Chapter XXVI: Letter XV: THE ROCKS, Sunday, July 5, 1671

It is a great proof of your love, my dear child, that you can bear with all the nonsense I send you from hence. You defend Mademoiselle de Croqueoison extremely well. In return, I assure you there is not a single word in your letters that is not dear to me. I am afraid to read them for fear of ending them, and if it were not for the consolation that I can read them over as often as I please, I should make them last much longer; but then, on the other hand, my impatience makes me ready to devour them. What should I do if your writing was as illegible as D’Hacqueville’s? Would the greatness of my affection help me to decipher it? Really, I am afraid not; but I have heard of such instances. In short, I greatly esteem D’Hacqueville, and yet I can not accustom myself to his handwriting; I never can read his letters; I hunt out word by word; I puzzle myself with guessing at them; I say one word for another, and at last, when I can make neither head nor tail of it, away I fling the letter in a rage. But I tell you this as a secret, for I would not have him know that his letters give me all this trouble. He thinks, poor man, his hand is like print; but you, who know the contrary, tell me how you manage. My son set out yesterday, greatly concerned at parting with us. I endeavored to inspire him with every good, just, and noble sentiment that I was mistress of, and to confirm all the good qualities I had remarked in him. He received my advice with all imaginable sweetness and marks of approbation; but you know the weakness of human nature; I leave him, therefore, in the hands of Providence, reserving to myself the comfort of having nothing to reproach myself with in regard to him. As he has a fund of wit and humor, we shall necessarily miss him extremely. We are going to begin a moral treatise of Nicole’s. If I were at Paris I would send it to you; I am sure you would admire it. We continue to read Tasso with pleasure. I am almost afraid to tell you that I am returned to Cleopatra; and, by good fortune, the short memory I have makes it still pleasing to me. I have a bad taste, you will say; but you know I can not affect a prudery which is not natural to me, and as I am not yet arrived at a time of life that forbids the reading such works, I suffer myself to be amused with them, under the pretense that my son brought me into it. He used to read us some chapters, too, out of Rabelais, which were enough to make us die with laughing; in return, he seemed to take a good deal of pleasure in talking with me; and, if he is to be believed, he will remember what I have said to him. I know him well, and can often discern good sentiments through all the levity of his conversation. If he is dismissed this autumn, we shall have him again.

I have mentioned Launaye to you; she was bedaubed the other day like a twelfth-day taper; we thought she resembled the second volume of a sorry romance, or the Romance of the Rose, exactly. Mademoiselle du Plessis is always at my elbow; when I read the kind things you say of her, I am as red as fire. The other day La Biglesse played Tartuffe to the life. Being at table, she happened to tell a fib about some trifle or other, which I noticed, and told her of it; she cast her eyes to the ground, and with a very demure air, “Yes, indeed, madam,” said she, “I am the greatest liar in the world; I am very much obliged to you for telling me of it.” We all burst out a-laughing, for it was exactly the tone of Tartuffe: “Yes, brother, I am a wretch, a vessel of iniquity.” She attempts sometimes to be sententious, and gives herself airs of understanding which sit still worse upon her than her own natural way. There! I think you know every thing about the Rocks.