Chapter XXXIX: Letter XXVIII: PARIS, Monday, June 20, 1672

I can not reflect upon the situation you have been in, without great emotion; and though I know you are out of danger, yet I can not turn my eyes on what has passed without a horror that distracts me. Alas, how much was I in the dark about a health that was so dear to me! If any one had told me that my daughter was in greater danger than if she had been in the army, how little should I have believed it! Must I suffer this useless grief in addition to so many other sorrows that afflict my heart? The extreme danger my son is in; the war, which rages every day with greater violence; the couriers, who bring no other news but the death of some friend or acquaintance, and may bring accounts more fatal; the fear of hearing ill news, and yet the curiosity of knowing it; the desolation of those who are in excess of grief, and with whom I pass a great part of my time; the strange state of health my aunt is in, and my extreme desire of seeing you; all this afflicts and consumes me, and forces me to lead a life so contrary to my inclination, that I have need of more than a common share of health to support it.

You have never seen Paris as it is at present; all the world is in tears, or fears to be so. Poor Madame de Nogent is almost beside herself. Madame de Longueville pierces every heart with her complaints. I have not seen her indeed, but this is what I am told. Mademoiselle de Vertus returned two days since from Port-Royal, where she resides. They sent for her and M. Arnauld, to impart to Madame de Longueville the terrible news. The very sight of Mademoiselle de Vertus was sufficient; her sudden return was too sure a sign that some fatal accident had happened. As soon therefore as she appeared--“Ah! mademoiselle, how is it with my brother?”[67] She did not dare, even in thought, to inquire further. “Madam, he is recovered of his wound--there has been a battle--” “And my son?” No answer was made. “Ah! mademoiselle, my son, my dear child! answer me; is he dead?” “I have no words to answer you, madam.” “Oh, my dear son! Was he killed on the spot? Had he not a single moment? Oh, God! what a sacrifice is this!” And she threw herself upon the bed, and by expressions of the most lively sorrow, by fainting-fits, by convulsions, by the silence of despair, by stifled cries, by sudden bursts of passion, by floods of bitter tears, by eyes uplifted to heaven, and by heart-rending complaints, she exhibited all the various emotions of grief. She sees a few friends; and, in pure submission to Providence, consents to receive such nourishment as is just sufficient to keep life and soul together. She takes no rest; her health, before in a declining state, is visibly altered for the worse. For my part, I wish her death earnestly, as I can not think she can survive such a loss. There is a certain gentleman[68] who is scarcely less affected. I can not help thinking, that if they had met, in the first moments of their grief, and had been alone together, all other sentiments would have given place to sighs and tears, redoubled without intermission; there would have been a dumb scene of sorrow, a dialogue of inarticulate sighs and groans. This is a mere thought of my own. But, my dear, how great affliction is this! The very mistresses of poor De Longueville do not constrain themselves; his domestics are disconsolate; and his gentleman, who came yesterday with the ill news, scarcely appears a reasonable creature. This death effaces the thoughts of all others.

[67] The Prince of Condé.

[68] M. de la Rochefoucault.

A courier, who arrived yesterday evening, brings an account of the death of the Count du Plessis,[69] who was killed by a cannon-shot, as he was giving directions for making a bridge. Arnheim is besieged by M. Turenne. They did not attack the fort of Skeing, as it was defended by eight thousand men. Alas! these successful beginnings will be followed with a tragical end for a great number of families. May Heaven preserve my poor son! He was not upon this expedition; but the campaign is not yet finished.

[69] Alexander de Choiseul, Count du Plessis, son of Cæsar de
Choiseul, Marshal of France.

In the midst of our afflictions, the description you have given me of Madame Colonna and her sister,[70] is really divine; it rouses one under the most melancholy circumstances. It is an admirable picture. The Countess de Soissons, and Madame de Bouillon,[71] are quite in a rage with these fools, and say they ought to be confined. It is thought that the king will not disoblige the constable[72] (Colonna), who is certainly one of the greatest men in Rome. In the mean time we are in expectation of seeing them arrive here like Mademoiselle de l’Etoile;[73] this comparison is good.

[70] Hortensia Mancini, Duchess of Mazarin.

[71] Sisters to Mesdames de Colonna and Mazarin.

[72] The father of these ladies, and of one of the most powerful
families in Rome.

[73] In Scarron’s comic romance.

The accounts I send you are from the best authority; you will find by all you receive, that M. de Longueville has been the cause of his own death, as well as of the death of many others; and that the prince has showed himself, through the whole of this expedition, more like a father than the general of an army. I said yesterday, and others agreed with me, that if the war continues, the duke[74] will certainly occasion the death of the prince. His love for him surpasses every other consideration.

[74] Henry Juliers de Bourbon, son of the prince.

La Marans affects to appear overwhelmed with grief. She says that she sees very plainly there is something in the news from the army which is concealed from her; and that the prince and the duke are dead, as well as M. de Longueville. She conjures people, by all that is sacred, to speak out, and not to spare her; and tells them, that in her deplorable situation, it is in vain to hide any thing from her. If it were possible to laugh under these circumstances, we should laugh at her. Alas! if she knew how little any of us think of concealing any thing from her, and how much every one is taken up with his own griefs and his own fears, she would not have the vanity to believe we paid so much attention to her as to deceive her.

The news I send you comes, as I before said, from good authority; I had it from Gourville, who was with Madame de Longueville when she heard of her son’s death. All the couriers come straight to him. M. de Longueville had made his will before he set out. He leaves a great part of his property to a son he has, who, as I believe, will take the title of Chevalier d’Orleans,[75] without expense to his relations. Have you heard how the body of M. de Longueville was disposed of? It was laid in the same boat in which he passed the river two hours before. The prince, who was wounded, ordered him to be placed near him, covered with a cloak, and, with several others who were wounded, repassed the Rhine to a town on this side of the river, where they came to have their wounds dressed. It was the most melancholy sight in the world. They say the Chevalier de Monchevreuil, who was attached to M. de Longueville, will not have a wound dressed which he received as he stood next to him.

[75] He appeared under the name of the Chevalier de Longueville,
and was accidentally killed at Philipsbourg in 1688, by a
soldier, who was shooting at a snipe. See the letter of the 8th
of July following.

I have received a letter from my son: he is very much grieved at the death of M. de Longueville. He was not in this expedition, but he is to be in another. What safety can be hoped for in such a profession? I advise you to write to M. de la Rochefoucault, on the death of the chevalier, and the wound of M. de Marsillac. This fatal event has given me an opportunity of seeing his heart without disguise: for constancy, worth, tenderness, and good sense, he infinitely surpasses any one I have ever met with; his wit and humor are nothing in comparison. I will not amuse myself at present with telling you how much I love you. I embrace M. de Grignan, and the coadjutor.

The same evening, at 10 o’clock.

I made up my packet two hours ago, and on my return to town I found a letter for me, with the news that a peace was concluded with Holland. It may easily be imagined that the Dutch are in the greatest consternation, and glad to submit to any terms; the king’s success is beyond all that has ever been known. We shall once more breathe again; but what a cruel addition must this be to the grief of Madame de Longueville, and all those who have lost children and near relations! I have seen Marshal du Plessis; he is greatly afflicted, but demeans himself like a brave soldier. His lady[76] weeps bitterly; the countess[77] is only disconcerted at not being a duchess. I think, my dear child, that if it had not been for the rashness of M. de Longueville, we should have gained Holland without losing a man.

[76] Columba de Charron.

[77] Maria Louisa le Loup de Bellenave.