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among the trees of her park, eidre chieii el hup, in the twilight, when the clew was falling, and the shadows closing in. That was her favourite hour. She could never be actually alone. It was not considered safe — perhaps even not proper — in those days. Her body- guard consisted of Pilois, the gardener, whose conver- sation she preferred to that of the M.P.'s of Rennes, of Beaulieu, her faithful lacquey, and often of several others, who always came to fetch her at the witching hour. They were armed with guns ; for though gene- rally there was nothing to fear but a squirrel or two, sometimes there were wolves about. And when the troops were stationed at Vitre, Madame de Sevigne was ordered by her daughter to come in an hour earlier. Even in October she would stay out till nine o'clock. Her woods were then ' d'une beaute, d'une tranquillite, dune paix, d'un silence, a quoi je ne puis m'accoutu- mer.' As the years went on, her daughter entreated her not to expose herself so reck- lessly to the night air, and one day she has to confess to a little escapade, which she describes in her prettiest manner. Her servants came to tell her that the moon was shining deliciously in the ' Mail,' the broad alley where the ladies used to play at games. There was not a breath of air, and the moonlight was playing all manner of fantastic tricks with its black shadows. Madame de Sevigne could not resist the temptation. She set in motion her infantry, put on all sorts of caps and cloaks, and came out into the Mail, where the air was as still as in her own room. There she revelled in the thousand strange phantoms which were conjured up by the moon's light. Black monks and white. White nuns and grey. Black men erect beside the trees. Little men crouching under them. Robed priests in the background. She apologises humbly for the indis- cretion ; it was a mark of respect she could not help paying to the moon. In the daytime, always attended by one or more of her lacqueys, probably in brilliant liveries, she spent hours among the groves sacred to her daughter. One alley was known as ' L'humeur de ma fille ' ; another which corresjjonded to it was ' L'humeur de ma mere.' Here she read and re-read her treasured letters, and traced with happy tears the mottoes which mother and daughter had together carved upon the trees. As for one blessed tree, which once had saved Madame de Grignan's life, she was tempted to build a chapel over it : everything brought incense to the shrine. Her devotion to her daughter was her one and only passion. Well might she cry, ' ces meres ' ; but there were few like her.

It would have grieved her if she could have known that posterity would find her son far more attractive than her daughter. He had his mother's sunny nature, her charming playfulness, her unselfishness, an unselfishness which is the complete unconsciousness of self. M. de Sevigne was not only tres-joli-gargon, but most tender in his attentions to his mother ; a most affectionate son while he was with her. ' The best company in the world,' Madame de Sevigne would say, ' et ses lettres sont d'une maniere que si on les trouve jamais dans ma cassette, on croira qu'elles sont du plus honnete homme de mon temps.' This is just what we say now. He was the most gallant gentleman of his time — for this is the seven- teenth centuiy mean- ing of the term : in his youth too fashionable in his vices, but respect- able after marriage, and in the end rf«'o/. Mother and son were in perfect sympathy. The good Princess wondered that there was no touch of the maternal in their

intercourse. At one time Madame de Sevigne was expecting a visit from her son, but for three weeks she had heard nothing of him, and was growing anxious, when one day, as she was wandering as usual in the Park, at the end of the Mail she saw le Fraler (which was one of her names for him). He threw himself on both knees as soon as he saw her, "^se sentant si coupable d'avoir ete trois semaines nuns tcrrc u chanter matins ' (this is not a very exact description of his occupation) ; he thought he could address her in no other way. ' I had determined,' his mother adds, ' to scold him, but I did not know where to find my anger, I was so glad to see him. You know how amusing he is. He kissed me a thousand times. He made the worst excuses in the world, which I took for good ones, and now we chat together, we read together, we walk together.' And when, after thirty years of splendid health, the mother had to pay the price of her indiscretions, of her faith in the Jolie cldmere that she was immortal, when she was seized with an acute attack of rheumatism — her first attempt at illness, so she says, but a masterpiece — her son waited on her, pitied her, amused her, wrote her letters to Madame de Grignan at her dictation, so long as the poor swollen hand refused its office, and never left her till she was well enough to be carried in a chair through the Park. After that, no more wanderings by moon- light for poor Madame de Sevigne. She felt herself a