But though this love pulses and throbs behind all her letters, it
does not make up the substance of them. To amuse her daughter
she gathers all the gossip of the court, all the news of her
friends; she keeps her au courant with the most trifling as well
as the most important events. Now she entertains her with a
witty description of a scene at Versailles, a tragical adventure,
a gracious word about Mme. Scarron, "who sups with me every
evening," a tender message from Mme. de La Fayette; now it is a
serious reflection upon the death of Turenne, a vivid picture of
her own life, a bit of philosophy, a spicy anecdote about a dying
man who takes forty cups of tea every morning, and is cured. A
few touches lay bare a character or sketch a vivid scene. It is
this infinite variety of detail that gives such historic value to
her letters. In a correspondence so intimate she has no interest
to conciliate, no ends to gain. She is simply a mirror in which
the world about her is reflected.

But the most interesting thing we read in her letters is the life
and nature of the woman herself. She has a taste for society and
for seclusion, for gaiety and for thought, for friendship and for
books. For the moment each one seems dominant. "I am always of
the opinion of the one heard last," she says, laughing at her own
impressibility. It is an amiable admission, but she has very
fine and rational ideas of her own, notwithstanding. In books,
for which she had always a passion, she found unfailing
consolation. Corneille and La Fontaine were her favorite
traveling companions. "I am well satisfied to be a substance
that thinks and reads," she says, finding her good uncle a trifle
dull for a compagnon de voyage. Her tastes were catholic. She
read Astree with delight, loved Petrarch, Ariosto, and Montaigne;