Chapter CLXXV: Letter X: PARIS, February 3, 1695

Madame de Chaulnes sends me word that I am fortunate in being here in the sunshine; she thinks all our days are woven with silk and gold. Alas! my dear cousin, it is a hundred times colder here than at Paris; we are exposed to every wind; it is the south wind, the north-east wind, it is the devil; it is who shall insult us; they fight among themselves which shall have the honor of confining us to our apartments. All our rivers are taken; the Rhône, the furious Rhône, can not resist them. Our writing-desks are frozen, our benumbed fingers can no longer guide our pens. We breathe nothing but snow; our mountains are charming in their excess of horror. I wish every day for a painter who could take a good representation of these frightful beauties; such is our situation. Relate it to our good Duchess de Chaulnes, who fancies us to be in meadows with parasols, walking under the shadow of orange-trees. You have formed an excellent idea of the rural magnificence of our wedding;[321] every one has shared in the praises you bestow, but we know not what you mean by the wedding-night. Alas, how coarse you are! I was charmed with the manner and modesty of the evening; I informed Madame de Coulanges so: the bride was conducted to her apartment; her toilet, her linen, her night-clothes, were brought; she took off her head-ornaments, was undressed, and went to bed. We knew nothing of who came in or went out of her room; every one retired to his own apartment. We arose the next morning without going to the bride-folks. They also arose, dressed themselves. No foolish questions were asked them: Are you my son-in-law? are you my daughter-in-law? They are what they are. No gay breakfast was prepared; every one ate and did as he pleased; every thing was conducted in silence and with modesty; there were no uncomfortable looks, no confusion, no improper jests; this is what I had never seen before, and what struck me as being the most becoming and the pleasantest thing in the world. The cold freezes me, and makes the pen fall from my hands. Where are you? at St. Martin’s, at Meudon, or at Baville? What happy spot contains the youthful and amiable Coulanges? I have just been railing against avarice to Madame de Coulanges. It gives me great joy, from the riches Madame de Meckelbourg has left, to think I shall die without any ready money, but at the same time without debts; this is all I ask of God, and is enough for a Christian.

[321] The marriage of the Marquis de Grignan.