So you have been struck by Madame de la Fayette’s words, inspired by so much friendliness.  I never let myself forget the fact that I am growing old; but I must confess that I was simply astonished at what she said, because I do not yet feel any infirmity to keep me in mind of my advancing years.  I think of them, however, and find that life offers us hard conditions:  here have I been led, in spite of myself, to the fatal period at which one must die—­old age.  I see it; old age has stolen upon me; and my only desire is to go no further.  I do not want to travel along that road of infirmities, pains, the loss of memory, the disfigurements to which I look forward as an outrage; yet I hear a voice saying in my ear—­“You must pass down that road, whether you like it or not, or else you must die”; and this second alternative is as repugnant to nature as the first.  This is the inevitable lot of whoever advances too far along the course of life.  Yet, a return to God’s will, and submission to that universal law which has condemned us all to death, is enough to seat reason again on her throne, and to give us patience.  Do you too have patience, my darling; don’t let your love, too tender, cause you tears which your reason must condemn.

Your brother has come under the Empire of Ninon de Lenclos; I fear it will bring evil; she ruined his father.  We must recommend him to God.  Christian women, or at least who wish to be so, cannot see disorder like his without sorrow.

But what a dangerous person this Ninon is!  She finds that your brother has the simplicity of a dove, and is like his mother; it is Madame de Grignan who has all the salt of the family, and is not so simple as to be ruled.  Someone, meaning to take your part, tried to correct her notion of you, but Ninon contradicted him and said she knew you better.  What a corrupt creature!  Because you are beautiful and spirited she must needs add to you another quality without which, on her principles, you cannot be perfect.  I have been deeply troubled by the harm she is doing to my son.  But do not speak of the matter to him; Madame de la Fayette and I are doing our best to extricate him from his perilous attachment.

We have been reading for our amusement those little Provincial Letters.  Heavens, what charm they have!  How eagerly my son reads them!  I always think of my daughter, and how worthy of her is the incomparable justice of their reasoning; but your brother says that you complain that the writer is always saying the same thing.  Well, well; all the better!  Is it possible that there should be a more perfect style, or a finer, more delicate or more natural raillery?  Could anything be more worthy of comparison with Plato’s “Dialogues”?  But after the first ten letters, what earnestness, solidity, force and eloquence!  What love for God and for truth, what exquisite skill in maintaining it and making it understood, characterise these eight last letters with their so different tone!  I understand that you have read them only hurriedly, enjoying the more amusing passages; but that is not how one reads them at leisure.