Chapter XCVIII: Letter LXXXVII: THE ROCKS, Saturday, June 15, 1680

I shall make no answer to what you say of my letters. I am extremely happy that they please you; had you not told me so I should have thought them unbearable. I never can muster up courage enough to read one of them through, and I often say to myself, Good heavens! with what nonsense do I pester my poor child! Sometimes I even repent having written so much, lest I should lay you under a sort of obligation to answer me in the same way; but let me entreat you, my child, to indulge me in the pleasure of chatting to you without putting yourself to the trouble of answering. Your last letter exceeded all the bounds of prudence and the care you ought to take of your health.

You are too good in wishing me more society; but, in fact, I do not want it. I am accustomed to solitude. I have my workmen to amuse me, and the good abbé has his likewise. His taste for buildings and alterations gets the better of his prudence. It does not cost him much, indeed, but it would cost him still less to let it alone.

All my delight is in my wood: it is impossible to describe how beautiful it is. I often walk there with my cane and Louison, which is all I desire. In my closet I find such agreeable company that I often say to myself, This is worthy my daughter; she could not here lay her hand amiss upon a book, there is hardly room left for choice. I have taken up _Les Conversations Chrétiennes_ (Christian Dialogues). They are written by an honest Cartesian, who seems to have all your _Recherche de la Vérité_ (Inquiry after Truth), by heart; which treats of that philosophy, and of the supreme power of God over his creatures, who, as St. Paul says, “live, move, and have their being,” in Him alone, and by him know all things. I will let you know if this book is within my comprehension, if not, I shall quit it with all humility, renouncing the foolish vanity of appearing wise when I am not so. I assure you I think like _our brothers_; and were I to express myself in print, I should say so. I know the difference between the language of policy and that of the heart. God is omnipotent, and does what he pleases; that I understand. He wants our hearts, and we will not give them to him; there lies the mystery. But do not discover that of our sisters of Saint-Marie: they write me word that they are charmed with the book I lent them.[202]

[202] See Letter, May 25.

You remind me of the foolish answer I made to excuse myself from going to Madame de Bret***,[203] “that I had but one son.” This made your bishops start. I thought that it had been merely my _heretical air_. I mentioned it to you the other day. I think, however, there appeared something strange in the expression. Heaven be praised, my dear countess, we have done no harm; your brothers could not be better provided for than at present, even had we been _Molinists_. _Probable opinions_, and the _direction of purposes_, would not have been more advantageous to them in the Hôtel de Carnavalet than the libertinism of our conversations. I am delighted at it, and have often thought how unjustly we might have suffered on this occasion.

[203] Apparently, Madame de Bretonvilliers, whom the Memoirs
of the times represent as the over-officious friend of the
Archbishop of Paris De Harlai, who was not so timid a priest as
he was a rigid Molinist.

I can make nothing of the affair of M. de la Trousse or Madame d’Epinoi, or of the servant who robbed them. I will endeavor to get information on this subject, and will send you the letters. You find that poor Madame de Lavardin is quite unhappy. Who would have supposed that she would have been otherwise than rejoiced at her son’s being married?[204] But I speak like a fool. It should be our invariable maxim, that human nature can never be happy. Young Chiverni seems to be as much so as any one: you see how he has extricated himself from his misery. Your poor brother, indeed, seems fated never to be happy in this world; as to the other world, if we may judge by appearances, I see no probability of his being in the right road. The Bishop of Chalons is certainly in heaven, for he was a devout prelate and a virtuous man. You see all our friends are lost to us one after another.

[204] See the preceding Letter.

I wrote the other day to Madame de Vins that I would leave her to guess what sort of virtue I practiced most here; and informed her it was liberality. It is certain that I have given away very considerable sums since my arrival; eight hundred francs one morning, one thousand another, five hundred another, one day three hundred crowns; you may think I am jesting, but it is too true. I have farmers and millers who owe me these sums, and have not a farthing to pay me with. What is to be done in this case? Why I make a virtue of necessity, and forgive them the debts. You will readily believe that I make no great merit of this since it is forced liberality; but my head was full of it when I wrote to Madame de Vins, and so down it went on the paper. I endeavor to make the fines pay for it. I have not yet touched one of the six thousand francs from Nantes; money-matters are not soon settled. The other day I had a visit from a pretty little wife of a farmer of Bodégat, with sparkling eyes, fine person, and smartly dressed in a holland gown, with ruffled cuffs, and a long train. Good heavens! thought I, when I saw her, I am ruined; for you must know, her husband owes me eight thousand francs. M. de Grignan would certainly have fallen in love with this woman; she is the very image of one he admired at Paris. This morning a countryman came in with bags on all sides, some under his arms, some in his pockets, and some in his breeches, which he began to untie, for in this country they dress in a strange way; the fashion of buttoning the lower part of the jacket is not yet introduced here; they are very saving of the stuff of which their breeches are composed, and from the gentry of Vitré down to my clodpole, every thing is in the highest state of negligence. The good abbé, who, you know, loves the main chance, seeing the fellow so loaded, thought we were rich forever. “Upon my word, friend, you are bravely loaded, how much money do you bring us?” “Please your reverence,” answered the man, “I think there is a matter of thirty francs.” My dear child, I believe all the _doubles_[205] in France were collected to fill these bags. In this manner do they abuse our patience and forbearance.

[205] Small pieces of money, of which about five are equal to an
English penny.

You give me great pleasure by what you say of Montgobert. I thought, indeed, what I wrote to you upon her account was superfluous, and that your excellent understanding would reconcile every thing. In this manner, my child, you ought always to act, in spite of momentary vexations. Montgobert has an excellent heart, though her temper is rather too hasty and impetuous; I always honor the goodness of her heart. We are frequently obliged to bear with the little dependencies and circumstances of friendship, though they may sometimes be disagreeable. I shall some day send her a bad cause to defend at Rochecourbière; since she has a talent for these things, it ought to be exercised. You will have M. de Coulanges with you; who will be a capital performer. He will inform you of his views and expectations, I know nothing of them myself; he dreads solitude so much that he will not even write to any one who lives in it. Grignan, therefore, is a place perfectly qualified to charm him, as he himself is to charm others; I never met with such delightful society, it is the object of all my wishes; I think of you all incessantly; I read your letters over and over again, saying as at Livri: Let us see what my daughter said to me a week or ten days ago; for, in short, it is she who converses with me, and I thus enjoy “the ingenious art of painting language, and of talking to the eyes.”

You know it is not the retired groves at the Rocks that make me think of you; I thought of you as much in the midst of the bustle of Paris. You are fixed in the center of my heart; every thing else is transient; it passes and is forgotten. I have forgotten even my Agnes, and yet she is very amiable; her wit has something of the simplicity of the country in it; but that of Madame de Tarente is still in the high courtly taste. The roads from hence to Vitré are grown so intolerably bad, that the king and M. de Chaulnes have ordered them to be repaired. All the peasants of that barony will be assembled there on Monday next.

Adieu, my dearest! when I tell you that my affection is of no use to you, do you not understand in what way I mean, and to what my heart and imagination tend? Pray tell me if you intend to place our little girl at Aix with her aunt,[206] and to send Paulina away. The dear child is a perfect prodigy; her understanding and wit are a sufficient portion for her; will you then place her on a level with a common person? I should always take her with me wherever I went, and should never think of sending her to Aix with her sister.[207] In short, I should treat her, as she merits, extraordinarily.

[206] Marie Adhémar de Monteil, sister of M. de Grignan, and one
of the nuns of Aubenas, a town and convent of the Lower Vivares.
See the letter of 9th of June.

[207] Marie Blanche, the eldest sister of Paulina, was in the
nunnery of St. Marie of Aix, where a short time afterward she
took the vail.