MADAME DE SÉVIGNÉ. LETTER-WRITING has been a noteworthy department of the literature of France. Among the illustrious examples of this art Madame de Sévigné holds a prominent place; she dwarfs all other letterwriters of her time. She was the daughter of the Baron de Chantal, and was born at Paris in 1626, as Marie de Rabutin-Chantal. She was first cousin to the notorious Bussy Rabutin (1618-1693), who wrote the "Amorous History of the Gauls," and was exiled to his country-seat for sixteen years by Louis XIV. Having been early left an orphan, she was trained carefully by her uncle, Abbé de Coulanges, and at the age of eighteen was married to the Marquis de Sévigné. Her husband was a worthless roué, who squandered his money on Ninon de L'Enclos. When eventually he was killed in a duel, the widow devoted herself to the education of her two children, whom she loved with extravagant affection. She took delight in the Hôtel de Rambouillet, but was saved by her satirical humor from becoming a précieuse. She was the idol of her circle in Paris, and was a frequent visitor at the court. In 1669 her daughter was married to the Count de Grignan, Governor of Provence. To her the mother wrote most of her delightful letters, which now afford to the world an incomparable insight into the gayeties and inner life of the Court of Versailles in the reign of Louis XIV. Her judgment was as correct in literary matters as in affairs of every-day life. She died in 1696 after a short illness, having retained her good looks and her cheerful disposition to the last. THE GREAT COURT MARRIAGE. Letter to M. de Coulanges. PARIS, Monday, December 15, 1670. I AM going to announce to you the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvelcus, the most miraculous, the most triumphant, the most astounding, the most unexampled, the most unique, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the most great, the most small, the most rare, the most common, the most celebrated, the most secret till to-day, the most brilliant, the most enviable thing in the world; in short, a thing for which one finds only one precedent in past history, and that precedent does not apply; a thing we could not believe at Paris, and how will it be possible to believe it at Lyons? a thing that made everybody cry, "Mercy!" a thing which overjoys Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive: a thing, in short, which is to happen on Sunday, when those who see it will fancy something the matter with their eyes-a thing which is to take place on Sunday, and perhaps will not have taken place on Monday. I cannot bring myself to tell it. Guess! I will give you three trials. Do you give it up? Very well! then I must tell you. M. de Lauzun marries on Sunday, at the Louvre-guess whom? I will give you four trials, I will give you ten, I will give you a hundred. I hear Madame de Coulanges say: "What a difficult thing to guess! Why, it is Madame de la Vallière." Not at all, Madame. "Then it is Mademoiselle de Retz." Not at all; you are extremely provincial. "Really, how silly we are," say you; "it is Mademoiselle Colbert." Still less. "Of course, it is Mademoiselle de Crequi." You are out again. So I have to tell you after all: he marries ... on Sunday... at the Louvre. . . with the king's permission ... Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de . . . Mademoiselle ... Guess! Why! he marries Mademoiselle-upon my word, upon my word, upon my sacred word-MADEMOISELLE, the great Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, the daughter of Monsieur that is dead, Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of Henri IV., Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, Mademoiselle, cousin to the king, Mademoiselle, intended for the throne: Mademoiselle, the only match in France worthy of Monsieur. Here is a fine topic for conversation. If you cry out, if you go out of your senses, if you charge us with lying, if you say it is false, that we are laughing at you, that it is a fine hoax, that it is a very dull invention; if, in short, you call us names, we shall say you are quite right, we have done the same as you. Farewell, the letters that arrive by this post will let you know whether we tell the truth or not. The next Letter to M. de Coulanges. PARIS, Friday, December 19, 1670. WHAT is called falling from the clouds is what happened yesterday evening at the Tuileries; but I must take up matters a little further back. I left you at the joy, the transports, the ravishments of the princess and her fortunate lover. It was on Monday then that the thing was announced, as I told you. Tuesday was passed in talking, in astonishment, in compliments; Wednesday, Mademoiselle made a present to M. de Lauzun, with the view of conferring upon him the titles, names, and ornaments proper to be named in the marriage contract, which was drawn the same day. She gave him then, as a first instalment, four duchies: the first is the county of Eu, which is the first peerage of France, and confers the highest rank; the duchy of Montpensier, of which he carried the name all yesterday; the duchy of St. Fargeau; the duchy of Châtellerault: all these reckoned at twenty-two millions. Then the contract was drawn, in which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday morning, which was yesterday, Mademoiselle hoped the king would sign the contract, as he had said; but about seven o'clock in the evening, the queen, Monsieur, and a number of graybeards made his Majesty understand that the affair would damage his reputation; so that, after sending for Mademoiselle and M. de Lauzun, the king announced to them, before the prince, that he absolutely forbade them to dream of the marriage. M. de Lauzun received the command with all the respect, all the submission, all the firmness, and all the despair which so great a fall demanded. As for Mademoiselle, giving way to her feelings, she burst into tears, cries, violent anguish, extravagant complaints, and all day she has kept her bed, and swallowed nothing but broth. What a fine dream! What a fine subject for a romance, or a tragedy; but, above all, what a fine subject to discuss and talk about eternally, which is what we do day and night, evening and morning, without end or intermission, and we hope you will do the same. THE BLESSINGS OF RHEUMATISM. (Madam De Sévigné dictates-her son writes.) THE ROCKS, Monday, Feb. 3, 1676. GUESS, my dear child, what it is that comes the quickest, and goes off the slowest; that brings you nearest to health, and removes you the farthest from it; that throws you into the most agreeable situation imaginable, and, at the same time, hinders you from enjoying it; that flatters you with the most pleasing hopes, and keeps you the longest from the accomplishment of them. Can you not guess? Do you give it up? Why, it is the rheumatism. I have had it these three and twenty days; since the fourteenth day I have been free from fever and pain, and in this delightful situation, thinking myself strong enough to walk, which is the summit of my wishes, I find myself swelled all over-feet, legs, hands, arms; and this swelling, which they call my cure, and really is so, is the sole occasion of my present vexation; were I good for anything, I might gain myself some credit by it. However, I believe the enemy is conquered, and that in two days I shall be able to walk. Larméchin gives me great hope of this. I every day receive letters from our friends at Paris, congratulating me on my recovery. I have taken M. de Lorme's aperient powders, which have been of great service to me; I am going to take them again; they are a never-failing remedy in these cases. After this attack I am promised an eternal succession of health. God grant it. My first step will be to return to Paris. I desire you, therefore, my dear, to calm all your fears. Mademoiselle d'Eu, Mademoiselle de Dombes, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, Mademoiselle d'Orleans, Mademoiselle, cousin to the king, Mademoiselle, intended for the throne: Mademoiselle, the only match in France worthy of Monsieur. Here is a fine topic for conversation. If you cry out, if you go out of your senses, if you charge us with lying, if you say it is false, that we are laughing at you, that it is a fine hoax, that it is a very dull invention; if, in short, you call us names, we shall say you are quite right, we have done the same as you. Farewell, the letters that arrive by this post will let you know whether we tell the truth or not. The next Letter to M. de Coulanges. PARIS, Friday, December 19, 1670. It WHAT is called falling from the clouds is what happened yesterday evening at the Tuileries; but I must take up matters a little further back. I left you at the joy, the transports, the ravishments of the princess and her fortunate lover. was on Monday then that the thing was announced, as I told you. Tuesday was passed in talking, in astonishment, in compliments; Wednesday, Mademoiselle made a present to M. de Lauzun, with the view of conferring upon him the titles, names, and ornaments proper to be named in the marriage contract, which was drawn the same day. She gave him then, as a first instalment, four duchies: the first is the county of Eu, which is the first peerage of France, and confers the highest rank; the duchy of Montpensier, of which he carried the name all yesterday; the duchy of St. Fargeau; the duchy of Châtellerault : all these reckoned at twenty-two millions. Then the contract was drawn, in which he took the name of Montpensier. On Thursday morning, which was yesterday, Mademoiselle hoped the king would sign the contract, as he had said; but about seven o'clock in the evening, the queen, Monsieur, and a number of graybeards made his Majesty understand that the affair would damage his reputation; so that, after sending for Mademoiselle and M. de Lauzun, the king announced to them, before the prince, that he absolutely forbade them to dream of the marriage. M. de Lauzun received the command with |