been my conviction that Clement, the accoucheur,
was acting under her instructions when
he treated her so badly. What convinced me of
this was— that Madame, seeing that she was still
alive after her accouchement, came to her
absolutely reeking with perfumes, which was
enough to cause her death." The two old ladies
actually wrangled over the death-bed. "The
Doctor Chirac assured her, up to the very last
moment, that she was not to die. They actually
forced her to get up while still raging in the
smallpox, and bathed in perspiration. I conjured of
them to leave her in bed; but the two doctors,
Fagon and Chirac, insisted. The old one, I thought,
would have torn my eyes out. 'Eh, Madam,'
she said, 'do you set up to know more than
the physicians?' 'No, ma'am,' I answer, 'but
it does not require much knowledge to see that
we ought to follow nature, and not drag a
person out of bed in a raging perspiration, to
bleed her.' She only shrugged her shoulders
and smiled scornfully." The terrible old lady
insinuates that not only did she destroy "the
Little Dauphiness" physically, but that she
corrupted another Dauphiness morally— purposely
corrupting her for ends of her own. This
princess would seem to be a sort of royal hoyden.
Young ladies of honour, specially selected for
the purpose by the "old one," were placed
about her, to tempt her into all sorts of follies.
She used to fly through the streets of
Versailles, attended only by one of her
questionable companions, and disguised as a waiting
woman. At Marli she used often to be abroad
at nights, looking for adventures, until four
in the morning. This has the true flavour
of racy court scandal. She would tell her
men-servants to take her by the feet and drag her
along the floor, and those rascals were often
heard saying to each other, "Come and let us
have some fun with the duchess." But those
who know anything of human character will
agree that these pranks are merely symptoms of
an indiscreet but perfectly innocent disposition.
This terrible old lady is not very nice or careful
in her epithets. Montespan was a "perfect
devil." By dark allusions and insinuations she
scatters abroad hints of secret poisonings and
deeds that shun the light. "That Fontarge
died of poison nothing can be more certain.
She never ceased imputing her death to
Montespan. I do not deny or affirm the charge: but I
know that two of her servants died at the same
time from drinking of the same milk, and that
they declared solemnly they were poisoned."

The "first Madame" also died under
suspicious circumstances. "It is certain," says our
terrible old lady, "that Madame died of poison,
but," she adds handsomely, "I must say,
without her husband having anything to do with it.
The authors of the plot," she goes on to say,
rather qualifying this acquittal of Monsieur,
"discussed with one another whether he should
be taken into the secret. No, said one, he
will only hang us ten years afterwards." She
gives a terrible sketch of the supposed murderer.

"A man named Morel was the person whom
they employed to fetch the poison from Italy:
and for his reward they got him a place about my
person as maître d'hotel. After he had pillaged
me as well as he could, he sold his office at a
handsome figure. He had the devil's own wit.
He believed in nothing, he had neither faith nor
morals. When he was dying, he would not listen
to the name of God, and said, leave this poor
carcase alone, it is good for nothing more. He
robbed, lied, perjured himself, and was given to
the most revolting excesses."

There are some more death-bed scenes very
instructive as a commentary upon the manners
of this lax period. The lantern of the terrible
old lady throws a lurid glare upon these
mortuary struggles, and shows the souls of
fashionable men and women passing away. There was
the Maréchale de * * * who, when she
was told there was no hope, screamed out, "My
God! my God! must I die. In my whole
life I have never thought once of death."
No wonder: for her whole occupation consisted
in entertaining her admirers, up to five and six
o'clock in the morning, taking snuff, and, adds
the terrible old lady, "doing rather worse
things." The end of the Chevalier de Lorraine,
a fashionable man of gallantry on town, was no
less morally hideous. This gentleman was sitting
beside "Madame de Mare, sister of Madame de
Grançai," and telling that lady some of his loose
adventures of the night previous, when he was
on the instant struck with apoplexy. He never
recovered conscience, and died within an hour.

Here is a picture in the same spirit. "When
the Maréchale de * * * became ugly, she
nearly lost her wits with despair. Her lovely
nose became long and coarse, and all mottled
over with pimples; and on each pimple she
placed a patch. The rouge and white with
which she repaired her face did not stick well,
so she had all the look of a plastered skin.
Her eyes became sunk and withered; a more
horrible change cannot be conceived." The
queen she mentions as having an artist in her
suite who was known by the droll title of
"Repairer of the Queen's Countenance." "Le
Raccommodeur du visage de la Reine."

She has all sorts of comic court stories, this
terrible old lady, which she tells humorously
enough. How the old Princess Schoenich fell
in love with Prince Maurice of Nassau, and
tormented him sadly with her admiration. She
worrying him for his portrait, he asks her what
it is she admires so much in him? "All," says
the old lady; "your fine figure! above all your
back, so broad and compact (uni), and your noble
legs." How he sent her his picture from Holland,
and when every one was invited to see it
unpacked, it was found to be a view of his Back
only! How M. de Brancas was so absent in
mind that, entering the chapel one day where the
queen was on her knees bent down in devotion,
he took her for a Prie Dieu, and knelt down on
her, placing his two elbows on her shoulders.
How the Duke D'Ossune ordered a rich dress
for a certain actress, and how his duchess
artfully anticipated him, and sent to the milliner