nformed of my arrival, unable to restrain his
impatience, he hastened to me to assist at my dressing table, and he
continued standing beside me so long as the operation lasted; I felt
greatly embarrassed, not knowing whether I durst take the liberty of
requesting him to be seated. However, my silence on the subject was
greatly admired, and ascribed to my perfect acquaintance with polished
life, when in reality it originated from mere timidity. My triumph was
complete; the monarch smiled at and admired every word as it fell from
my lips, kissed my hands, and played with the curls of my long hair,
sportively twisting his fingers amidst my flowing ringlets with all
the vivacity of a lover of twenty. The company upon this evening was
different from that of the former occasion, consisting of the duc de
Duras, first gentleman of the bedchamber, and the duc d'Ayen, who had
the reputation of being a great wit; however, in my opinion, he was
much more deserving the character of a real fiend; his very breath
was poisonous, and his touch venomous as the bite of an adder. I well
remember what M. de Fleury said of him to the king in my presence.
"Sire," said he, "the thing I most dread in the world next to a bite
from M. d'Ayen, is the bite of a mad dog." For my own part, I did not
in the end look upon him with less terror, and well he paid me for my
fears. Upon one occasion, when the king was speaking of me to him, he
said, "I am well aware that I succeed St. Foix."

"Yes, sire"; replied the duke, "in the same manner as your majesty
succeeds Pharamond!"

I never forgave him those words, dictated by a fiendish malice. However,
upon the evening of my first introduction to him, he behaved to me with
the most marked politeness. I was then an object of no consequence to
his interests, and his vision had not yet revealed to him the height I
was destined to attain. He looked upon me but as one of those meteors
which sparkled and shone in the castle at Versailles for twenty-four
hours, and sank to rise no more.

The duc de Duras was not an ill-disposed person, but inconceivably
stupid; indeed, wit was by no means a family inheritance. Both father
and son, good sort of people in other respects, were for ever saying or
doing some good thing in support of their reputation for stupidity at
court. One day the king quite jokingly inquired of the duc de Duras,
what was done with the old moons. "Upon my word, sire," replied he,
"I can give you