Chapter LVIII: Letter XLVII: PARIS, Wednesday, Aug. 28, 1675

If I had the means of sending letters to you every day I could easily contrive to write them. I sometimes do so even now, though my letters do not go; but the pleasure of writing is reserved for you alone: to every one else I write, because I must. I have particulars to relate respecting M. de Turenne. Madame d’Elbeuf,[119] who is for a few days at the Cardinal de Bouillon’s, invited me to dine with them yesterday, and to share in their grief. Madame de la Fayette was likewise there; the purpose of our meeting was fully answered, for there was not a dry eye among us. Madame d’Elbeuf had a picture of the hero, admirably executed. All his people arrived at eleven o’clock; the poor creatures were already in deep mourning, and bathed in tears; three gentlemen came in who were ready to die at the sight of the picture; their cries pierced every heart; they could not utter a word; his footmen, his pages, his trumpeters, were all in tears, and made every body else weep to see them. The first who was able to speak, answered our mournful questions, and we prevailed on him to relate the manner of his death. It seems he was desirous of confessing, and when he retired for that purpose, he gave his orders for the evening, and was to have communicated the next day, which was Sunday, when he expected to give battle. He mounted on horseback at two o’clock the Saturday, after having taken a little refreshment, and as he had many people with him, he left them all at about thirty paces from the hill, and said to young d’Elbeuf, “Nephew, stay you there: you move round me so much, that I shall be known.” M. Hamilton, who happened to be near the place where he was going, said to him, “Sir, come this way if you please, the enemy’s fire is directed to the place in which you are.” “You are right, sir,” replied M. de Turenne; “I would not willingly be killed to-day; this will do extremely well.” He had scarcely turned his horse, when he saw St. Hilaire, who, coming up to him with his hat in his hand, desired him to cast his eye on a battery he had just raised, pointing to the place. M. de Turenne turned back, and at that very instant, without having time to stop his horse, he had his arm and part of his body torn to pieces by the same ball that carried off St. Hilaire’s arm and hand in which he held his hat. The gentleman, who was watching him attentively, did not see him fall, for his horse ran away with him as far as the spot where he had left young d’Elbeuf; he was leaning with his face over the pommel of the saddle. The moment his horse stopped, this great man fell off into the arms of his people, who were gathered round him, twice opened wide his eyes, moved his lips a little, and sank to eternal rest. Think of his death, and of part of his heart being carried away! His people immediately burst into loud cries of lamentations, but M. Hamilton quieted them as well as he could, and had young d’Elbeuf removed, who had thrown himself upon his uncle’s body frantic with grief, and would not be dragged from it without violence. A cloak was immediately thrown over the body, and it was placed by the side of a hedge, where they kept watch over it in silence till a carriage could be sent for to carry it to his tent; there it was met by M. de Lorges, M. de Roye, and several others, who were ready to expire with grief; but they were obliged to restrain themselves, and think of the important business that had devolved on them. A military service was performed in the camp, where tears and sorrow were the mourning; the officers, however, had each a crape scarf, the drums were covered with the same, they beat only a single stroke, the soldiers marched with their pikes trailing and pieces reversed; but the cries and lamentations of a whole army can not be described without emotion. His two nephews assisted at this mournful ceremony, I leave you to judge in what condition. M. de Roye, though much wounded, would be carried thither. I suppose the poor Chevalier de Grignan was overwhelmed with grief. When the body was removed from the camp, to be brought to Paris, the same scene of grief was renewed, and in every place through which it passed, nothing was heard but lamentations: at Langres, however, they exceeded even this; the bier was met by more than two hundred of the principal inhabitants in mourning, followed by the common people, and all the clergy in sacerdotal habits. In the town a solemn service was performed, and they all voluntarily entered into a contribution toward defraying the expenses, which amounted to five thousand francs; for they conducted the body as far as the next town. What say you to these natural marks of affection, founded on the most extraordinary merit? He is to be brought to St. Denis this evening; the people are all gone to meet the body at a place about two leagues distant, from whence they will conduct it to a chapel, where it is to be deposited for the present; there will be a service performed at St. Denis, till that at Notre-Dame is celebrated, which will be a solemn one. Such was our entertainment at the cardinal’s; we dined, as you may suppose, melancholy enough, and afterward did nothing but sigh till four o’clock. Cardinal de Bouillon mentioned you, and took upon him to answer for you, that, had you been in Paris you would have made one in our sad party; I assured him that you took no small share in his grief. He intends to answer both your letter and M. de Grignan’s; he desired me to say a thousand kind things to you, and so did the worthy d’Elbeuf, who, as well as her son, has lost every thing. It was a good idea to undertake thus to tell you what you know already as well as myself; but these originals struck me, and I was glad to show you in what way we forget M. de Turenne in this part of the world.

[119] Sister to Cardinal de Bouillon.

M. de la Garde told me the other day, that in the enthusiasm of the wonders which were related of the Chevalier de Grignan, he had advised his brothers[120] to bestir themselves on the occasion, to support his interest at least for the present year; and that he found them both very well disposed to do extraordinary things. This good La Garde is at Fontainebleau, from whence he is to return in three days, to set out at last; for he longs to be gone, though courtiers in general seem to be very leaden-heeled. The situation of poor Madame de Sanzei is really deplorable; we know nothing yet respecting her husband; he is neither dead nor alive, wounded nor prisoner. His people do not take the least notice of him in their letters. M. de la Trousse, after having mentioned the report of his being killed (this was the day of the action), has never since mentioned a syllable about him, either to Madame de Sanzei or to Coulanges,[121] so that we are quite at a loss what to say to this distracted woman; and yet it is cruel to let her remain in this state of uncertainty; for my part, I am persuaded her husband is killed; the dust and blood must probably disfigure him so much as not to be known again, and he has been stripped with the rest of the slain. Or he was perhaps killed at a distance from any of the rest; or by the country-people on the road, and thrown into a hedge. I think it is more probable that he has met with some such melancholy fate, than that he has been taken prisoner without a word having been heard respecting him.

[120] The Coadjutor of Arles, and the Abbé de Grignan.

[121] Madame de Sévigné was sister to M. de Coulanges, and M. de
la Trousse was first cousin to both.

And now, my dear, I must tell you that the abbé thinks my journey so necessary, that I no longer oppose it; I shall not have him always with me, and therefore I ought to take advantage of his good intentions toward me. It will be only a trip of two months, for the good abbé is not the least disposed to pass the winter there. He expresses himself very sincerely on the subject, and you know I am always the dupe of every thing that has the appearance of sincerity; so much the worse for those who deceive me. I conceive that it would be very dull there in the winter; long evenings may be compared to long marches for tediousness. I was not dull the winter you were with me; you, who are young, might have felt so, but do you remember our readings? It is true, that if every thing had been taken away that surrounded the table, and even the book too, it is impossible to tell what would have become of me. Providence will arrange every thing. I treasure up all your sayings; we get out of our dullness as we do out of bad roads; we see no one stop short in the middle of a month, because he has not the courage to go through it; it is like dying, we see no one who does not know how to keep out of this dilemma; there are parts in your letters which I neither can nor will forget. Are my friends Corbinelli and M. de Vardes with you? I hope they are. In that case, I dare say, there has been no deficiency of conversation among you; you have talked incessantly of the state of affairs, of the death of M. de Turenne, and are at a loss to guess what will be the consequences of it; in fact, you are just like ourselves, though you are in Provence. M. de Barillon supped here last night. The conversation turned upon M. de Turenne, and the universal grief occasioned by his loss; he entered largely into his virtues, his love of truth, his love of virtue for its own sake, and his reward in the practice of it; he finished this eulogium with adding, that no one could love and esteem M. de Turenne without being the better for it. His company and conversation inspired such hatred of deceit and double-dealing, as raised his friends above the generality of mankind. In this number the chevalier was particularly distinguished as one for whom this great man showed more than common esteem and affection, and who, on his side, was one of his greatest admirers. We shall never see his equal in any age: I do not think we are quite blind in the present day, at least those I meet are not so, and this perhaps is boasting that I keep good company. But I must tell you one word more of M. de Turenne, which I heard yesterday. You know Pertuis well, and his adoration and attachment to M. de Turenne; as soon as he heard of his death, he wrote his majesty the following note: “Sire, I have lost M. de Turenne; I feel my heart unable to support this blow; and being incapable of serving your majesty as I ought to do, I humbly request your permission to resign my government of Courtrai.” Cardinal de Bouillon prevented the letter from being given to the king; but, fearing he might come in person, he informed his majesty of the effect Pertuis’ grief had on him. The king appeared to enter with great goodness and indulgence into his sentiments, and told Cardinal de Bouillon that he esteemed Pertuis the more for this mark of attachment to his friend and benefactor,[122] and that he thought him too honest a man not to discharge his duty in whatever situation he was in. This is a specimen of grief for this hero. He had a patrimony of 40,000 livres a year; and M. Boucherat says, that after all his debts, and the several legacies he has bequeathed, are paid, there will not remain more than 10,000. These are the vast treasures he had amassed during a service of fifty years! Adieu, my dearest child, I embrace you a thousand times, and with inexpressible tenderness.

[122] He had been captain of the guard to M. de Turenne.