"Ah, yes; we are stupid: it must
be Mademoiselle Colbert!
be Mademoiselle Colbert!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
They glided down the passage that divided the
beds from the rest of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the
only one who turned in her bed, and appeared for a moment to
have opened her eyes. They closed again; but perhaps she saw
through her lids. No other sign of waking. They shrank closer
together when they passed the last bed, Friscia's, and stooped to
make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like a
century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed
Lucia's hand, as if they had passed through a great danger.
"Come, come, come! " murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and
suddenly they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina's
hand and inserted a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as
it flew open.
A gust of chill air struck the two young girls; a
faint diffuse light broke in upon them. A lamp was burning
before the image of the Virgin. They were in the chapel.
Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar, and lighted two candelabra.
Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was catch-
ing her breath, and once more said, "Come. "
They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed
church, with two high windows open on the country, a pleasant
dampness tempered the heat of the August night. The faintest
perfume of incense still clung to the air. The church was so
placid and restful, the candelabra in their places, the tapers extin-
guished, the sacrament shut away in its pyx, the altar-cloth turned
up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned silver arabesque, behind
which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected on the wall the profile
of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood there in a dream,
## p. 13151 (#589) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13151
with her hand still clasped in Lucia's, whose fever it had caught.
Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she no longer
asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnized in that
chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague
tremor, of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she
would fain have been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on
her pillow. But like one who dreams of having the well-defined
will to do a thing, and yet while the dream lasts has neither the
speech to express nor the energy to accomplish it, she was con-
scious, between sleeping and waking, of the torpor of her own
mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, neither under-
standing nor caring to understand. From time to time her mouth
twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia's hands were crossed
over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound
escaped her half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe
her; in the vague turn of thought that went round and round
in her sleepy brain, she asked herself if she were dreaming, and
Lucia a phantom. She passed one hand across her brow, either
to awake herself or to dispel the hallucination.
"Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I
know how to express myself. Do you give your whole attention ? »
«
"Yes," said the other with an effort.
"You alone know how we have loved each other here. After
God, the Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you,
Caterina. You have saved my life; I can never forget it. But
for you I should have gone to burn in hell, where suicides must
eternally suffer. I thank you, dear heart. You believe in my
gratitude? "
"Yes," said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to
understand her.
"Now we who so love each other must part.
«
You go to the
left, I to the right. You are to be married: I know not what
will happen to me. Shall we meet again? I know not. Shall
we again come together in the future? Who knows?
Do you
know? "
"No," replied Caterina, starting.
“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men
and circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection.
From afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each
other as we do to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
## p. 13152 (#590) ##########################################
13152
MATILDE SERAO
"The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a
vow, with an oath ? »
"With a vow, with an oath," repeated Caterina monotonously
like an echo.
"And I too promise that no one shall ever by word or deed
lessen this our steadfast friendship. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too promise that neither shall ever seek to do ill to
the other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her.
Promise: the Madonna hears us. "
"I promise. "
“I swear it,—that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to
help the other. Say, do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacri-
fice her own happiness to that of the other. Swear it; swear! "
Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange
dream, or was she binding herself for life? "I swear," she said
firmly.
"I swear," reiterated Lucia. "The Madonna has heard. Woe
to her who breaks her vow! God will punish her. "
Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her
pocket. It was a string of lapis-lazuli bound together by little
silver links. From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a
little gold medal on which was engraved the image of the Ma-
donna della Saletta. She kissed it.
"We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina.
Half of it you shall take with you, the other half I will keep.
It will be our keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray
at night, I shall remember. You too will remember me in your
prayers. The missing half will remind you of your absent
friend. "
And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard
at it from either side. Lucia kept the half with the crucifix,
Caterina the half with the medal. The two girls embraced.
Then they heard the clock strike three. When silence reigned
once more in the college and in the empty chapel, both knelt
down on the steps of the altar, crossed their hands on their
bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison
"Our Father — »
Translation of Henry Harland.
## p. 13152 (#591) ##########################################
## p. 13152 (#592) ##########################################
MARIE DE SEVIGNE.
## p. 13152 (#593) ##########################################
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## p. 13152 (#594) ##########################################
VAR E DE SEVIONA
## p. 13152 (#595) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day, - among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. ”
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,- a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13152 (#596) ##########################################
+
i
MARIE DE SEVIGNE
1
## p. 13153 (#597) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day,- among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. "
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,-a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13154 (#598) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13154
husband's estate in Brittany-returning to Paris in 1654. Charles de
Sévigné, her eldest child, inherited his father's pleasure-loving nature;
and during the years of his early manhood caused his mother much
anxiety. On resigning his commission in the army, he retired to
his estate in Brittany, married a good woman, became "serious," and
spent the rest of his years in the study of the Fathers and of Horace.
When Madame de Sévigné presented her daughter Françoise at
court, this "prettiest girl in France" seemed destined to set the
world on fire. On her the affection of the mother's heart, which had
met disappointment in so many other directions, was lavished. Made-
moiselle de Sévigné married in 1669 François Adhémar de Monteil,
Comte de Grignan; and the following year went with him to Provence,
where he exercised viceregal functions,-nominally during the minor-
ity of the Duc de Vendôme, but as the duke never in fact assumed
authority, the count was the actual ruler of the province for forty
years. From the moment when, on entering her daughter's vacant
room, Madame de Sévigné's grief was renewed at sight of the famil-
iar objects, relief was found only in pouring forth her heart in con-
stant letters to Madame de Grignan, which every courier carried to
Provence. The wonderful series is as vividly fresh now as then,
when by the direct aid of Providence and the postal service of the
day they reached Château Grignan on its heights above the sea.
The letters were full of domestic and public news: the details of
daily life, the books the writer had read, the people she had met;
what was said, thought, and suspected in the world of Paris. Very
much too of contemporary history is woven into the correspondence.
The letters addressed in 1664 to M. de Pomponne, the former minis-
ter of Louis XIV. , then living in exile on his estate, contain the
most vivid and detailed account of the trial of Superintendent Fou-
quet which remains to us. In them the course of the proceedings
is daily related, the character of witnesses and judges discussed,
the nature of the testimony weighed, and the hopes and anxieties of
the prisoner's friends communicated. There are among the collection
letters to other friends; but the mass of the correspondence was
addressed to Madame de Grignan, and it contains a detailed account
of the mother's life from 1670 to 1696.
Madame de Sévigné died at Château Grignan, on April 18th, 1696,
and was buried in the church of Grignan. Her tomb was undisturbed
during the storms of the Revolution, and may still be seen.
Unauthorized editions of a portion of the letters of Madame de
Sévigné were published in 1726; but so incomplete and full of errors
were the collections, that her granddaughter, Madame de Simiane, was
forced very reluctantly to consent to the issuing of the correspond-
ence in a more correct form and under her own supervision. She
## p. 13155 (#599) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13155
disliked the publicity thus given to private letters, however, believ-
ing that "one should be at liberty to be witty with impunity in one's
family. " Even this last-named collection was not complete; and dili-
gent research has subsequently increased the number of letters, and
given rise to numerous editions of the entire correspondence. The
one printed in Paris in 1823, and edited by M. Gault de Saint-Germain,
contained letters from many of Madame de Sévigné's friends, and has
very full biographical and critical notices.
Into the literary work of Madame de Sévigné no moral purpose
obtrudes, although it unconsciously reveals not only her intellectual
power but also the strongly ethical bent of her character. It had
no other inspiration than the passion of motherhood, which was her
controlling impulse; was conceived without reference to audience
or critics, nor with thought of inspection by other eyes than those of
her daughter. She wrote of the world, but not for the world; to
amuse Madame de Grignan, and relieve her own heart by express-
ing the love and longing which filled it. The correspondence is full
of wit, of humor, of epigram; not designed to dazzle or attract, but
after the manner of a highly endowed and highly cultured nature.
Her style, formed under the guidance of authors of distinction, has
become a model for imitation throughout the world. Her language is
pure in form and graceful in expression. It is true that in the free-
dom of family correspondence, she occasionally used provincial terms;
but they were always borrowed with due acknowledgment of their
source, not as being a part of the personal appanage of the writer.
It was said of her: "You don't read her letters, you think she is
speaking; you listen to her. " To her friends so much of Madame
de Sévigné's personal attraction was associated with what she wrote,
that it is not strange they could not dissever them. Even after the
lapse of two centuries, that personal grace and charm is so present
in the written speech, that we can believe in what was said of her
by her cousin Count Bussy de Rabutin:-
"No one was ever weary in her society. She was one of those
people who should never have died; as there are others who should
never have been born. "
――――――
TO HER COUSIN, M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Monday, December 15th, 1670.
I
AM going to tell you something most astonishing, most sur-
prising, most miraculous, most triumphant, most bewildering,
most unheard-of, most singular, most extraordinary, most
incredible, most unexpected, most important, most insignificant,
## p. 13156 (#600) ##########################################
13156
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
most rare, most ordinary, most startling, most secret (until to-day),
most brilliant, most enviable; finally, something of which past ages
furnish only one example, and that example is not exactly similar.
Something which we in Paris can hardly credit, and how then
can it be believed at Lyons? Something which makes all the
world cry Bless me! " Something which overwhelms Madame
de Rohan and Madame d'Hauterive with joy. ' Something, finally,
which is to happen on Sunday, when those who will see it will
think they are blind. Something which will happen on Sunday,
and yet by Monday may not be done. I can't make up my
mind to tell you,- you must divine it. I'll give you three
guesses. Do you give it up? Well, then, I must tell you: M. de
Lauzun is to marry on Sunday, at the Louvre,- can you imagine
whom? I'll give you three guesses, I'll give you ten, I'll give
you a hundred! I know Madame de Coulanges will say, “That
is not difficult to imagine. It is Mademoiselle de La Vallière. "
Not at all, madame. "Is it then Mademoiselle de Retz? " By
no means; you are far astray.
"Ah, yes; we are stupid: it must
be Mademoiselle Colbert! " you say. Still less. "It certainly
is then Mademoiselle de Créqui? " You are not right yet. I
shall have to tell you. He is to marry-on Sunday at the
Louvre, by permission of the King - Mademoiselle - Mademoi-
selle de Mademoiselle - now tell me her name! On my word—
on my sacred word-on my word of honor - MADEMOISELLE!
LA GRANDE MADEMOISELLE; Mademoiselle the daughter of the late
Monsieur; Mademoiselle the granddaughter of Henry the Fourth;
Mademoiselle d'Eu; Mademoiselle de Dombes; Mademoiselle de
Montpensier; Mademoiselle d'Orleans; Mademoiselle, first cousin
to the King; Mademoiselle, destined to a throne; Mademoiselle,
the only match in France who was worthy of Monsieur"! This
is a pretty subject for reflection! If you exclaim, if you are
beside yourself, if you say I am telling a lie, that it is all false,
that I am making fun of you, that it is a joke and rather a stu-
pid one too, we shall agree that you are right: we have said
the same thing. Adieu: the letters which go by this post will
show you whether we are telling the truth or not.
-
―
1 From seeing a royal lady marry below her rank as they had done.
2 The Duke of Lauzun.
3
Gaston, Duke of Orleans, uncle to Louis XIV.
Philippe, Duke of Orleans (brother of Louis XIV. ), whom she had refused.
## p. 13157 (#601) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13157
TO M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Friday, December 19th, 1670.
WHAT
HAT happened yesterday evening at the Tuileries is what
one might call a fall from the clouds-but I must begin
at the beginning. You heard of the joy, of the trans-
ports, of the bliss, of the princess and her fortunate lover. It
was on Monday that the affair was announced as I wrote you.
Tuesday passed in talking-in wondering-in complimenting.
On Wednesday Mademoiselle made a donation to M. de Lauzun,
with the object of endowing him with the titles, names, and
necessary decorations, that they might be enumerated in the mar-
riage contract, which was made the same day. She gave him,
in preparation for something better, four duchies: the first was
the county of Eu, which is the first peerage in France; the
duchy of Montpensier, whose title he bore through that day; the
duchy of Saint Fargeau; the duchy of Châtellerault, the whole
valued at twenty-two millions. The contract was finally prepared,
in which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday morn-
ing-which was yesterday- Mademoiselle hoped that the King
would sign the contract, as he had agreed to do; but about seven
o'clock in the evening, the Queen, Monsieur, and some busy-
bodies convinced the King that this affair would injure his repu-
tation. Accordingly, having summoned Mademoiselle and M. de
Lauzun, his Majesty announced to them, before M. le Prince,
that he forbade them absolutely to think of the marriage. M. de
Lauzun received this order with all the respect and submission,
all the firmness and all the despair, which became so great a fall.
But Mademoiselle - characteristically-burst into tears, shrieks,
and groans, and bitter complaints. She kept her bed the whole
day, taking nothing but bouillons.
TO HER DAUGHTER, MADAME DE GRIGNAN
I
LIVRY, Holy Wednesday, March 25th, 1671.
HAVE been here three hours, my dear child. I left Paris with
the Abbé, Hélène, Hébert, and Marphise,* with the intention
of retiring from the world and its tumult until Thursday
evening. I am supposed to be in retreat. I am making a kind.
I
* Her pet dog.
## p. 13158 (#602) ##########################################
13158
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
of little "La Trappe," where I may pray to God and indulge in
a thousand pious reflections. I have resolved to fast here, for
various reasons: to make up in walking for all the time that I
have been in my room; and chiefly, to be bored for the love of
God.
But what I shall do far better than all these, is to think
of you, my child. I have not ceased to do so since I arrived;
and not being able to restrain all my feelings, I have seated
myself to write to you, at the end of this little shady walk which
you love, upon a mossy bank where I have so often seen you
lying. But, mon Dieu! where have I not seen you here! and
how these memories grieve my heart! There is no place, no
spot, either in the house or in the church, in the country or
in the garden,- where I have not seen you. Everything brings
some memory to mind; and whatever it may be, it makes my heart.
ache. I see you; you are present to me. I think of everything
and think again. My brain and my heart grow confused. But
in vain I turn-in vain I seek: that dear child whom I passion-
ately love is two hundred leagues distant from me. I have her
no more; and then I weep, and cannot cease. My love, that is
weakness; but as for me, I do not know how to be strong against
a feeling so powerful and so natural.
―――
I cannot tell in what frame of mind you will be when
reading this letter: perhaps chance may bring it to you in-
opportunely, and it may not be read in the spirit in which it
is written, but for that there is no remedy. To write it, at
least, consoles me now; that is all I ask of it at present, for
the state into which this place has thrown me is inconceivable.
Do not speak of my weaknesses; but you must love and respect
my tears, since they proceed from a heart which is wholly yours.
―――――――――
II
FRIDAY EVENING, April 24th, 1671.
I
MEANT to tell you that the King arrived at Chantilly last
evening. He hunted the stag by moonlight; the lanterns
were very brilliant; and altogether the evening, the supper,
the play, - all went off marvelously well. The weather to-day
makes us anticipate a worthy close to such a beginning. But I
have just heard something as I came here from which I cannot
recover, and which makes me forget what I was about to write
you. Vatel - the great Vatel — maître d'hotel of M. Fouquet, and
who has recently been in the service of M. le Prince—the man
## p. 13159 (#603) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13159
above all others in ability, whose good head was capable of
carrying the affairs of a State - this man, such as I knew him,
finding that at eight o'clock the fish had not arrived, and unable
to sustain the humiliation which he foresaw, stabbed himself.
You can imagine the horrible disorder into which such a dread-
ful accident threw the fête.
PARIS, Sunday, April 26th, 1671.
T
HIS letter will not go before Wednesday; but this is not a
letter, only an account of what Moreuil has just told me
for your benefit, concerning Vatel. I wrote you on Friday
that he had stabbed himself: here is the story in detail.
―――――
The King arrived on Thursday evening; the promenade, the
collation, served on a lawn carpeted with jonquils,- all was
perfect. At supper there were a few tables where the roast was
wanting, on account of some guests whose arrival had not been
expected. This mortified Vatel, who said several times, "My
honor is gone: I can never survive this shame. " He also said to
Gourville, "My head swims. I have not slept for twelve nights.
Help me give the orders. " Gourville encouraged him as well as
he could. The roast had not been wanting at the King's table;
but he could not forget that there was none at the twenty-fifth.
Gourville told M. le Prince, who went immediately to Vatel's
room, and said to him, "Vatel, everything is going on well.
Nothing could be finer than the King's supper. " He replied,
"My lord, your goodness overwhelms me. I know that the roast
was missing at two tables. " "Not at all," said M. le Prince.
"Don't disturb yourself: everything is going on well. " Midnight
came; the fireworks, which cost sixteen thousand francs, did not
succeed, on account of the fog. At four o'clock in the morning,
Vatel, going through the château, found every one asleep. He
met a young steward, who had brought only two hampers of
fish: he asked, "Is that all? "-"Yes, sir. " The lad did not know
that Vatel had sent to all the seaports. Vatel waited some time;
the other purveyors did not arrive: his brain reeled; he believed
no more fish could be had: and finding Gourville, he said, "My
dear sir, I shall never survive this disgrace. " Gourville ridiculed
him. Vatel went up to his chamber, placed his sword against
the door, and stabbed himself to the heart; but only on the
third attempt - for he gave himself two thrusts which were not
## p. 13160 (#604) ##########################################
13160
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
mortal did he fall dead.
Meanwhile the fish arrived from
every quarter; and seeking for Vatel to give it out, they went
to his room, knocked, burst in the door, and found him drowned
in his blood. They ran to M. le Prince, who was in despair.
M. le Duc wept; his father told the King in sorrow. It was said
that this occurred because Vatel had a high sense of honor. He
was praised; and his courage both praised and blamed. The
King said that he had deferred going to Chantilly for five years
because he knew how much trouble his visit would cause. He
told M. le Prince that he ought only to have two tables, and not
provide for everybody. He vowed that he would no longer
permit M. le Prince to do so; but it was too late for poor Vatel.
Gourville, however, tried to make up for his loss, in which
he succeeded. They all dined very well: had a collation and a
supper-walked-played-hunted. Everything was perfumed
with jonquils; all was enchantment.
-
III
LES ROCHERS, September 30th, 1671.
Α
S FOR La Mousse, he catechizes on holidays and Sundays; he
is determined to go to Paradise. I tell him it is only for
curiosity, that he may discover once for all whether the sun
is a mass of dust violently agitated, or a globe of fire. The other
day he was catechizing some little children; and after a few ques-
tions they got everything so mixed up that when he asked who
the Virgin was, they answered one after another, "The creator
of heaven and earth. " He was not convinced by the children;
but finding that the men, the women, and even the old people,
said the same thing, he was persuaded of the fact, and gave in
to the general opinion. At last he knew no longer what he was
about; and if I had not appeared on the scene, he would never
have recovered himself. This novel opinion would have created
quite another disturbance from the motion of the little atoms.
## p. 13161 (#605) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13161
IV
-
You
PARIS, Wednesday, March 16th, 1672.
ou ask me, my dear child, if I am as much in love with life
as ever. I confess it has many troubles; but I am still
more disinclined to die. Indeed, I am so unhappy because
everything must end in death, that I should ask nothing better
than to turn back if it were possible. I am involved in a per-
plexing engagement: entering upon life without my own con-
sent, I must at last leave it. The thought overwhelms me. How
shall I go? Where? By what gate? When will it be? In
what manner? Shall I suffer a thousand thousand griefs, and
die despairing? Shall I be delirious? Shall I perish by an acci-
dent? How shall I stand before God? What shall I have to
offer him? Will fear, will necessity, turn my heart to him?
Shall I feel no emotion save fear? What can I hope? Am I
worthy of Paradise? Am I fit for hell? What an alternative!
What a perplexity! Nothing is so foolish as to be uncertain
about one's salvation: but then, nothing is so natural; and the
careless life which I lead is the easiest thing in the world to
comprehend.
I am overpowered by these thoughts; and death appears to
me so horrible, that I hate life rather because it leads thither,
than for the thorns with which it is sown. You will say that
then I want to live forever. Not at all: but if I had been con-
sulted, I should have preferred to die in my nurse's arms,—it
would have saved me from so many annoyances, and secured
salvation very easily and very certainly. But let us talk of some-
thing else.
V
LAMBESC, Tuesday, December 20th, 1672.
WHE
HEN one reckons without Providence, one must reckon twice.
I was all dressed at eight o'clock; had taken my coffee,
heard mass, made all my adieus; the packs were loaded,
the bells of the mules reminded me that it was time to mount
my litter; my room was full of people, all of whom begged me
not to start because it had rained so much during the last few
days, since yesterday continually, and at this very moment.
more violently than ever. I resisted sturdily all this persuasion,
-
## p. 13162 (#606) ##########################################
13162
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
In
out of regard to the resolution I had taken, and because of all
that I wrote to you yesterday by the post, assuring you that I
should arrive on Thursday. Suddenly M. de Grignan appeared
in his dressing-gown and spoke seriously to me of the fool-
hardiness of my enterprise: saying that my muleteer could never
follow my litter, that my mules would fall into the ditches, that
my people would be too drenched to help me;- so that in a
moment I changed my mind, and yielded completely to these
wise remonstrances. Therefore, my child, boxes are being un-
loaded, mules unharnessed, lackeys and maids are drying their
clothes, after having merely crossed the court-yard, and I am
sending you a messenger,-knowing your goodness and your
anxiety, and wishing also to quiet my own uneasiness,- because
I am alarmed about your health; and this man will either return
and bring me news of you, or will meet me on the road.
a word, my dear child, he will arrive at Grignan on Thursday
instead of me; and I shall start whenever it pleases the heav-
ens and M. de Grignan. The latter governs me with good inten-
tions, and understands all the reasons which make me desire
so passionately to be at Grignan. If M. de La Garde could be
ignorant of all this, I should be glad; for he will exult in the
pleasure of having foretold the very embarrassment in which I
am placed. But let him beware of the vainglory which may
accompany the gift of prophecy on which he piques himself.
Finally, my child, here I am! don't expect me at all. I shall
surprise you, and take no risks, for fear of troubling you and
also myself. Adieu, my dearest and loveliest. I assure you
that I am greatly afflicted to be kept a prisoner at Lambesc; but
how could one foresee such rains as have not been known in
this country for a hundred years?
VI
MONTELIMART, Thursday, October 5th, 1673.
TH
HIS is a terrible day, my dear child. I confess to you I can
bear no more. I have left you in a state which increases
my grief. I think of all the steps you are taking away
from me, and those I take away from you, and how impossible
that walking in this manner we shall ever meet again. My heart
is at rest when it is near you; that is its natural state, and the
## p. 13163 (#607) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13163
only one which can give it peace. What happened this morning
gave me keen sorrow, and a pang of which your philosophy can
divine the reasons. I have felt and shall long feel them. My
heart and my imagination are filled with you. I cannot think
of you without weeping, and of you I am always thinking: so
that my present state is unendurable; as it is so extreme, I hope
its violence may not last. I am seeking for you everywhere,
and I find that all things are wanting since I have not you. My
eyes, which for fourteen months have gazed upon you, find you
no more. The happy time that is past makes the present un-
happy—at least until I am a little accustomed to it; but I shall
never be so wonted to it as not to wish ardently to see and
embrace you again. I cannot expect more of the future than of
the past. I know what your absence has made me suffer. I
am henceforth still more to be pitied, because I have made the
habit of seeing you necessary to me. It seems to me that I did
not embrace you enough when we parted: why should I have
refrained? I have never told you often enough what happiness
your tenderness gives me. I have never enough commended you
to M. de Grignan, nor thanked him enough for all his courtesy
and friendship towards me. In a word, I only live for you, my
child. God give me the grace some day to love him as I love
you. Adieu, my beloved child: love me always. Alas! we must
be content now with letters.
VII
PARIS, Friday, December 8th, 1673.
I
MUST begin, my dear child, with the death of the Comte de
Guiche, which is the interest of the day. The poor boy died
of disease and weakness, in M. de Turenne's army; the news
was received on Tuesday morning.
beds from the rest of the room. Artemisia Minichini was the
only one who turned in her bed, and appeared for a moment to
have opened her eyes. They closed again; but perhaps she saw
through her lids. No other sign of waking. They shrank closer
together when they passed the last bed, Friscia's, and stooped to
make themselves smaller. That moment seemed to them like a
century. When they got into the corridor, Caterina squeezed
Lucia's hand, as if they had passed through a great danger.
"Come, come, come! " murmured the siren voice of Lucia, and
suddenly they stopped before a door. Lucia dropped Caterina's
hand and inserted a key into the keyhole; the door creaked as
it flew open.
A gust of chill air struck the two young girls; a
faint diffuse light broke in upon them. A lamp was burning
before the image of the Virgin. They were in the chapel.
Calmly Lucia knelt before the altar, and lighted two candelabra.
Then she turned to Caterina, who, dazed by the light, was catch-
ing her breath, and once more said, "Come. "
They advanced towards the altar. In the little whitewashed
church, with two high windows open on the country, a pleasant
dampness tempered the heat of the August night. The faintest
perfume of incense still clung to the air. The church was so
placid and restful, the candelabra in their places, the tapers extin-
guished, the sacrament shut away in its pyx, the altar-cloth turned
up to cover it. But a quaintly fashioned silver arabesque, behind
which Lucia had lighted a taper, projected on the wall the profile
of a strange monstrous beast. Caterina stood there in a dream,
## p. 13151 (#589) ##########################################
MATILDE SERAO
13151
with her hand still clasped in Lucia's, whose fever it had caught.
Even at that unusual hour, in the dead of night, she no longer
asked herself what strange rite was to be solemnized in that
chapel illuminated only for them. She was conscious of a vague
tremor, of a weight in the head, and a longing for sleep; she
would fain have been back in the dormitory, with her cheek on
her pillow. But like one who dreams of having the well-defined
will to do a thing, and yet while the dream lasts has neither the
speech to express nor the energy to accomplish it, she was con-
scious, between sleeping and waking, of the torpor of her own
mind. She looked around her as one in a stupor, neither under-
standing nor caring to understand. From time to time her mouth
twitched with an imperceptible yawn. Lucia's hands were crossed
over her bosom, and her eyes fixed on the Madonna. No sound
escaped her half-open lips. Caterina leant forward to observe
her; in the vague turn of thought that went round and round
in her sleepy brain, she asked herself if she were dreaming, and
Lucia a phantom. She passed one hand across her brow, either
to awake herself or to dispel the hallucination.
"Listen, Caterina, and try and comprehend me better than I
know how to express myself. Do you give your whole attention ? »
«
"Yes," said the other with an effort.
"You alone know how we have loved each other here. After
God, the Madonna Addolorata, and my father, I have loved you,
Caterina. You have saved my life; I can never forget it. But
for you I should have gone to burn in hell, where suicides must
eternally suffer. I thank you, dear heart. You believe in my
gratitude? "
"Yes," said Caterina, opening wide her eyes the better to
understand her.
"Now we who so love each other must part.
«
You go to the
left, I to the right. You are to be married: I know not what
will happen to me. Shall we meet again? I know not. Shall
we again come together in the future? Who knows?
Do you
know? "
"No," replied Caterina, starting.
“Well, then, I propose to you to conquer time and space, men
and circumstances, should they stand in the way of our affection.
From afar, howsoever we may be separated, let us love each
other as we do to-day, as we did yesterday. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
## p. 13152 (#590) ##########################################
13152
MATILDE SERAO
"The Madonna hears us, Caterina. Do you promise with a
vow, with an oath ? »
"With a vow, with an oath," repeated Caterina monotonously
like an echo.
"And I too promise that no one shall ever by word or deed
lessen this our steadfast friendship. Do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too promise that neither shall ever seek to do ill to
the other, or willingly cause her sorrow, or ever, ever betray her.
Promise: the Madonna hears us. "
"I promise. "
“I swear it,—that always, whatever befalls, one shall try to
help the other. Say, do you promise? "
"I promise. "
"And I too. Besides, that either will be ever ready to sacri-
fice her own happiness to that of the other. Swear it; swear! "
Caterina thought for an instant. Was she dreaming a strange
dream, or was she binding herself for life? "I swear," she said
firmly.
"I swear," reiterated Lucia. "The Madonna has heard. Woe
to her who breaks her vow! God will punish her. "
Caterina bowed her assent. Lucia took her rosary from her
pocket. It was a string of lapis-lazuli bound together by little
silver links. From it depended a small silver crucifix, and a
little gold medal on which was engraved the image of the Ma-
donna della Saletta. She kissed it.
"We will break this rosary in two equal parts, Caterina.
Half of it you shall take with you, the other half I will keep.
It will be our keepsake, to remind us of our vow. When I pray
at night, I shall remember. You too will remember me in your
prayers. The missing half will remind you of your absent
friend. "
And taking up the rosary between them, they pulled hard
at it from either side. Lucia kept the half with the crucifix,
Caterina the half with the medal. The two girls embraced.
Then they heard the clock strike three. When silence reigned
once more in the college and in the empty chapel, both knelt
down on the steps of the altar, crossed their hands on their
bosoms, and with closed eyes repeated in unison
"Our Father — »
Translation of Henry Harland.
## p. 13152 (#591) ##########################################
## p. 13152 (#592) ##########################################
MARIE DE SEVIGNE.
## p. 13152 (#593) ##########################################
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## p. 13152 (#594) ##########################################
VAR E DE SEVIONA
## p. 13152 (#595) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day, - among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. ”
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,- a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13152 (#596) ##########################################
+
i
MARIE DE SEVIGNE
1
## p. 13153 (#597) ##########################################
13153
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
(1627-1696)
MONG the great writers of the world, Madame de Sévigné is
perhaps the only one except Lady Nairne whose purely lit-
erary fame was entirely posthumous. It is true that when
Louis XIV. became possessed of a number of her letters, upon the
arrest of her friend Fouquet the Superintendent of Finance, he pro-
claimed that their style was matchless in grace of thought and
expression; and the little court world which took from the King its
opinions, on matters of taste as in so much else, henceforth placed
Madame de Sévigné at the head of that group of charming women
who wrote charming letters in seventeenth-century France. Her sub-
sequent correspondence was frequently handed about from friend to
friend; but the interest it excited depended quite as much upon the
amusing news of the court and the salons which it contained, as
upon the style in which the agreeable gossip was related. That in
later times her name should stand high in the literature of France,
and her house be visited as the shrine of her gracious memory, was
anticipated by none of her contemporaries; least of all by herself.
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, the only child of Celse Benigne de
Rabutin, Baron de Chantal, and of Marie de Coulanges his wife, was
born in the Château de Bourbilly, Burgundy, on February 5th, 1627.
Left an orphan when five years old, she was consigned to the care
of her uncle Philippe de Coulanges; and upon his death in 1636 she
became the charge of his brother Christophe de Coulanges, Abbé de
Livry. To the latter she was indebted for her careful education under
the best masters of the day,- among them Chapelain and Ménage.
Of the training received from "Le Bien-bon," as she termed her
uncle, she says: "I owed to him the sweetness and repose of my
life; all my gayety, my good-humor, my vivacity. In a word, he has
made me what I am, such as you have seen me; and worthy of your
esteem and of your friendship. "
When sixteen years old, Marie de Rabutin-Chantal married Henri,
Marquis de Sévigné,-a profligate young noble of a distinguished
Breton family. It was said of him, "He loved everywhere; but never
anything so amiable as his own wife. " He was killed in 1651 in a
duel, undertaken in defense of an unworthy name, leaving his wife
with a young son and daughter. Madame de Sévigné spent the early
years of her widowhood with her children at "Les Rochers"— her
XXII-823
## p. 13154 (#598) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13154
husband's estate in Brittany-returning to Paris in 1654. Charles de
Sévigné, her eldest child, inherited his father's pleasure-loving nature;
and during the years of his early manhood caused his mother much
anxiety. On resigning his commission in the army, he retired to
his estate in Brittany, married a good woman, became "serious," and
spent the rest of his years in the study of the Fathers and of Horace.
When Madame de Sévigné presented her daughter Françoise at
court, this "prettiest girl in France" seemed destined to set the
world on fire. On her the affection of the mother's heart, which had
met disappointment in so many other directions, was lavished. Made-
moiselle de Sévigné married in 1669 François Adhémar de Monteil,
Comte de Grignan; and the following year went with him to Provence,
where he exercised viceregal functions,-nominally during the minor-
ity of the Duc de Vendôme, but as the duke never in fact assumed
authority, the count was the actual ruler of the province for forty
years. From the moment when, on entering her daughter's vacant
room, Madame de Sévigné's grief was renewed at sight of the famil-
iar objects, relief was found only in pouring forth her heart in con-
stant letters to Madame de Grignan, which every courier carried to
Provence. The wonderful series is as vividly fresh now as then,
when by the direct aid of Providence and the postal service of the
day they reached Château Grignan on its heights above the sea.
The letters were full of domestic and public news: the details of
daily life, the books the writer had read, the people she had met;
what was said, thought, and suspected in the world of Paris. Very
much too of contemporary history is woven into the correspondence.
The letters addressed in 1664 to M. de Pomponne, the former minis-
ter of Louis XIV. , then living in exile on his estate, contain the
most vivid and detailed account of the trial of Superintendent Fou-
quet which remains to us. In them the course of the proceedings
is daily related, the character of witnesses and judges discussed,
the nature of the testimony weighed, and the hopes and anxieties of
the prisoner's friends communicated. There are among the collection
letters to other friends; but the mass of the correspondence was
addressed to Madame de Grignan, and it contains a detailed account
of the mother's life from 1670 to 1696.
Madame de Sévigné died at Château Grignan, on April 18th, 1696,
and was buried in the church of Grignan. Her tomb was undisturbed
during the storms of the Revolution, and may still be seen.
Unauthorized editions of a portion of the letters of Madame de
Sévigné were published in 1726; but so incomplete and full of errors
were the collections, that her granddaughter, Madame de Simiane, was
forced very reluctantly to consent to the issuing of the correspond-
ence in a more correct form and under her own supervision. She
## p. 13155 (#599) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13155
disliked the publicity thus given to private letters, however, believ-
ing that "one should be at liberty to be witty with impunity in one's
family. " Even this last-named collection was not complete; and dili-
gent research has subsequently increased the number of letters, and
given rise to numerous editions of the entire correspondence. The
one printed in Paris in 1823, and edited by M. Gault de Saint-Germain,
contained letters from many of Madame de Sévigné's friends, and has
very full biographical and critical notices.
Into the literary work of Madame de Sévigné no moral purpose
obtrudes, although it unconsciously reveals not only her intellectual
power but also the strongly ethical bent of her character. It had
no other inspiration than the passion of motherhood, which was her
controlling impulse; was conceived without reference to audience
or critics, nor with thought of inspection by other eyes than those of
her daughter. She wrote of the world, but not for the world; to
amuse Madame de Grignan, and relieve her own heart by express-
ing the love and longing which filled it. The correspondence is full
of wit, of humor, of epigram; not designed to dazzle or attract, but
after the manner of a highly endowed and highly cultured nature.
Her style, formed under the guidance of authors of distinction, has
become a model for imitation throughout the world. Her language is
pure in form and graceful in expression. It is true that in the free-
dom of family correspondence, she occasionally used provincial terms;
but they were always borrowed with due acknowledgment of their
source, not as being a part of the personal appanage of the writer.
It was said of her: "You don't read her letters, you think she is
speaking; you listen to her. " To her friends so much of Madame
de Sévigné's personal attraction was associated with what she wrote,
that it is not strange they could not dissever them. Even after the
lapse of two centuries, that personal grace and charm is so present
in the written speech, that we can believe in what was said of her
by her cousin Count Bussy de Rabutin:-
"No one was ever weary in her society. She was one of those
people who should never have died; as there are others who should
never have been born. "
――――――
TO HER COUSIN, M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Monday, December 15th, 1670.
I
AM going to tell you something most astonishing, most sur-
prising, most miraculous, most triumphant, most bewildering,
most unheard-of, most singular, most extraordinary, most
incredible, most unexpected, most important, most insignificant,
## p. 13156 (#600) ##########################################
13156
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
most rare, most ordinary, most startling, most secret (until to-day),
most brilliant, most enviable; finally, something of which past ages
furnish only one example, and that example is not exactly similar.
Something which we in Paris can hardly credit, and how then
can it be believed at Lyons? Something which makes all the
world cry Bless me! " Something which overwhelms Madame
de Rohan and Madame d'Hauterive with joy. ' Something, finally,
which is to happen on Sunday, when those who will see it will
think they are blind. Something which will happen on Sunday,
and yet by Monday may not be done. I can't make up my
mind to tell you,- you must divine it. I'll give you three
guesses. Do you give it up? Well, then, I must tell you: M. de
Lauzun is to marry on Sunday, at the Louvre,- can you imagine
whom? I'll give you three guesses, I'll give you ten, I'll give
you a hundred! I know Madame de Coulanges will say, “That
is not difficult to imagine. It is Mademoiselle de La Vallière. "
Not at all, madame. "Is it then Mademoiselle de Retz? " By
no means; you are far astray.
"Ah, yes; we are stupid: it must
be Mademoiselle Colbert! " you say. Still less. "It certainly
is then Mademoiselle de Créqui? " You are not right yet. I
shall have to tell you. He is to marry-on Sunday at the
Louvre, by permission of the King - Mademoiselle - Mademoi-
selle de Mademoiselle - now tell me her name! On my word—
on my sacred word-on my word of honor - MADEMOISELLE!
LA GRANDE MADEMOISELLE; Mademoiselle the daughter of the late
Monsieur; Mademoiselle the granddaughter of Henry the Fourth;
Mademoiselle d'Eu; Mademoiselle de Dombes; Mademoiselle de
Montpensier; Mademoiselle d'Orleans; Mademoiselle, first cousin
to the King; Mademoiselle, destined to a throne; Mademoiselle,
the only match in France who was worthy of Monsieur"! This
is a pretty subject for reflection! If you exclaim, if you are
beside yourself, if you say I am telling a lie, that it is all false,
that I am making fun of you, that it is a joke and rather a stu-
pid one too, we shall agree that you are right: we have said
the same thing. Adieu: the letters which go by this post will
show you whether we are telling the truth or not.
-
―
1 From seeing a royal lady marry below her rank as they had done.
2 The Duke of Lauzun.
3
Gaston, Duke of Orleans, uncle to Louis XIV.
Philippe, Duke of Orleans (brother of Louis XIV. ), whom she had refused.
## p. 13157 (#601) ##########################################
MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13157
TO M. DE COULANGES
PARIS, Friday, December 19th, 1670.
WHAT
HAT happened yesterday evening at the Tuileries is what
one might call a fall from the clouds-but I must begin
at the beginning. You heard of the joy, of the trans-
ports, of the bliss, of the princess and her fortunate lover. It
was on Monday that the affair was announced as I wrote you.
Tuesday passed in talking-in wondering-in complimenting.
On Wednesday Mademoiselle made a donation to M. de Lauzun,
with the object of endowing him with the titles, names, and
necessary decorations, that they might be enumerated in the mar-
riage contract, which was made the same day. She gave him,
in preparation for something better, four duchies: the first was
the county of Eu, which is the first peerage in France; the
duchy of Montpensier, whose title he bore through that day; the
duchy of Saint Fargeau; the duchy of Châtellerault, the whole
valued at twenty-two millions. The contract was finally prepared,
in which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday morn-
ing-which was yesterday- Mademoiselle hoped that the King
would sign the contract, as he had agreed to do; but about seven
o'clock in the evening, the Queen, Monsieur, and some busy-
bodies convinced the King that this affair would injure his repu-
tation. Accordingly, having summoned Mademoiselle and M. de
Lauzun, his Majesty announced to them, before M. le Prince,
that he forbade them absolutely to think of the marriage. M. de
Lauzun received this order with all the respect and submission,
all the firmness and all the despair, which became so great a fall.
But Mademoiselle - characteristically-burst into tears, shrieks,
and groans, and bitter complaints. She kept her bed the whole
day, taking nothing but bouillons.
TO HER DAUGHTER, MADAME DE GRIGNAN
I
LIVRY, Holy Wednesday, March 25th, 1671.
HAVE been here three hours, my dear child. I left Paris with
the Abbé, Hélène, Hébert, and Marphise,* with the intention
of retiring from the world and its tumult until Thursday
evening. I am supposed to be in retreat. I am making a kind.
I
* Her pet dog.
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
of little "La Trappe," where I may pray to God and indulge in
a thousand pious reflections. I have resolved to fast here, for
various reasons: to make up in walking for all the time that I
have been in my room; and chiefly, to be bored for the love of
God.
But what I shall do far better than all these, is to think
of you, my child. I have not ceased to do so since I arrived;
and not being able to restrain all my feelings, I have seated
myself to write to you, at the end of this little shady walk which
you love, upon a mossy bank where I have so often seen you
lying. But, mon Dieu! where have I not seen you here! and
how these memories grieve my heart! There is no place, no
spot, either in the house or in the church, in the country or
in the garden,- where I have not seen you. Everything brings
some memory to mind; and whatever it may be, it makes my heart.
ache. I see you; you are present to me. I think of everything
and think again. My brain and my heart grow confused. But
in vain I turn-in vain I seek: that dear child whom I passion-
ately love is two hundred leagues distant from me. I have her
no more; and then I weep, and cannot cease. My love, that is
weakness; but as for me, I do not know how to be strong against
a feeling so powerful and so natural.
―――
I cannot tell in what frame of mind you will be when
reading this letter: perhaps chance may bring it to you in-
opportunely, and it may not be read in the spirit in which it
is written, but for that there is no remedy. To write it, at
least, consoles me now; that is all I ask of it at present, for
the state into which this place has thrown me is inconceivable.
Do not speak of my weaknesses; but you must love and respect
my tears, since they proceed from a heart which is wholly yours.
―――――――――
II
FRIDAY EVENING, April 24th, 1671.
I
MEANT to tell you that the King arrived at Chantilly last
evening. He hunted the stag by moonlight; the lanterns
were very brilliant; and altogether the evening, the supper,
the play, - all went off marvelously well. The weather to-day
makes us anticipate a worthy close to such a beginning. But I
have just heard something as I came here from which I cannot
recover, and which makes me forget what I was about to write
you. Vatel - the great Vatel — maître d'hotel of M. Fouquet, and
who has recently been in the service of M. le Prince—the man
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
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above all others in ability, whose good head was capable of
carrying the affairs of a State - this man, such as I knew him,
finding that at eight o'clock the fish had not arrived, and unable
to sustain the humiliation which he foresaw, stabbed himself.
You can imagine the horrible disorder into which such a dread-
ful accident threw the fête.
PARIS, Sunday, April 26th, 1671.
T
HIS letter will not go before Wednesday; but this is not a
letter, only an account of what Moreuil has just told me
for your benefit, concerning Vatel. I wrote you on Friday
that he had stabbed himself: here is the story in detail.
―――――
The King arrived on Thursday evening; the promenade, the
collation, served on a lawn carpeted with jonquils,- all was
perfect. At supper there were a few tables where the roast was
wanting, on account of some guests whose arrival had not been
expected. This mortified Vatel, who said several times, "My
honor is gone: I can never survive this shame. " He also said to
Gourville, "My head swims. I have not slept for twelve nights.
Help me give the orders. " Gourville encouraged him as well as
he could. The roast had not been wanting at the King's table;
but he could not forget that there was none at the twenty-fifth.
Gourville told M. le Prince, who went immediately to Vatel's
room, and said to him, "Vatel, everything is going on well.
Nothing could be finer than the King's supper. " He replied,
"My lord, your goodness overwhelms me. I know that the roast
was missing at two tables. " "Not at all," said M. le Prince.
"Don't disturb yourself: everything is going on well. " Midnight
came; the fireworks, which cost sixteen thousand francs, did not
succeed, on account of the fog. At four o'clock in the morning,
Vatel, going through the château, found every one asleep. He
met a young steward, who had brought only two hampers of
fish: he asked, "Is that all? "-"Yes, sir. " The lad did not know
that Vatel had sent to all the seaports. Vatel waited some time;
the other purveyors did not arrive: his brain reeled; he believed
no more fish could be had: and finding Gourville, he said, "My
dear sir, I shall never survive this disgrace. " Gourville ridiculed
him. Vatel went up to his chamber, placed his sword against
the door, and stabbed himself to the heart; but only on the
third attempt - for he gave himself two thrusts which were not
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
mortal did he fall dead.
Meanwhile the fish arrived from
every quarter; and seeking for Vatel to give it out, they went
to his room, knocked, burst in the door, and found him drowned
in his blood. They ran to M. le Prince, who was in despair.
M. le Duc wept; his father told the King in sorrow. It was said
that this occurred because Vatel had a high sense of honor. He
was praised; and his courage both praised and blamed. The
King said that he had deferred going to Chantilly for five years
because he knew how much trouble his visit would cause. He
told M. le Prince that he ought only to have two tables, and not
provide for everybody. He vowed that he would no longer
permit M. le Prince to do so; but it was too late for poor Vatel.
Gourville, however, tried to make up for his loss, in which
he succeeded. They all dined very well: had a collation and a
supper-walked-played-hunted. Everything was perfumed
with jonquils; all was enchantment.
-
III
LES ROCHERS, September 30th, 1671.
Α
S FOR La Mousse, he catechizes on holidays and Sundays; he
is determined to go to Paradise. I tell him it is only for
curiosity, that he may discover once for all whether the sun
is a mass of dust violently agitated, or a globe of fire. The other
day he was catechizing some little children; and after a few ques-
tions they got everything so mixed up that when he asked who
the Virgin was, they answered one after another, "The creator
of heaven and earth. " He was not convinced by the children;
but finding that the men, the women, and even the old people,
said the same thing, he was persuaded of the fact, and gave in
to the general opinion. At last he knew no longer what he was
about; and if I had not appeared on the scene, he would never
have recovered himself. This novel opinion would have created
quite another disturbance from the motion of the little atoms.
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
13161
IV
-
You
PARIS, Wednesday, March 16th, 1672.
ou ask me, my dear child, if I am as much in love with life
as ever. I confess it has many troubles; but I am still
more disinclined to die. Indeed, I am so unhappy because
everything must end in death, that I should ask nothing better
than to turn back if it were possible. I am involved in a per-
plexing engagement: entering upon life without my own con-
sent, I must at last leave it. The thought overwhelms me. How
shall I go? Where? By what gate? When will it be? In
what manner? Shall I suffer a thousand thousand griefs, and
die despairing? Shall I be delirious? Shall I perish by an acci-
dent? How shall I stand before God? What shall I have to
offer him? Will fear, will necessity, turn my heart to him?
Shall I feel no emotion save fear? What can I hope? Am I
worthy of Paradise? Am I fit for hell? What an alternative!
What a perplexity! Nothing is so foolish as to be uncertain
about one's salvation: but then, nothing is so natural; and the
careless life which I lead is the easiest thing in the world to
comprehend.
I am overpowered by these thoughts; and death appears to
me so horrible, that I hate life rather because it leads thither,
than for the thorns with which it is sown. You will say that
then I want to live forever. Not at all: but if I had been con-
sulted, I should have preferred to die in my nurse's arms,—it
would have saved me from so many annoyances, and secured
salvation very easily and very certainly. But let us talk of some-
thing else.
V
LAMBESC, Tuesday, December 20th, 1672.
WHE
HEN one reckons without Providence, one must reckon twice.
I was all dressed at eight o'clock; had taken my coffee,
heard mass, made all my adieus; the packs were loaded,
the bells of the mules reminded me that it was time to mount
my litter; my room was full of people, all of whom begged me
not to start because it had rained so much during the last few
days, since yesterday continually, and at this very moment.
more violently than ever. I resisted sturdily all this persuasion,
-
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MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ
In
out of regard to the resolution I had taken, and because of all
that I wrote to you yesterday by the post, assuring you that I
should arrive on Thursday. Suddenly M. de Grignan appeared
in his dressing-gown and spoke seriously to me of the fool-
hardiness of my enterprise: saying that my muleteer could never
follow my litter, that my mules would fall into the ditches, that
my people would be too drenched to help me;- so that in a
moment I changed my mind, and yielded completely to these
wise remonstrances. Therefore, my child, boxes are being un-
loaded, mules unharnessed, lackeys and maids are drying their
clothes, after having merely crossed the court-yard, and I am
sending you a messenger,-knowing your goodness and your
anxiety, and wishing also to quiet my own uneasiness,- because
I am alarmed about your health; and this man will either return
and bring me news of you, or will meet me on the road.
a word, my dear child, he will arrive at Grignan on Thursday
instead of me; and I shall start whenever it pleases the heav-
ens and M. de Grignan. The latter governs me with good inten-
tions, and understands all the reasons which make me desire
so passionately to be at Grignan. If M. de La Garde could be
ignorant of all this, I should be glad; for he will exult in the
pleasure of having foretold the very embarrassment in which I
am placed. But let him beware of the vainglory which may
accompany the gift of prophecy on which he piques himself.
Finally, my child, here I am! don't expect me at all. I shall
surprise you, and take no risks, for fear of troubling you and
also myself. Adieu, my dearest and loveliest. I assure you
that I am greatly afflicted to be kept a prisoner at Lambesc; but
how could one foresee such rains as have not been known in
this country for a hundred years?
VI
MONTELIMART, Thursday, October 5th, 1673.
TH
HIS is a terrible day, my dear child. I confess to you I can
bear no more. I have left you in a state which increases
my grief. I think of all the steps you are taking away
from me, and those I take away from you, and how impossible
that walking in this manner we shall ever meet again. My heart
is at rest when it is near you; that is its natural state, and the
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13163
only one which can give it peace. What happened this morning
gave me keen sorrow, and a pang of which your philosophy can
divine the reasons. I have felt and shall long feel them. My
heart and my imagination are filled with you. I cannot think
of you without weeping, and of you I am always thinking: so
that my present state is unendurable; as it is so extreme, I hope
its violence may not last. I am seeking for you everywhere,
and I find that all things are wanting since I have not you. My
eyes, which for fourteen months have gazed upon you, find you
no more. The happy time that is past makes the present un-
happy—at least until I am a little accustomed to it; but I shall
never be so wonted to it as not to wish ardently to see and
embrace you again. I cannot expect more of the future than of
the past. I know what your absence has made me suffer. I
am henceforth still more to be pitied, because I have made the
habit of seeing you necessary to me. It seems to me that I did
not embrace you enough when we parted: why should I have
refrained? I have never told you often enough what happiness
your tenderness gives me. I have never enough commended you
to M. de Grignan, nor thanked him enough for all his courtesy
and friendship towards me. In a word, I only live for you, my
child. God give me the grace some day to love him as I love
you. Adieu, my beloved child: love me always. Alas! we must
be content now with letters.
VII
PARIS, Friday, December 8th, 1673.
I
MUST begin, my dear child, with the death of the Comte de
Guiche, which is the interest of the day. The poor boy died
of disease and weakness, in M. de Turenne's army; the news
was received on Tuesday morning.
