long upon his fate, and loses his life in Africa, in a war against the son of Abdallah. It is, in short, one of the most amusing pieces of history that can be read. I reflect upon the ways and dispositions of Providence, and on what I have often heard you say, that our wills are the ministers of his eternal decrees: in short, the good abbé and I, who are come from a talkative place, love to chat, but it is in a manner that is both pleasing and improving to us. We have so much pleasure in passing the bridges that lie in our way, that we wish to meet them oftener than we do. I assure you there are few tablets of wrecks on the Loire, any more than on the Durance; there would be greater reason to fear the latter, which is sometimes a little more headstrong and impetuous, than the slow and majestic motion of the venerable Loire. In short, we arrived here in very good time; every one is turning, every one is busy in. shaving and adjusting themselves, except your poor mama, who is seated romantically on the banks of the river, writing to her dear child, in view of our inn; I mean the galley, on board of which you have been. My ears are ravished with the warbling of a thousand nightingales, which puts me in mind of those you hear from your balcony.

I dare not tell you how much gloom the thought of your delicate state of health diffuses in my heart. You will readily conceive, what I feel, and how earnestly I wish to hear it is perfectly re-established. Adieu, my dearest, till to-morrow at Tours.

Tours, Friday, May 10.

The same good-fortune still attends us, my dear. I never met with any thing equal to the beauty of our last stage. But can you form an idea in what way our carriage is placed across our boat?

We can never be

B 2

incommoded with the rays of the sun; for at noon it is over our heads, in the morning at our left hand, and in the evening at our right, and the cabanne * is always our defence. We coast along by these delightful shores, where a thousand different objects are incessantly saluting the eye, like so many new landscapes, which would charm M. de Grignan, and I heartily wish he could witness one that I should have no difficulty in naming.

The day before I set out, the fair Fontanges was expected at court: the chevalier must attend to his duty; I am no longer fit for any thing, and if you did not love me as well as you do, you would certainly burn these miserable letters without breaking the seal.

LETTER DCXXVI.

TO THE SAME.

Saumur, Saturday, May 11, 1680.

WE are just arrived, my dear child: we left Tours this morning, where I put a letter into the post for you. Whoever were to deprive me of the faculty of thinking, during my journey, would strangely embarrass me. I am for twelve successive hours in a carriage, placed at my ease; some of which I employ in eating, drinking, and reading, some in looking around me, and admiring the prospects, but a still greater number in musing and thinking of you. I am certain, my dear child, you do not think this flattery, but the plain truth. I run you over in my mind from head to foot; I divide and subdivide you; I recollect a thousand sad events, and others equally delightful: I think on the charms of your youth and your health, and how cruelly they have

The large boats which carry passengers up and down the river Loire, are so named.

both been treated; how you yourself have abused them: how dreadfully your blood is inflamed; that we were not sufficiently alarmed at the first token we had of it, and which was the beginning of all your disorders; I think, in short, what do we not think, when thinking is the only employment we have? I will not tell you the flight my imagination has taken; the recital would make my letter too long: this, however, let me declare for a truth, that I always find in my heart an equal tenderness towards you. I should be glad to enlarge with you upon certain subjects, but I cannot yet expect that pleasure; in the mean while I think, therefore I exist:* I think of you alone in this manner, therefore it is you alone I love.

The good abbé is well, and highly pleased with his journey: no persons certainly ever travelled as we do; it is a pity we have not a little more society; though I assure you, that, for my part, I wish for no one else; and that since I am condemned to be absent from you, there is nothing I like so well as to be alone, and at liberty to give myself wholly up to my own affairs; I shall therefore be content, for four or five months at least, since it must be so.

I wish you would pay a little more attention to mademoiselle de Grignan: as for your own affairs, you know them too well. It is a strange thing to be obliged to retrench for six months together, in order to pay the expenses of a winter passed at Aix: upon my word I think it is rather too much for having barely existed. I live in hopes that Providence will clear up all better than we expect: there are certain hidden circumstances which sometimes come to light suddenly. My dear

This is the fundamental axiom of Descartes' metaphysics, from which he deduces the reality of our existence, of the soul and its spirituality, of God and his necessity.

child, you well know my thoughts and wishes on this subject, and you easily comprehend what I do not mention.

One thing which makes me more uneasy and impatient than all the rest, is being so long without hearing from you; this grieves me. However, I comfort myself with thinking, that two of your packets will set out from Paris to-day, and be at Nantes on Monday as soon as I shall be there. Thus far I have contrived to settle the conveyance; it would have been madness to think of catching any of your letters, in flying through the country as I do, besides the uncertainty of winds and weather; these have hitherto indeed been very favourable, but who can place dependence on them?

The good abbé sends you a thousand remembrances. I shall read my history of Portugal with great pleasure; but I have read nothing of yours since the twenty-eighth of last month, which is a long time; however, I read over your old letters. Adieu, my child! this is enough for to-day.

LETTER DCXXVII.

TO THE SAME.

Ingrande, Sunday evening, May 12, 1650. THE same fine weather, the same delightful prospect, and, I believe, the same melodious nightingales, have attended us hither. I hardly know this country again, it is so beautiful; and I am persuaded it would surprise you as much as if you had never seen it. There are certain periods of life in which we attend to nothing but ourselves. You indeed have never been much occupied in that way; but when we came down this

river together, we were more engaged in disputing about the count des Chapelles, than in admiring the beauties of the rural scenes that surrounded us. Now the case is exactly the reverse: we observe a profound silence, are perfectly at our ease, reading, musing, admiring, out of the way of all sorts of news, and living upon our own reflections. The good abbé is always praying: I listen attentively to his pious ejaculations; but when he is got to his beads, I beg to be excused, finding that I can meditate much better without them*. In short, we manage to pass twelve or fourteen hours, without being very unhappy; such a fine thing is liberty. You know another part of the Loire, for which, though less charming, I have the highest regard, as it has brought, and will bring again, to my arms, that much loved child, who is all the comfort of my lifet.

I should have been glad to have seen the bishop of Angers to-day, and he would have been so too. I had many things to say to him, on the variety of misfortunes with which he is loaded; but he is upon his visitation, and did not receive my letter. To-morrow we shall be in the midst of the great world at Nantes, where I shall receive your letter, and finish this.

Nantes, Monday, May 13.

Indeed this is a curious journal; I impose upon your patience and good-nature, my dear child; and my tedious itinerary may well make you cry out, as you do of those processions which bring you too much rain, basta la metà de la cortesia (half this courtesy is suffi

* Madame de Sévigné used to say, that the chaplet (or beads) was not a devotion, but a distraction.

+ Madame de Grignan had often taken water at Roanne, on going from Lyons to Paris.

Henry Arnauld, bishop of Angers.