Chapter LXXX: Letter LXIX: PARIS, Friday, Nov. 10, 1679

I am no longer a shepherdess, my poor child; I have left with regret my solitary conversation with your letters, and your image, aided by _Louison_, our cows and sheep, and the twilight, which I embraced with eagerness, because I would neither spare nor flatter myself. I am now in the refinements of the Hôtel de Carnavalet, where I find I am not less occupied with you, that your letters are not less dear to me, or that any thing in the world is capable of driving you from my thoughts. I shall have little news to tell you; I know scarcely any at present; but what I hear comes from good authority, and may be depended on. You assure me, my dearest child, you are perfectly well. God grant it be so; this is soon said. I wish you would not write me such long letters; I am certain they do you harm. Were it not for this consideration, you may believe I should be glad they were as long as possible; but this apprehension damps all the pleasure I receive from them. Du Chêne told me the other day nothing could be worse for you than much writing. The time must come, my child, when you will write less; and when you are here, you must think of your health, and your recovery. We will take care to put the Hôtel de Carnavalet in as good order as possible for you. The good abbé wishes this as much as I do. Pray, write me no more bad accounts of yourself, nor imagine that your letters are better than your conversation; I should be unworthy of your love were I capable of entertaining such a thought. I am convinced of your affection, and I have as much relish for your society as those who are most delighted with your conversation. Ah! did you know the power of a word, a look, a kind expression, or a caress from you, and from what distant countries one of these could bring me, you would be convinced, my beauty, that nothing is equal to your presence! The account of your devotion on All-Saints’ day has affected me strangely. It was delightful to cram all your little ones into the same litter--dear little party! Had I been of your council, I should have given my vote for doing just as you did, as you will see by my advice to Paulina, in the regular answer I have written her. Lovely child! it is impossible she can ever tire you. Enjoy, my love, all these little comforts, and instead of thinking of depriving yourself of them, think of the numberless evils of this mortal and transitory life.

I finish this letter at Mademoiselle de Méri’s, where I also close my packet. She is quite exhausted with the vapors and evacuations, and is incapable of writing a single syllable; she tells you by me all she should write to you if she were able. I have been just visiting that poor chevalier who keeps his bed with pains in his neck and hip. This rheumatic humor never leaves him; I have more compassion than other people for this disorder. I am of opinion his illness will not be of long continuance. He feels the serosities already beginning to dissipate. He wants a good pumping, if the season permitted it. He gave me his letter to inclose in my packet; these poor sick people must be taken care of; all the rest of Paris is ill of a cold:

Ils ne mouraient pas tous; mais tous étaient frappés.

They died not all; though none escaped a wound:[151]

as you used to say. Adieu, my dear girl! I embrace you with the warmest affection, with all your great and little party.

[151] A verse of La Fontaine, in his fable of Les Animaux Malades
de la Peste.