incorporate so much of his work, of himself, with objects of use, which
must perish by use, or disappear, like our own old furniture, with mere
change of fashion.

July 1714.

On the last day of Antony Watteau's visit we made a party to Cambrai.
We entered the cathedral church: it was the hour of Vespers, and it
happened that Monseigneur le Prince de Cambrai, the author of
Telemaque, was in his place in the choir. He appears to be of great
age, assists but rarely at the offices of religion, and is never to be
seen in Paris; and Antony had much desired to behold him. Certainly it
was worth while to have come so far only to see him, and hear him give
his pontifical blessing, in a voice feeble but of infinite sweetness,
and with an inexpressibly graceful movement of the hands. A veritable
grand seigneur! His refined old age, the impress of genius and honours,
even his disappointments, concur with natural graces to make him seem
too distinguished (a fitter word fails me) for this world. Omnia
vanitas! he seems to say, yet with a profound resignation, which makes
the things we are most of us so fondly occupied with look petty enough.
Omnia vanitas! Is that indeed the proper comment on our lives, coming,
as it does in this case, from one who might have made his own all that
life has to bestow? Yet he was never to be seen at court, and has lived
here almost as an exile. Was our "Great King Lewis" jealous of a true
grand seigneur or grand monarque by natural gift and the favour of
heaven, that he could not endure his presence?

July 1714.

My own portrait remains unfinished at his sudden departure. I sat for
it in a walking-dress, made under his direction--a gown of a peculiar
silken stuff, falling into an abundance of small folds, giving me "a
certain air of piquancy" which pleases him, but is far enough from my
true self. My old Flemish faille, which I shall always wear, suits me
better.

I notice that our good-hearted but sometimes difficult friend said
little of our brother Jean-Baptiste, though he knows us so anxious on
his account--spoke only of his constant industry, cautiously, and not
altogether with satisfaction, as if the sight of it wearied him.

September 1714.

Will Antony ever accomplish that long-pondered journey to Italy? For
his own sake, I should be glad he might. Yet it seems desolately far,
across those great hills and plains. I remember how I formed a plan for
providing him with a sum suff