Chapter LXXXII: Letter LXXI: PARIS, Friday, Nov. 24, 1679

What a charming letter have I just received from you! what exquisite pleasure is it to hear you reason thus! What you say on the subject of medicine delights me. I am persuaded that, with that understanding and quickness of apprehension with which God has endowed you, you might, with a little application, soon outstrip the physicians themselves. You might, indeed, want a little experience, and perhaps, too, you might not kill with impunity as they do; but I would much sooner trust your judgment of a disease than theirs. The only real concern of life is undoubtedly the care of our health; the world seems to agree in this. The general question is, “How are you? how are you?” and yet we are in general wholly ignorant of every particular relating to this important science. Go on then, go on, my child; finish the course of your studies; the scarlet gown is all the diploma you will stand in need of, as in the play.[154] Pray, what do you mean by sending us your little physician? I assure you ours have entirely lost their credit here, except three or four of our acquaintance, and who prescribe the Englishman’s recipe; all the rest are held in utter abhorrence. This Englishman recovered Marshal de Bellefond the other day from death’s door. I do not think the first physician has the right secret.

[154] Molière’s Malade Imaginaire.

Is it then true, my child, you have got the better of your complaints? No more pains in the chest, no colic, no pain in the legs? This is as it should be. You see the advantage of repose and taking care to recruit yourself. Can you be angry with me for chiding you when you neglect yourself, and inhumanly abandon all care of your health? I could talk for ten years about this wicked conduct in you, and the benefits that result from a contrary conduct. Why can not I embrace you and enjoy your company here in the evenings? I enter this house with a heavy heart. From nine till twelve at night I am as desolate as I was at Livri, and yet I prefer this silence and repose to all the evening parties I am invited to in this part of the town. I hate going out of an evening. When I am not tormented with fears for your health, I feel your absence more. The thought of your lungs is like pinching the ear to prevent the pain of boring it from being felt: this comparison I heard from you, but the former pain soon returns when I am not checked by the other. I confess I never bear your absence so well as when I am in fear for your health, and I thank you a thousand times for removing the pincers from my ears. Madame de Vins stands in need of some equally powerful means to remove her affliction at M. de Pomponne’s disgrace, by which she loses her all. I often visit her, and no misfortune shall ever drive me from the house. M. de Pomponne will easily resolve on what is to be done, and will bear his ill-fortune with dignity; he will again display the virtues of a private station, for which we so much admired him at Frêne. They say he was rather remiss in his office, and made the couriers wait too long for their dispatches. He justifies himself fully. But, good heavens! do we not plainly see where the fault lies! Ah! how would poor Madame du Plessis have adored him now! and how would this similarity of situation have cemented their union! Nothing in the world would have been so fortunate for him. I have mentioned this to no one but Madame de Vins; I suppose you understand me. I can answer for the justice of my opinion, which is, I dare say, your own. The whole court pities him, and have been to pay him their compliments of condolence on the occasion. You will soon see him recommence the thread of his perfections. We have talked a great deal about Providence, a doctrine he understands perfectly well. Surely there never was so worthy a minister. M. Colbert, the embassador,[155] is to succeed in this office; he is a great friend of the chevalier’s. Write all your thoughts to the latter; perhaps Fortune, capricious as she is, intends you should reap more advantage through his means than from our intimate acquaintance. You will easily strike into the right road by what I tell you. How is it possible for us to know what Providence has in store for us?

[155] Mons. de Colbert de Croissy, brother to the
comptroller-general, was then in Bavaria, in order to conclude a
marriage between Monseigneur and Maria Anna Victoria of Bavaria.

I continue my attentions to Mademoiselle de Méri; the impression the misfortune of her little domestic makes on her is very extraordinary. She tells me she fancies, when any one speaks to her, they are shooting at her, as if they had an intention to kill her. This really does her as much harm as her illness. It is a circle; her anger increases her disorder, and her disorder increases her anger. The sum total is, that it is a very strange affair, and I employ all my attention to administer to her relief.

Corbinelli gives up the Chevalier de Méri, with his pitiful style,[156] and the ridiculous critique he makes on a wit so free, so playful, so charming, as Voiture’s: those are to be pitied who do not understand him.[157] I would not have you depend on receiving the definition you asked of him, for he has read nothing these three months but the Code and the Cujas. He is delighted with you for resolving to study medicine: you are a prodigy in his opinion. The calm ingratitude of M. and Madame Richelieu is indeed a prodigy; you describe it very pleasantly. M. le Grand, and some others, said seriously the other day at St. Germain, that M. Richelieu had made an admirable siege: it was supposed he had been reading some book about the great Richelieu’s in the civil wars; not so, he meant Richelieu the tapestry-maker, who has made an admirable siege that hangs in his wife’s apartment.

[156] M. de Méri had known and loved Madame de Maintenon from
her infancy. He had brought her out into the world under the
name of the Young Indian. He cultivated her friendship in all
circumstances. But what is singular is, that he would have
married her, and that he made her the offer of his hand at
the very time that Louis thought of making her his wife. The
letters of M. de Méri, which were found in Madame de Maintenon’s
collection, were indeed emphatic, heavy, and pedantic, and well
deserved the name “pitiful style” (chien de style).

[157] The French editors observe, justly enough, that as much
may be said in regard to those who can not find out the value of
these letters of Madame de Sévigné.

Madame de Coulanges has been at court this fortnight; Madame de Maintenon had a cold, and would not part with her. I must tell you of a quarrel she had with the Countess de Grammont.[158] The latter was scorching her fine complexion over the fire, making chocolate; Madame de Coulanges would have saved her the trouble. The Countess bid her leave her to herself, for it was the only pleasure she had left. Madame de Coulanges answered, “Ah, ingrate!” This expression, which at any other time would have made her laugh, embarrassed and disconcerted her so highly, that she could not get the better of it, and they have not spoken since. The Abbé Têtu said, very rudely, to our neighbor, “But, madame, had she answered you, ‘The pot calls the kettle black,’ what would you have found to say?” “Sir,” said she, “I am no pot, though she is a kettle.” So here is another quarrel. _Quanto_ and the sick lady are both on the high ropes; the latter is so much in favor with the fountain of all good things, that it occasions a great deal of animosity. I could tell you a thousand trifles if you were here.

[158] Elizabeth Hamilton, lady of the bed-chamber to Queen Maria
Theresa, of Austria.

Ah, my child, you tell me I have nothing to do but laugh, when I have your absence to support; I could almost find in my heart to say, “Ah! ingrate!” Do not you remember what this absence of yours has made me suffer? Are not you the sensible and true occupation of my heart? You well know, and you ought to feel, what a terrible addition the fear of hearing you are indisposed, and chilled by the piercing air of Grignan, makes to this apprehension. You are unjust if you are at a loss to guess my sentiments, which are so very natural, and so full of true affection for you.