Chapter CLVIII: Letter VII: LIVRI, October 25, 1686

I have received your letter, sir; it presented itself to me as if you wished to make me ashamed of my silence, and to believe I had been ill, for the purpose of entering into conversation with me. It reminds me of a very pretty comedy, in which the person who wishes to come to an explanation with the lady who enters, makes her believe she called him, and thus obtains a hearing. If you have the same intention, sir, I return you a thousand thanks; and I really can not comprehend how, esteeming you as I do, remembering you with so much pleasure, speaking of you so readily, having so high a relish for your understanding and your worth, _to say no more for fear of exciting jealousy_, I can, with so many things to promote a correspondence, have left you seven or eight months without saying a word to you. It is horrible; but what does it signify? let us remain in this freedom, since it is not compatible with the sentiments I have just expressed for you. I have seen M. de la Trousse; we talked of you the moment we had embraced; I think him, by what he told me, highly deserving the esteem you appear to entertain for him. The stroke is at least double. I found him perfectly acquainted with, and as sensible of your worth as you can possibly desire. He must pass through this place on his way to La Trousse; I shall show him your letter, and I do not think it will induce him to change his opinion. You have now M. de Noailles with you: you are in such favor there that I shall rejoice with you on the pleasure you will receive at seeing a man whom you have inspired with such lively sentiments of esteem for you. I can easily imagine the confusion which the derangement of the states must have occasioned you; but you can not dispense with going to Nîmes. I must say a word to you respecting Mademoiselle de Grignan. You know, I presume, that she has been in the convent of the Carmelites for eight months, and that she took the habit in form, with a zeal too violent to last. In the first three months she found herself so reduced, from the severity of the order, and her stomach so injured by the meagerness of the provision, that she was obliged to eat meat by compulsion. This inability to comply with the rules, even in her noviciate, induced her to quit the convent; but with so true a sentiment of piety, of humiliation at the delicacy of her health, and of such perfect contempt for the world, that the holy nuns have preserved an affectionate friendship for her; and she, who has only changed the habit, and not the sentiment, has no false shame, like those who grow weary of the life, and is now with us as usual, giving us the same edification. Her residence at Paris is fixed at the Feuillantines, where she will board with several others; she will return there at Martinmas, when we do. What attaches her to this house is its vicinity to the Carmelites, where she goes almost daily, and whenever a certain princess is there. She takes from this holy convent all that agrees with her, that is, its devotion and conversation, and leaves the strictness of the order, to which she was by no means equal.

It is thus God has conducted her and gently repulsed her from the high degree of perfection to which she aspired, to support her in another a little inferior to it, which can not but be good, since He gives her grace to love him alone, which is all that can be desired in this world. But Providence has also inspired her with the most noble, just, and praiseworthy thought it was possible to conceive for her family. She was determined that her return to the world should not deprive her father of what she wished to give him by her civil death: and at quitting her convent, she made him a very handsome present of forty thousand crowns, which he owed her; that is, twenty thousand crowns principal, and the rest arrears and sums borrowed. This gift has been duly estimated, not only by those who love M. de Grignan, but by those who knew that all her property becoming personal at the age of five-and-twenty, if she had not disposed of any thing by will, would go almost wholly to her father; and that M. de Grignan would have eighty thousand crowns to pay Mademoiselle d’Alerac, reckoning the principal of the jointure at forty thousand. This is enough in conscience for us not to pity the sister, and to rejoice that the family is relieved from this double payment. I own I have been very much affected at this seasonable and generous action; and I admire the goodness of her disposition, which led her to do, without affectation, the only thing in the world that could render her dear to her family, where she is now received and considered as its benefactress. The understanding alone might have wrought this effect in another, but it is best when produced only by the heart. My daughter has contributed so well to this little maneuvre, that she has received double pleasure from its success. The chevalier has also done wonders; for you may suppose it has been necessary to assist, and give a form to these good intentions. In short, all has gone well: even Mademoiselle d’Alerac has entered into the justice of the sentiment. I pray that God may reward her by a good establishment, of which she still conceals from us every prospect, so that at present there is no appearance of any thing of the kind. Do I not weary you, sir, by this long account? you will have an indigestion of the Grignans. To divert you, let us talk a little of poor Sévigné: I should mention him with grief if I could not tell you that after five months of horrible suffering from medicines which worked him to the very bone, the poor child is at length restored to perfect health. He has spent the whole of August with me in this retreat, which you are now acquainted with. We were alone with the good abbé, we had everlasting conversations, and this long intercourse has renewed our acquaintance with each other, and our acquaintance renewed our friendship. He is returned home with a stock of Christian philosophy, sprinkled with a grain of anchoretism, and particularly with an extreme affection for his wife, by whom he is equally beloved, which makes him altogether the happiest man in the world, because he passes his life agreeably to his own mind. We have talked of you twenty times with friendship and delight, and twenty times have we said, “Let us write to him, I wish it very much;” and when we have been on the point of giving ourselves this pleasure, a demon has stepped in to distract our attention, and turn aside our good resolutions. What is to be done, my dear sir, in misfortunes like these? Perhaps you know the mortification of forming good resolutions without the power of executing them. I fear our dear jealous friend calculates upon spending the winter with you; you will be very glad: you will laugh, and I shall cry; for I have so perfect a confidence in him, and so true a friendship for him, that I can not lose the society of such a man without feeling it painfully every moment; M. de Vardes, however, whom he is delighted to follow, will restore him to us, as he takes him away from us. I am pleased that this attachment continues; you will act your part well, and I consider the pleasure of seeing you, and of establishing himself again in your heart, as a happy circumstance for our friend. M. de Vardes has not been sufficiently particular in the information you omitted to tell me: the surest way is to write ourselves, as you see. I do not write to you often, but you will own when I do that it is not for nothing.