and for her friends. Of them she had many,
often very deeply smitten with her; all remained faithful to her, and,
she deserted none of them, though they might be put on trial and
condemned like Fouquet, or perfidious and cruel like her cousin M. de
Bussy-Rabutin. The safest and most agreeable of acquaintances, ever
ready to take part in the joys as well as the anxieties of those whom she
honored with her friendship, without permitting this somewhat superficial
sympathy to agitate the depths of her heart, she had during her life but
one veritable passion, which she admitted nobody to share with her. Her
daughter, Madame de Grignan, the prettiest girl in France, clever,
virtuous, business-like, appears in her mother's letters fitful,
cross-grained, and sometimes rather cold. Madame de Sevigne is a friend
whom we read over and over again, whose emotions we share, to whom we go
for an hour's distraction and delightful chat. We have no desire to chat
with Madame de Grignan; we gladly leave her to her mother's exclusive
affection, feeling infinitely obliged to her, however, for having
existed, inasmuch as her mother wrote letters to her. Madame de
Sevigne's letters to her daughter are superior to all her other letters,
charming as they are. When she writes to M. de Pomponne, to M. de
Coulanges, to M. de Bussy, the style is less familiar, the heart less
open, the soul less stirred. She writes to her daughter as she would
speak to her; it is not letters, it is an animated and charming
conversation, touching upon everything, embellishing everything with an
inimitable grace. She gave her daughter in marriage to Count de Grignan
in January, 1669; next year her son-in-law was appointed lieutenant-
general of the king in Provence; he was to fill the place there of the
Duke of Vendome, too young to discharge his functions as governor. In
the month of January, 1671, M. de Grignan removed his wife to Aix: he was
a Provencal, he was fond of his province, his castle of Grignan, and his
wife. Madame de Sevigne found herself condemned to separation from the
daughter whom she loved exclusively. "In vain I seek my darling
daughter; I can no longer find her, and every step she takes removes her
farther from me. I went to St. Mary's, still weeping and still dying of
grief; it seemed as if my heart and my soul were being wrenched from me;
and, in truth, what a cruel separation! I asked leave to be alone: I was
taken into Madame du