rtrait in a snuffbox.

The King was habitually melancholy, and liked everything which
recalled the idea of death, in spite of the strongest fears of
it. Of this, the following is an instance: Madame de Pompadour
was on her way to Crecy, when one of the King's grooms made a sign
to her coachman to stop, and told him that the King's carriage had
broken down, and that, knowing her to be at no great distance,
His Majesty had sent him forward to beg her to wait for him. He
soon overtook us, and seated himself in Madame de Pompadour's
carriage, in which were, I think, Madame de Chateau-Renaud, and
Madame de Mirepoix. The lords in attendance placed themselves in
some other carriages. I was behind, in a chaise, with Gourbillon,
Madame de Pompadour's _valet de chambre_. We were surprised in a
short time by the King stopping his carriage. Those which followed,
of course stopped also. The King called a groom, and said to
him, "You see that little eminence; there are crosses; it must
certainly be a burying-ground; go and see whether there are any
graves newly dug." The groom galloped up to it, returned, and
said to the King, "There are three quite freshly made." Madame
de Pompadour, as she told me, turned away her head with horror;
and the little Marechale gaily said, "_This is indeed enough to
make one's mouth water._" Madame de Pompadour spoke of it when
I was undressing her in the evening. "What a strange pleasure,"
said she, "to endeavour to fill one's mind with images which one
ought to endeavour to banish, especially when one is surrounded
by so many sources of happiness! But that is the King's way; he
loves to talk about death. He said, some days ago, to M. de
Fontanieu, who was seized with a bleeding at the nose, at the
levee, 'Take care of yourself; at your age it is a forerunner
of apoplexy.' The poor man went home frightened, and absolutely
ill."

I never saw the King so agitated as during the illness of the
Dauphin. The physicians came incessantly to the apartments of
Madame de Pompadour, where the King interrogated them. There
was one from Paris, a very odd man, called Pousse, who once said
to him, "You are a good papa; I like you for that. But you know
we are all your children, and share your distress. Take courage,
however; your son will recover." Everybody's eyes were upon the
Duc d'Orleans, who knew not how to look. He would have become
heir to the crown, the Queen being past the age to have children.
Madame d