One of my friends has become infatuated with a taste which is much less common; one that he brought back with him from his travels, together with albums, mnemonics, and Kant’s Philosophy. It is a taste for autograph letters. It is well known that the English, who are always ready to confound what is rare with what is really admirable, are very successful in their curiosities of this kind. They collect them at a great expense, and employ skilful engravers to reproduce fac-similes for second-rate amateurs, whose whole fortune would not suffice for the acquisition of the originals.
Last week I came upon my friend the autographist, just as he was receiving a note of Boileau, of only four lines, in which he regrets that he cannot dine the next day with a Mr. Le Vasseur. This note, written in the most simple style, contained no anecdote, nor curious fact, and was only remarkable for a fault in its orthography. So that all the respect I have for our great critic did not prevent me from testifying some surprise, when I saw my friend pay ten Louis for a paper rag of no value at all.
‘I understand your astonishment,’ he said; ‘but to complete a collection, no matter of what kind, one must make sacrifices;’ and at the same time he placed his precious paper in a carton, labelled ‘Age of Louis XIV.’ ‘You see,’ he continued, pointing to a part of his library where several similar cartons were arranged, ‘you see the result of my collections for some years. I have sixty thousand francs’ worth of autographs in that corner.’
‘For which you cannot get ten from the grocer at the next corner, who is probably the only person to whom the rubbish would be of any use.’
‘Vandal!’ he exclaimed, with a mixture of indignation and contempt; ‘you talk like a man whom posterity will never mention. Look at the names you have insulted! Look at this letter from Montaigne to Boëtius, so illegible that it has never been printed; look at that billet of Henry IV. to the Duchesse de Verneuil; and that Sonnet of Malherbe, written entirely by Bacon’s own hand; that letter from Madame de Maintenon to Father Le Tellier; that order from the Prince the night before the battle of Senef—’
‘Even if I were wishing,’ I answered, ‘to share your veneration for some of these relics which excite so many historical recollections, I should not laugh the less at the zeal with which you preserve all that waste paper, which has nothing to recommend it. For instance, what is this letter worth which I have just taken up? It is signed by a Marquis d’Hernouville, whom no one ever heard of, and directed to a Comte de Monchevreuil, who is remembered only for one or two instances of gallantry in the field, and for having been, if I am not mistaken, the governor of the Duc de Maine.’
‘You could not have furnished me with a better opportunity of proving to you that we always run some risk in assertions upon subjects of which we know nothing. Oblige me by reading that letter, and then laugh, if you can, at the importance which I attach to similar papers.’
Never, I must own, was triumph more complete. Not only did I confess, after having perused it, that it was well worthy of the honor of the port-folio, but I begged him to let me copy it for publication. I had some difficulty in obtaining this favor, which was only granted me in exchange of a letter of Hyder Ali Khan to Suffren, which I promised to send him.
This is the letter of the Marquis, which I certify to be in every respect a true copy of the original:
‘Paris, the 30 December, 1669.