Chapter XCI: Letter LXXX: PARIS, Wednesday, April 3, 1680

My dear child, poor M. Fouquet is dead,[179] and I am affected at the intelligence: I never knew so many friends lost in a manner at once, and it overwhelms me with sorrow to see so many dead around me; but what is not around me pierces my heart, and that is the apprehension I suffer from the return of your former disorders; for though you would conceal it from me, I can perceive your flushings, your heaviness, and shortness of breath. In short, that flattering interval is now over, and what was thought a cure has turned out a mere palliative. I remember your words: that a flame half-quenched is easily revived. The remedies you treasure up against an evil day, and which you reckon infallible, ought to be used immediately. Has M. de Grignan no authority on this occasion? Is he not alarmed at your situation? I have seen young Beaumont; I leave you to guess whether I asked him any questions. When I recollected that he had seen you within a week, he appeared to me the most desirable companion in the world. He said you were not quite so well when he set out as you had been during the winter. He mentioned your supper and entertainment, which he praised highly; as also the kind attentions both of you and of M. de Grignan, and the care M. de Grignan’s daughters took that you might not be missed when you retired to rest. He said wonders of Pauline and the little marquis; I should never have been the first to put an end to the conversation, but he wanted to go to St. Germain; for, as he said, he had paid me the first visit, even before that which he owed to the king his master. His grandfather had the same place which Marshal de Bellefond has had:[180] he was a very intimate friend of my father’s; and instead of seeking out for relations, as is generally the custom, my father chose him, without further ceremony, to stand sponsor to his daughter; so that he is my godfather. I am perfectly acquainted with all the family. I think the grandson handsome, extremely handsome. You did well to say nothing to him about your brother: I have myself mentioned it to no one, except to such persons as my son had previously informed of it, in order to find a purchaser.

[179] Gourville affirms, in his Memoirs, that he was liberated
before his death, and Voltaire believed it, from the account
of his daughter-in-law, Madame de Vaux. But Madame de Sévigné
believed he died at Pignerol, and so did the public. Mademoiselle
de Montpensier confirms the general opinion.

[180] Of steward of the household.

I conclude you must by this time be at Grignan. I see with affliction the bustle of taking leave; I see, on your quitting your retirement, which appeared to you so short, a journey to Arles; another fatigue; and I see your journey to Grignan, where you may possibly be saluted on your arrival by a northeast wind; ah! I can not behold all these things for a person so delicate as you are, and not tremble.

You have sent me an account of Anfossi infinitely preferable to all mine. I do not wonder you can not think of parting with an estate where there are so many diverting gipsies. There could not be a more agreeable or novel reception; you are indeed so much a Stoic, and so full of reflections, that I should fear joining mine to yours, lest I should double the sorrow; but I think it would be prudent and reasonable, and worthy of M. de Grignan’s affection, to use his utmost endeavors to be here about the beginning of October. There is no other place where you can think of passing the winter. But I will say no more at present; things urged prematurely lose all their force, and often create disgust.

There are no more long journeys talked of here; the only one spoken of is that to Fontainebleau. You will most assuredly have M. de Vendôme with you this year. For my part, I am preparing to set out for Brittany with inexpressible regret; but I must go in order to be there, stay a little while, and return. After the loss of health, which I always, with reason, place first, nothing gives me so much vexation as the disorder of my private affairs. It is to this cruel reason I sacrifice my ease and gratification; for I leave you to judge what a situation I am likely to be in, with so much time and solitude on my hands, to add new force to my anxiety at being separated from you. This cup, however, I must swallow, bitter as it is, in hopes of seeing you at my return; for all my movements tend to that point. And, however superior I may be to other things, that is always superior to me; it is my fate. And the sufferings which attend my affection for you, being offered to God, are a penance due for a love which I ought to bear for him alone.

My son is just arrived from Douay, where he commanded the gendarmerie during March. M. de Pomponne has spent the day here; he loves, honors, and esteems you perfectly. My being resident for you with Madame de Vins, occasions my being often with her; and, indeed, I could not wish to be better any where. Poor Madame de la Fayette is now wholly at a loss how to dispose of herself; the loss of M. de la Rochefoucault has made so terrible a void in her life, as to render her a better judge of the value of so precious a friendship. Every one else will be comforted in time; but she, alas! has nothing to occupy her mind, whereas the rest will return to their several avocations.

Mademoiselle de Scuderi is greatly afflicted with the death of M. Fouquet; that life is at length terminated, which so many pains have been taken to preserve. His illness was convulsions, and a constant retching, without being able to vomit. I depend on the chevalier for news, especially what relates to the dauphiness, whose court is composed exactly as you guessed; your notions are very just. The king is often there, which keeps the crowd somewhat at a distance. Adieu, my dear, affectionate child; I love you a thousand times more than I can express.