friendship, indeed! a very curious friendship! I shall be apt to say like marshal de Gramont: "If I make you shake hands, gentlemen, I see no way of preventing you from cutting one another's throat whenever you please.". All these things, however, will wear a different aspect when the time comes. I long most impatiently for the day which is to restore you once more to my maternal embrace.

Madame de Marbeuf is still with me; we are happy in her company, and she is so in ours; yet she will leave us, for no other reason that I know of, but because people cannot be contented when they are well off. She has written to M. de Coulanges to inform him of the good fortune of mademoiselle Descartes, to whom the duchess de Chaulnes has given a very pretty penThis young lady is as wise as her uncle and

sion.

yourself.

LETTER DCLXXIV.

TO THE SAME.

The Rocks, Wednesday, October 16, 1680. I AM highly pleased with your last letter; but it was too long, notwithstanding, and must have fatigued you, otherwise it was very acceptable, and made no inconsiderable part of our tranquil domestic amusements; nor would it have failed of finding a place, even in the midst of the dazzling pleasures of Versailles, had I been there. There are certain things in life, which no objects, no dissipations, can ever drive from the remem