Chapter XVIII: Letter VII: PARIS, Friday, April 10, 1671

I wrote to you on Wednesday by the post, yesterday by Magalotti, and to-day again by the post; but last night I lost a charming opportunity. I went to walk at Vincennes, _en Troche_,[28] and by the way met with a string of galley-slaves; they were going to Marseilles, and will be there in about a month. Nothing could have been surer than this mode of conveyance, but another thought came into my head, which was to go with them myself. There was one Duval among them, who appeared to be a conversible man. You will see them when they come in, and I suppose you would have been agreeably surprised to have seen me in the midst of the crowd of women that accompany them. I wish you knew of what importance the words Provence, Marseilles, Aix, are become to me; even the Rhône, that devilish Rhône, and Lyons, are something to me. Brittany and Burgundy appear like places under the pole, in which I take no sort of interest. I may say with Coulanges, “O, the surprising power of my orvietan!” Really, my child, it was admirable in you to desire the abbé[29] to prevent my sending you any more presents! What nonsense! Do I in reality make you any? You call the newspapers I send you by that name. You never can divest me of the desire of thus giving; it is the most sensible pleasure I can enjoy. You should rather rejoice with me, if I indulged myself more frequently in it. The method you took of thanking me was highly pleasing to me.

[28] With her friend, Madame de la Troche.

[29] The Abbé de Coulanges, who lived with his niece, Madame de
Sévigné.

Your letters are excellent; one might venture to say they were not dictated by the good ladies of the country where you reside. I find that M. de Grignan, to his other connections with you, adds that of being your companion; he seems to me the only one who understands you. Be careful to preserve the happiness of his heart by the tenderness of yours, and consider that if you do not both love me, each according to your proper degree of estimation, you will be the most ungrateful of beings. The new opinion, that there is no such thing as ingratitude in the world, appears to me, for the reasons which we have so frequently discussed, like the philosophy of Descartes, and the contrary one like that of Aristotle. You know the deference I always paid to the authority of the latter; it is the same with respect to my opinion of ingratitude. I should pronounce you then, my child, to be a little ungrateful wretch; but, happily, and the idea constitutes all my comfort, I know you to be incapable of such conduct, and I therefore yield without reserve to the feelings of my heart. Adieu, my dearest love, I am going to close this letter. I shall write you another to-night, in which I shall give you an account of the occurrences of the day. We are every day in hopes of letting your house; you may suppose I can forget nothing that relates to you; I am as interested in your affairs as the most selfish being ever was in his own.