DEPARTURE FOR COMPIÈGNE THE ARCHIVES AND THE LIBRARY THE LIFE OF ANGÉLIQUE DE LONGUEVAL, OF THE DE BUCQUOY FAMILY

Here is the letter written by Mlle Angélique de Longueval’s first lover:

« I am not surprised that the simples should have lost their medicinal powers in the absence of the sun’s warming rays, for I too have been unlucky enough to leave this abode without having been graced by the light of your dawn, a light which has always illuminated me and the absence of which invariably plunges me into the deepest of glooms from which my need to escape, as well as my need to see you again, has impelled me to return to your side so that I might humbly bask in the radiance of all your brilliant attributes and accomplishments, the lure of which has entirely stolen both my soul and my heart; and yet I am honored to be the victim of such larceny, for it has raised me to heights at once sacred and terrifying and has elicited from me a zeal and a fidelity in your regard equaled only by your perfection. »

This letter proved fatal to its young author. As he was trying to slip the missive to Angélique, he was caught red-handed by her father, — and died four days later, the victim of a mysterious murder.

Angélique was devastated by this death, — and discovered the meaning of Love. For two years she went on weeping. At the end of this period of mourning, claiming that she saw no other remedy for her sorrow than death or another romance, she begged her father to introduce her to society. Among all of the fine gentleman she was certain to meet, she said to herself, there would no doubt be someone who would be able to drive this dead man from her thoughts.

Judging from the evidence, the count d’Haraucourt did not respond to the request of his daughter, for among the various men who fell in love with her we only come across members of her father’s household staff. Two of these men, M. de Saint-Georges, the count’s personal assistant, and Fargue, the count’s valet de chambre, developed a shared passion for the young girl which created a rivalry whose resolution proved to be tragic. Fargue, jealous of his rival’s superior standing, had made a number of disparaging remarks. Having gotten wind of these, M. de Saint-Georges summons Fargue to his chambers, reprimands him for his insolence, and ends up striking him so many times with the flat of his sword that his weapon is entirely bent out of shape. In a blind rage, Fargue rushes about the house in search of a sword. He runs into the baron d’Haraucourt, Angélique’s brother, and rips his sword away from him which he then proceeds to plunge into the throat of his rival, wounding him mortally. The doctor arrives only in time to advise Saint-Georges: « Ask God for mercy, for you are dead. » Fargue in the meantime has fled.

Such were the tragic preambles to the great passion that was to plunge poor Angélique into a series of misfortunes.

Compiègne. — All Saints’ Day.

I have interrupted my reading of the life of that lovely adventuress, Angélique de Longueval, — while realizing that a number of other documents pertinent to her story were housed in the libraries of Compiègne. — For Compiègne is the literary center of the province where this venerable family lived, — a family whose past history it would be most interesting to recreate in the manner of Walter Scott, — if the thing were at all possible!

People tend to know very little about traditional provincial France, — particularly that area which lies just beyond the outskirts of Paris. Divided by the slow peaceful course of the Oise and Aisne, the Île-de-France, the Valois, and Picardy all flow together into a region where you can still imagine the most beautiful pastoral adventures in the world.

Even the peasants in this region speak the purest French, — except that in their local pronunciation the ends of words trail off into the sky like the songs of nightingales ... In the mouths of children, this French virtually sounds like birds warbling. The local turns of phrase also have something Italianate to them, — no doubt due to the protracted residence of the Medici and their Florentine retinue in this region of former royal and princely estates.

I arrived in Compiègne last night, pursuing the various incarnations of the Bucquoys with that dull obstinacy that comes so naturally to me. At any rate, the National Archives, where I had only been able to take a few notes so far, would be closed today for All Saints’ Day.

At the Hôtel de la Cloche, celebrated by Alexandre Dumas, there was quite a commotion this morning. The dogs were barking and the hunters were preparing their weapons; I heard a whip say to his master: « Monsieur le marquis, here is your gun. »

So marquis still exist!

But my mind was on an altogether different kind of hunt ... I inquired at what hour the local library opened.

« It’s All Saints’ Day, I was informed, so the library will obviously not open today.

— What are its regular hours?

— Evenings, from seven to eleven. »

I wouldn’t want to make myself out to be unluckier than I in fact was. I had a letter recommending me to one of the librarians, a bibliophile of great renown. Not only was he willing to show me the books in the town library, but he also let me see his own private collection, — whose valuable autographs included a series of unpublished letters by Voltaire and a collection of songs set to music by Rousseau under the title New Tunes for Old Songs. The sight of these songs written out in Rousseau’s beautifully clear hand moved me no end. — The first of these songs, composed in the style of Marot, went as follows:

I am not the man I once was
I shall never be myself again
My sweet summer and spring
Have now come to their end, etc.

These Rousseau manuscripts prompted me to return to Paris via Ermenonville, — which is the shortest route as the crow flies but which takes the lengthiest amount of time to cover on ground, — even though the railroad makes an enormous loop before reaching Compiègne.

One cannot get to Ermenonville, — or for that matter, leave Ermenonville, — without traveling some five miles on foot. — There is no direct coach. But tomorrow being All Souls’ Day, this is a pilgrimage I’ll gladly and respectfully undertake, — thinking of lovely Angélique de Longueval all the while.

I am sending you whatever it was I managed to dig up about her at the National Archives and at Compiègne. I have tossed the thing together on the basis of the primary documents I consulted and above all on the basis of that yellowed manuscript, composed entirely in her hand, which is perhaps even more daring (written as it is by a young woman of noble birth) than Rousseau’s own Confessions. This will at least give your readers something to do while they await the adventures of her nephew the abbé, to whom she seems to have communicated something of her own spirit of independence and adventure.