Marly, February 16, 1711.
I am so charmed, my dear father, with the letter you have written me that I cannot prevent myself from telling you how sensitive I am to the assurances you give me of your affection. I assure you that I deserve it through the tenderness that I shall feel for you throughout my life. Would to God, my dear father, that this year might be to me as happy as you have been kind enough to wish it.
There is but one thing lacking to my happiness, but it is a thing that is very near my heart. I shall never accustom myself to be in other interests than yours, and I own to you that my duty in vain compels me to be so; nature will have the upper hand, and I cannot keep myself from continually praying for you. But, indeed, my dear father, is it not high time to end our sorrows? The advantages we have won in Spain made me hope that peace would follow. But the only peace that I can have can come through you alone.
I would not end my letter so soon, for I have many things to say to you, if I did not fear to say too much on a topic which is not suitable for me in any way. Forgive it, my dear father, in favour of a daughter whose tenderness alone inclines her to speak, and who longs to see you both content and glorious.
[No letters exist concerning the most important event in the Duchesse de Bourgogne’s life, the death of Monseigneur, which made her dauphine, April 10, 1711. From that moment she felt more deeply the importance of fitting herself for the great post she expected soon to fill.]
To her mother.
Versailles, May 3, 1711.
I have had no letters from you by this courier, my very dear mother; I hope, however, they may reach me within a few days.
We have had very good news from Barcelona, and from all sides pleasant things are reaching us. All that is taking place in Italy causes me to make many reflections and gives me many hopes. I confess the truth, my very dear mother, it would be the greatest happiness I could have in this life if I could see my father brought back to reason. I cannot comprehend how it is that he does not make terms, above all in the unfortunate position in which he now finds himself, and without any hope whatever of succour. Will he let them take Turin again? The rumour is afloat here that it will not be long before that siege is laid. Judge, therefore, my dear mother, of the state I must be in,—I, so sensitive to all that concerns you. I am in despair at the position to which my father is reduced by his own fault. Is it possible that he really thinks we will not give him good terms? I assure you that all the king wants is to see his kingdom tranquil, and that of his grandson, the King of Spain, secure. It seems to me that my father ought to desire the same thing for himself, and when I consider that he is master of making it so, I am astonished that he does not do it.
I fear, my very dear mother, that you will think me too daring in what I say, but I cannot restrain myself under the view I take of my father’s position. I feel that he is my father, and a father whom I deeply love. Therefore, my very dear mother, forgive me if I write too freely. It is the desire I have that we should all escape these difficult moments that makes me write as I do. I send you a letter from my sister, who is just as vexed as I am at what is now going on.