Chapter XXXIV: Letter XXIII: PARIS, Wednesday, Jan. 13, 1672

For Heaven’s sake, my dear child, what do you mean? What pleasure can you take in thus abusing your person and understanding, vilifying your conduct, and saying, that one must have great good-nature to think of you sometimes? Though I am certain you can not believe all you say, yet it hurts me to hear it; you really make me angry with you; and though, perhaps, I ought not to answer seriously things that are only said in jest, yet I can not help scolding you before I go any further. You are excellent again, when you say you are afraid of wits. Alas! if you knew how insignificant they are when you are by, and how encumbered they are with their own dear persons, you would not value them at all. Do you remember how you used to be deceived in them sometimes? Do not let distance magnify objects too much; but it is one of its common effects.

We sup every evening at Madame Scarron’s; she has a most engaging wit, and an understanding surprisingly just and clear. It is a pleasure to hear her sometimes reason upon the horrid confusion and distractions of a country with which she is very well acquainted. The vexations that Heudicourt undergoes in a place that appears so dazzling and glorious; the continual rage of Lauzun; the gloomy chagrin and cares of the court ladies, from which the most envied are not always exempt; are things which she describes in the most agreeable and entertaining manner. Such conversations as these lead us insensibly from one moral reflection to another, sometimes of a religious, sometimes of a political kind. You are frequently one of our subjects; she admires your wit and manners; and, whenever you return hither, you are sure of being highly in favor.

But let me give you an instance of the king’s goodness and generosity, to show you what a pleasure it is to serve so amiable a master: He sent for Marshal Bellefond into his closet the other day, and thus accosted him: “Monsieur le maréchal, I insist upon knowing your reasons for quitting my service. Is it through a principle of devotion? Is it from an inclination to retire? Or is it on account of your debts? If it be the latter, I myself will take charge of them, and inform myself of the state of your affairs.” The marshal was sensibly affected with this goodness: “Sire,” said he, “it is my debts; I am overwhelmed with them, and can not bear to see some of my friends, who assisted me with their fortunes, likely to suffer on my account, without having it in my power to satisfy them.” “Well, then,” said the king, “they shall have security for what is owing to them: I now give you a hundred thousand francs on your house at Versailles, and a grant of four hundred thousand more, as a security in case of your death. The hundred thousand francs will enable you to pay off the arrears, and so now you remain in my service.” That heart must be insensible indeed, that could refuse the most implicit obedience to such a master, who enters with so much goodness and condescension into the interest of his servants. Accordingly the marshal made no further resistance; he is now reinstated in his place, and loaded with favors. This is all strictly true.

Not a night passes at St. Germain without balls, plays, or masquerades. The king shows an assiduity to divert this madame that he never did for the other. Racine has brought out a new piece called Bajazet, which they say carries every thing before it: indeed it does not go _in emperando_, as the others did. Monsieur de Tallard says, that it as much exceeds the best piece of Corneille’s, as Corneille’s does one of Boyer’s; this now is what you may call praising by the lump; there is nothing like telling truth; however, our eyes and ears will inform us more fully; for

Du bruit de Bajazet mon âme importunée[55]

obliges me to go immediately to the play; we shall see what it is.

[55] A line in Despréaux.

I have been at Livri. Ah, my dear child, how well did I keep my word with you, and how many tender thoughts of you filled my breast! It was delightful weather, though very cold; but the sun shone finely, and every tree was hung with pearls and crystals, that formed a pleasing diversity of colors. I walked a great deal. The next day I dined at Pomponne. It would not be an easy matter to recount all that passed during a stay of five hours; however, I was not at all tired with my visit. Monsieur de Pomponne will be here in three or four days. I should be very much vexed if I was obliged to apply to him about your Provence affairs; I am persuaded he will not hear me. You see I give myself airs of knowledge. But really nothing comes up to M. d’Uzès; I never saw a man of better understanding, nor one more capable of giving sound advice. I wait to see him, that I may inform you of what he has done at St. Germain.

You desire me to write you long letters; I think you have now sufficient reason to be contented; I am sometimes frightened at the length of them myself; and were it not for your agreeable flattery, I should never think of venturing them out of my hands. Madame de Brissac is excellently provided for the winter, in M. de Longueville and the Count de Guiche; but nothing is meant but what is fair and honorable, only she takes a pleasure in being adored. La Marans is never seen now, either at Madame de la Fayette’s or at M. de la Rochefoucault’s; we can not find out what she is doing; we are apt to judge a little rashly now and then; she took it into her head this summer, that she should be ravished, as if she wished it; but I am of opinion that she is in no great danger. Good Heavens, what a mad creature she is, and how long have I looked on her in the same light as you do now! But now let me tell you, my dear, it is not my fault that I do not see Madame de la Valavoire.[56] I am sure there is no occasion to bid me go and see her, it is enough that she has seen you, for me to run after her; but then she is running after somebody else; for I might forever desire her to wait at home for me; I can not get her to do me that favor. Your jest applies admirably to M. le Grand, and a very good one it is. Poor Châtillon is every day teasing us with the most wretched ones imaginable.

[56] A lady of quality in Provence, who was just then come to
Paris.