So, in his own poetic fancy, St Evrémond seemed to hear her say; for heart and soul he knew her, and understood her. It was in one of her letters to him, towards the close of her life, that she expresses regret for what it had pleased her to designate her “philosophy.” “Had anyone told me in those young days of mine I should live such a life, I should have hanged myself sooner,” she writes.
One distinguished biographer, prefacing her letters to the Marquis de Sévigné, testifies to the consideration in which she was regarded by the personages of high merit and rank, who held themselves honoured to be admitted to her intimacy and friendship.
And the same biographer goes on to tell of the wonderful tale of such sort as is apt to cling to persons of celebrity, or more or less apart from the rank and file of people—the tale of the “Noctambule,” Ninon’s nocturnal visitant, the little “Man in Black”; but this is confirmed and best told in the vivid description of his last visit, as it is handed down to us—
“Paris, 9th April 1701.
“Ah! my friend, what a terrible fright I have had! Truly I am not recovered from it yet, and my limbs still tremble at the thought of it. Oh, these cruel things that return from the past at intervals, to stare you in the face, and poison the tranquillity of the present!
“I have seen my Man in Black! Do you understand? My Man in Black of the Louvre ball, the man with the red tablets, and the dozen bottles; the man who appeared to me seventy years ago. Or, rather, no, it was not he, since I am living still. But great Heaven! what a resemblance! He wore, as the first did, a black velvet coat, and breeches, carried an ebony cane, and had the great black moustache. Oh, I was ready to faint with terror. You may think me crazed, I daresay, but it is no laughing matter. Wait while I get my wits together to tell you properly.
“Madeleine de Scudéri, as you know, was taken ill at my house. When a woman is ninety-four years of age, there is no great chance of her getting better. Nevertheless, Madame de Sandwich took a coach, and drove at full speed to a quack doctor, who is very fashionable, and who is said to have performed many wonderful cures. Presently she returned with this man. I looked up, to drop back into my chair, crying in amazement: ‘It is he!—it is the devil! Oh, Heaven!—Heaven! protect me!’
“He turned to the countess.
“‘What is the matter with her? Is it your invalid?’ he inquired.