Saint-Paul, a son of Mme. de Longueville.

"I beg of you to speak of the matter in such a way as to put out of
his head the idea that it is anything serious," she writes. "I am not
sufficiently sure what you think of it yourself to feel certain that you
will say the right thing, and it may be necessary to begin by convincing
my embassador. However, I must trust to your tact, which is superior to
ordinary rules. Only convince him. I dislike mortally that people of his
age should imagine that I have affairs of gallantry. It seems to
them that every one older than themselves is a hundred, and they are
astonished that such should be regarded of any account. Besides, he
would believe these things of M. de La Rochefoucauld more readily than
of any one else. In fine, I do not want him to think anything about it
except that the gentleman is one of my friends."

The picture we have of La Rochefoucauld from the pen of Mme. de Sevigne
has small resemblance to the ideal that one forms of the cynical author
of the Maxims. He had come out of the storms of the Fronde a sad and
disappointed man. The fires of his nature seem to have burned out with
the passions of his youth, if they had ever burned with great intensity.
"I have seen love nowhere except in romances," he says, and even his
devotion to Mme. de Longueville savors more of the ambitious courtier
than of the lover. His nature was one that recoiled from all violent
commotions of the soul. The cold philosophy of the Maxims marked perhaps
the reaction of his intellect against the disenchanting experiences of
his life. In the tranquil atmosphere of Mme. de Sable he found a certain
mental equilibrium; but his character was finally tempered and softened
by the gentle influence of Mme. de La Fayette, whose exquisite poise and
delicacy were singularly in harmony with a nature that liked nothing in
exaggeration. "I have seen him weep with a tenderness that made me adore
him," writes Mme. de Sevigne, after the death of his mother. "The heart
or M. de La Rochefoucauld for his family is a thing incomparable." When
the news came that his favorite grandson had been killed in battle, she
says again: "I have seen his heart laid bare in this cruel misfortune;
he ranks first among all I have ever known for courage, fortitude,
tenderness, and reason; I count for nothing his esprit and his charm."
In all the confidences of the two women, La Rochefoucauld makes a third.
He seems always to be looki