es not cease to
celebrate the perfections and the existence of God; who never judges his
neighbor, who excuses him always; who is insensible to the pleasures and
delights of life, and entirely submissive to the will of Providence;
in fine, I sustain the faithful admirer of Sainte Therese, and of my
grandmother, Sainte Chantal." This gentle, learned, and disinterested
man, whose friendship deepened with years, was an unfailing resource. In
her troubles and perplexities she seeks his advice; in her intellectual
tastes she is sustained by his sympathy. She speaks often of the happy
days in Provence, when, together with her daughter, they translate
Tacitus, read Tasso, and get entangled in endless discussions upon
Descartes. Even Mme. de Grignan, who rarely likes her mother's friends,
in the end gives due consideration to this loyal confidant, though
she does not hesitate to ridicule the mysticism into which he finally
drifted.

After Mme. de La Fayette, the woman whose relations with Mme. de Sevigne
were the most intimate was Mme. de Coulanges, who merits here more than
a passing word. Her wit was proverbial, her popularity universal. The
Leaf, the Fly, the Sylph, the Goddess, her friend calls her in turn,
with many a light thrust at her volatile but loyal character. This
brilliant, spirituelle, caustic woman was the wife of a cousin of the
Marquis de Sevigne, who was as witty as herself and more inconsequent.
Both were amiable, both sparkled with bons mots and epigrams, but they
failed to entertain each other. The husband goes to Italy or Germany or
passes his time in various chateaux, where he is sure of a warm welcome
and good cheer. The wife goes to Versailles, visits her cousin Louvois,
the Duchesse de Richelieu, and Mme. de Maintenon, who loves her much; or
presides at home over a salon that is always well filled. "Ah, Madame,"
said M. de Barillon, "how much your house pleases me! I shall come here
very evening when I am tired of my family." "Monsieur," she replied, "I
expect you tomorrow." When she was ill and likely to die, her husband
had a sudden access of affection, and nursed her with great tenderness.
Mme. de Coulanges dying and her husband in grief, seemed somehow out
of the order of things. "A dead vivacity, a weeping gaiety, these are
prodigies," wrote Mme. de Sevigne. When the wife recovered, however,
they took their separate ways as before.

"Your letters are delicious," she wrote once to Mme. de Sevigne