e lady suckling her child. Her jet black hair was
turned up, and confined by a diamond comb. She looked earnestly
at us. Madame bowed to her, and whispered to me, pushing me by the
elbow, "Speak to her." I stepped forward, and exclaimed, "What
a lovely child!" "Yes, Madame," replied she, "I must confess
that he is, though I am his mother." Madame, who had hold of my
arm, trembled and I was not very firm. Mademoiselle Romans said
to me, "Do you live in this neighbourhood?" "Yes, Madame," replied
I, "I live at Auteuil with this lady, who is just now suffering
from a most dreadful toothache." "I pity her sincerely, for I
know that tormenting pain well." I looked all around, for fear
any one should come up who might recognise us. I took courage
to ask her whether the child's father was a handsome man. "Very
handsome, and, if I told you his name, you would agree with me."
"I have the honour of knowing him, then, Madame?" "Most probably
you do." Madame, fearing, as I did, some rencontre, said a few
words in a low tone, apologizing for having intruded upon her,
and we took our leave. We looked behind us, repeatedly, to see
if we were followed, and got into the carriage without being
perceived. "It must be confessed that both mother and child are
beautiful creatures," said Madame--"not to mention the father;
the infant has his eyes. If the King had come up while we were
there, do you think he would have recognised us?" "I don't doubt
that he would, Madame, and then what an agitation I should have
been in, and what a scene it would have been for the bystanders!
and, above all, what a surprise to her!" In the evening Madame
made the King a present of the cups she had bought, but she did
not mention her walk, for fear Mademoiselle Romans should tell
him that two ladies, who knew him, had met her there such a day.
Madame de Mirepoix said to Madame, "Be assured, the King cares
very little about children; he has enough of them, and he will
not be troubled with the mother or the son. See what sort of
notice he takes of the Comte de L----, who is strikingly like
him. He never speaks of him, and I am convinced that he will
never do anything for him. Again and again I tell you, we do not
live under Louis XIV." Madame de Mirepoix had been Ambassadress
to London, and had often heard the English make this remark.

Some alterations had been made in Madame de Pompadour's rooms,
and I had no longer, as heretofore, the niche in which I had
b