now how to cure. My son resolved to treat her in his own way.
He succeeded in restoring her to health, and from that moment his love
seemed to increase with her years. She was very badly educated, having
been always left with femmes de chambre. She is not very capricious, but
she is haughty and absolute in all her wishes.

[Her pride led her into all sorts of follies. She once went through
Paris preceded by trumpets and drama; and on another occasion she
appeared at the theatre under a canopy. She received the Venetian
Ambassador sitting in a chair elevated upon a sort of a platform.
This haughtiness, however, did not prevent her from keeping very bad
company, and she would sometimes lay aside her singularities and
break up her orgies to pass some holy days at the Carmelites.]

From the age of eight years she has had entirely her own way, so that it
is not surprising she should be like a headstrong horse. If she had been
well brought up, she would have been a worthy character, for she has very
good sense and a good natural disposition, and is not at all like her
mother, to whom, although she was very severely treated, she always did
her duty. During her mother's last illness, she watched her like a hired
nurse. If Madame de Berri had been surrounded by honest people, who
thought more of her honour than of their own interest, she would have
been a very admirable person. She had excellent feelings; but as that
old woman (Maintenon) once said, "bad company spoils good manners." To
be pleasing she had only to speak, for she possessed natural eloquence,
and could express herself very well.

Her complexion is very florid, for which she often lets blood, but
without effect; she uses a great quantity of paint, I believe for the
purpose of hiding the marks of the small-pox. She cannot dance, and
hates it; but she is well-grounded in music. Her voice is neither strong
nor agreeable, and yet she sings very correctly. She takes as much
diversion as possible; one day she hunts, another day she goes out in a
carriage, on a third she will go to a fair; at other times she frequents
the rope-dancers, the plays, and the operas, and she goes everywhere
'en echarpe', and without stays. I often rally her, and say that she
fancies she is fond of the chase, but in fact she only likes changing her
place. She cares little about the result of the chase, but she likes
boar-hunting better than sta