ing, embellishing everything with
an inimitable grace."

She had married her daughter to the Comte de Grignan, a man of
forty, twice married, and with children, homely, but wealthy and
aristocratic; writing to her cousin, Bussy-Rabutin, concerning this
marriage, she said: "All these women (the count's former wives) died
expressly to make room for your cousin." By marrying her daughter
to such a man she encouraged all the questionable proprieties of the
time. Mme. de Sevigne's affection for that daughter amounted almost
to idolatry; it was to her that most of the mother's letters were
written, telling her of her health, what was being done at Vichy, and
about her business and for that child the authoress gave up her life
at Paris in order to economize and thereby to help Mme. de Grignan in
her extravagance, her son-in-law being an expert in spending money.

The intensity of her nature is well reflected in her letter upon the
separation from her daughter: "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 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 Mme. du Housset's room, and they made me up a fire. Agnes sat
looking at me, without speaking--that was our bargain. I stayed there
till five o'clock, without ceasing to sob; all my thoughts were mortal
wounds to me. I wrote to M. de Grignan (you can imagine in what key).
Then I went to Mme. de La Fayette's, and she redoubled my griefs by
the interest she took in them; she was alone, ill, and distressed at
the death of one of the nuns; she was just as I should have desired,
I returned hither at eight; but oh, when I came in! can you conceive
what I felt as I mounted these stairs? That room into which I always
used to go, alas! I found the doors of it open, but I saw everything
upturned, disarranged, and your little daughter, who reminded me of
mine.... The wakenings of the night were dreadful. I think of you
continuously--it is what devotees call habitual thought, such as one
should have of God, if one did one's duty. Nothing gives me diversion;
I see that carriage which is forever going on and will never come
near me. I am forever on the highways; it seems as if I were sometimes
afraid that the carriage will upset with me; the rains there for the
last