andwich; I see her good taste in
the extraordinary esteem she has for you. I was not overcome by the
praises she showered upon you, any more than I was by my appetite. You
belong to every nation, esteemed alike in London as in Paris. You
belong to every age of the world, and when I say that you are an honor
to mine, youth will immediately name you to give luster to theirs.
There you are, mistress of the present and of the past. May you have
your share of the right to be so considered in the future! I have not
reputation in view, for that is assured to all time, the one thing I
regard as the most essential is life, of which eight days are worth
more than centuries of post mortem glory.

If any one had formerly proposed to you to live as you are now living,
you would have hanged yourself! (The expression pleases me.) However,
you are satisfied with ease and comfort after having enjoyed the
liveliest emotions.

L'esprit vous satisfait, ou du moins vous console:
Mais on prefererait de vivre jeune et folle,
Et laisser aux vieillards exempts de passions
La triste gravite de leurs reflexions.

(Mental joys satisfy you, at least they console,
But a young jolly life we prefer on the whole,
And to old chaps, exempt from passion's sharp stings,
Leave the sad recollections of former good things.)

Nobody can make more of youth than I, and as I am holding to it by
memory, I am following your example, and fit in with the present as
well as I know how.

Would to Heaven, Madame Mazarin had been of your opinion! She would
still be living, but she desired to die the beauty of the world.

Madame Sandwich is leaving for the country, and departs admired in
London as she is in Paris.

Live, Ninon, life is joyous when it is without sorrow.

I pray you to forward this note to M. l'Abbe de Hautefeuille, who is
with Madame la Duchesse de Bouillon. I sometimes meet the friends of
M. l'Abbe Dubois, who complain that they are forgotten. Assure him of
my humble regards.

Translator's Note--The above was the last letter Saint-Evremond ever
wrote Mademoiselle de l'Enclos, and with the exception of one more
letter to his friend, Count Magalotti, Councillor of State to His
Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Tuscany, he never wrote any other,
dying shortly afterward at the age of about ninety. His last letter
ends with this peculiar Epicurean thought in poetry:

Je vis eloigne de la France,
Sans besoins et sans abondance,
Content d'un vulga