hand at the Court
galas, where ceremony required that he should appear. He was a man of
vulgar tastes, and I have seen him in the private garden, with his great
ungainly figure, running races, or playing at ball with his little son
and daughter, whom he would find a dozen pretexts daily for visiting.
The serene children were brought to their mother every morning at
her toilette; but she received them very indifferently: except on one
occasion, when the young Duke Ludwig got his little uniform as colonel
of hussars, being presented with a regiment by his godfather the Emperor
Leopold. Then, for a day or two, the Duchess Olivia was charmed with
the little boy; but she grew tired of him speedily, as a child does of
a toy. I remember one day, in the morning circle, some of the Princess's
rouge came off on the arm of her son's little white military jacket; on
which she slapped the poor child's face, and sent him sobbing away. Oh,
the woes that have been worked by women in this world! the misery into
which men have lightly stepped with smiling faces; often not even with
the excuse of passion, but from mere foppery, vanity, and bravado! Men
play with these dreadful two-edged tools, as if no harm could come to
them. I, who have seen more of life than most men, if I had a son, would
go on my knees to him and beg him to avoid woman, who is worse than
poison. Once intrigue, and your whole life is endangered: you never know
when the evil may fall upon you; and the woe of whole families, and the
ruin of innocent people perfectly dear to you, may be caused by a moment
of your folly.

When I saw how entirely lost the unlucky Monsieur de Magny seemed to be,
in spite of all the claims I had against him, I urged him to fly. He had
rooms in the palace, in the garrets over the Princess's quarters
(the building was a huge one, and accommodated almost a city of noble
retainers of the family); but the infatuated young fool would not
budge, although he had not even the excuse of love for staying. 'How
she squints,' he would say of the Princess, 'and how crooked she is! She
thinks no one can perceive her deformity. She writes me verses out of
Gresset or Crebillon, and fancies I believe them to be original. Bah!
they are no more her own than her hair is!' It was in this way that the
wretched lad was dancing over the ruin that was yawning under him. I do
believe that his chief pleasure in making love to the Princess was, that
he might write about