baptismal font of the chapel at Marly, and had settled upon her an
income of a hundred thousand livres, by way of proving to her father,
the Baron Fontevrault, who had saved his life in the battle of Fontenoy,
that kings can be grateful, whatever people choose to say to the
contrary.The Marchioness then was a widow. She resided during the summer, in a
charming little chateau, situated half-way up the slope overhanging the
water, on the road from Bougival to Saint Germain. Madame Dubarry's
estate adjoined hers; and on opening her eyes she could see, without
rising, the white gableends and the white-spreading chestnut-trees of
Luciennes, perched upon the heights. On this particular day--it was
noon--the Marchioness, whilst her attendants dressed her hair and
arranged her head-dress with the most exquisite taste, gravely employed
herself in tossing up, alternately, a couple of fine oranges, which
crossed each other in the air, and then dropped into the white and
delicate hand that caught them in their fall.This sleight-of-hand--which the Marchioness interrupted at times whilst she adjusted a beauty-spot on her lip, or cast an impatient glance on the crystal clock that told how time was running away with the fair widow's precious moments--had lasted for ten minutes, when the folding-doors were thrown open, and a valet, such as one sees now only on the stage announced with pompous voice--"The King!" 

Apparently, the Marchioness was accustomed to such visits, for she but half rose from her seat, as she saluted with her most gracious smile the personage who entered. 

It was indeed Louis XV. himself--Louis XV. at sixty-five; but robust, upright, with smiling lip and beaming eye, and jauntily clad in a close-fitting, pearl-grey hunting-suit, that became him to perfection. He carried under his arm a handsome fowling-piece, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; a small pouch, intended for ammunition alone, hung over his shoulder. 

The King had come from Luciennes, almost alone, that is but with a Captain of the Guard, the old Marshal de Richelieu, and a single Equerry on foot. He had been amusing himself with quail-shooting, loading his own gun, as was the fashion with his ancestors, the later Valois and the earlier Bourbons. His grandsire, Henry IV., could not have been less ceremonious. 

But a shower of hail had surprised him; and his Majesty had no relish for it. He pretended that the fire of an enemy's battery was less disagreeable than those drops of water, so small and so hard, that wet him through, and reminded him of his twinges of rheumatism. 

 Prev. P 47/143 next