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Page 36
I should like to know who wouldn't have laughed to tears, after it was
over. The scene is priceless.
But all the same, it is not Madame de S�vign�'s _genre_. She is
mistress of the chuckle, not of the _fou rire_; and La Plessis is not
one of her best characters. The _petite personne_, however, is; and I
must give a very pretty scene, quite in her own manner, where she is
half laughing at the child and half in love with her too.
"The _petite personne_ is still here, and always delightful.
She has a sharp little wit of her own, too, as new as a young
chick's. We enjoy telling her things, for she knows nothing
at all, and it makes a kind of game to enlighten her on
all sides--with a word or two about the Universe, or about
Empires, or countries, or kings, or religions, or wars, or
Fate, or the map. There's a pretty jumble of facts to put
tidily away in a little head which has never seen a town, nor
even a river, and has never really supposed that the world
went any farther than the end of the park! But she is
delicious. I was telling her to-day about the taking of
Wismar; and she understands quite well that we are sorry about
it because the King of Sweden is our ally. See how wildly we
amuse ourselves."
The last sentence is for the _ch�re bonne's_ benefit, who was very
capable herself of being jealous of the _petite personne_. I fancy
the touch about Fid�le was put in with the same object. She had to be
infinitely careful with the _ch�re bonne's_ black dogs.
In another month the _petite personne_ is so far advanced that she
can be secretary to her patroness, whose poor hand is too swollen to
write. Elaborate perambulations introduce her to the _ch�re bonne_.
"My son has gone to Vitr� on some business or other. That is why I
give his functions of secretary over to the little lady of whom I
have often told you, and who begs you to be pleased to allow her, with
great respect, to kiss your hands." That, I should think, was courtesy
enough even for the pouting great lady of Provence. In a later letter
she kisses Madame de Grignan's _left_ hand; so it is written--by
herself, but to dictation. Thus the proper distances were kept by one
as humane as Madame de S�vign� when she was dealing with her daughter
on the other side of idolatry.
But she herself and the child are on better terms than such discipline
would imply. In February: "... My letters are so full of myself that
it bores me to have them read over. You have too much taste not to be
bored too. So I shall stop: even the child is laughing at me now." And
then in March: "... My son has left us--we are quite alone, the child
and I--reading, writing, and saying our prayers." A jolly little
picture of still and gentle life. No Greuze there.
The idyll ends in tears, but not just yet. Two days before she leaves
Brittany, having "neither rhyme nor reason in my hands," she makes use
of the _petite personne_ for the last time: "the most obliging child
in the world. I don't know what I should have done without her. She
reads me what I like--quite well; she writes as you see; she is fond
of me; she is willing; she can talk about Madame de Grignan. In fact,
you may love her on my assurance." And then the poor little dear puts
in her little word for herself to propitiate this formidable Countess
in Provence:
"That would make me very happy, Madame, and I am sure that you must
envy my joy to be with your mother. She has been pleased to make me
write all that praise of myself, though I was rather ashamed to do it.
But I am very unhappy that she is going away."
Madame resumes the pen: "... The child, desired to converse with you
..."--which one may or may not believe. If, as I feel sure, she was
bidden to the task, I don't see how she could possibly have brought it
off better than in those demure phrases. But is she not a dear little
creature?
Then came the dreadful day, the 24th of March, and Madame's coach and
six horses carry her to Laval on her way to Paris. She stays there
for the night and writes, of course, to her _ch�re bonne_: "... They
carried off the _petite personne_ early this morning to save me the
outcries of her grief. They were the sobs of a child, so natural that
they moved me. I dare say she is dancing about now, but for two days
she has been in floods, not having been able to learn restraint from
me!" Madame, as we know, had abundantly the gift of tears, and was
assuredly none the worse for it.
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