One day, at an hour at which I was not accustomed to see any person, a lady called and requested to see me; she was informed that I was visible to no person. No matter, she persisted in her request, saying that she had to speak to me upon matters of the first importance, and declared, that I should be delighted with her visit. However, my servants, accustomed to the artifices practised by persons wishing to see me for interested purposes, heeded very little the continued protestations of my strange applicant, and peremptorily refused to admit her; upon which the unknown retired with the indication of extreme anger.

Two hours afterwards a note, bearing no signature, was brought me, in which the late scene was described to me, and I was further informed, that the lady, so abruptly repulsed by my servants, had presented herself to communicate things which concerned not only my own personal safety but the welfare of all France; a frightful catastrophe was impending, which there was still time to prevent; the means of so doing were offered me, and I was conjured not to reject them. The affair, if treated with indifference, would bring on incalculable misfortunes and horrors, to which I should be the first victim. All this apparent mystery would be cleared up, and, the whole affair explained, if I would repair on the following day, at one o’clock, to the Baths of Apollo. A grove of trees there was pointed out as a safe place of rendezvous, and being so very near my residence, calculated to remove any fears I might entertain of meeting a stranger, who, as the note informed me, possessed the means of entering this secluded spot. I was again conjured to be punctual to the appointed hour as I valued my life.

The mysterious and solemn tone of this singular epistle struck me with terror. Madame de Mirepoix was with me at the moment I received it. This lady had a peculiar skill in physiognomy, and the close attention she always paid to mine was frequently extremely embarrassing and disagreeable She seemed (as usual) on the present occasion to read all that was passing in my mind; however, less penetrating eyes than hers might easily have perceived, by my sudden agitation, that the paper I held in my hand contained something more than usual.

“What ails you?” asked she, with the familiarity our close intimacy warranted; “does that note bring you any bad news?”

“No,” said I; “it tells me nothing; but it leaves me ample room for much uneasiness and alarm: but, after all, it may be merely some hoax, some foolish jest played off at my expense; but judge for yourself.” So saying, I handed her the letter: when she had perused it, she said,

“Upon my word, if I were in your place, I would clear up this mystery; good advice is not so easily met with as to make it a matter of difficulty to go as far as the Baths of Apollo to seek it. It is by no means impossible but that, as this paper tells you, some great peril is hanging over you. The marquise de Pompadour,” continued madame de Mirepoix, “received more than once invitations similar to this, which she never failed to attend; and I recollect one circumstance, in which she had no cause to regret having done so: without the kind offices of one of these anonymous writers it is very possible that she might have expired heart broken, and perhaps forsaken in some state prison, instead of ending her days in the chÂteau of Versailles, honored even to the tomb by the friendship and regard of the king of France.”

I asked my friend to explain her last observation, and she replied as follows:—

“One day an anonymous billet, similar to this, was left for madame de Pompadour: it requested her to repair, at a specified hour, to the church of the Jacobins, rue Saint HonorÉ, in Paris, where she was promised some highly important communications. The marchioness was punctual to the rendezvous; and, as she entered the church, a Jacobite, so entirely wrapped in his capuchin as to conceal his features, approached her, took her by the hand, and conducted her to an obscure chapel; where, requesting her to sit down, he took a seat himself, and began as follows:—

“‘Madam, you are about to lose the favor of the king; a party is at work to give a new mistress to the king; the lady is young, beautiful, witty, and possessed of an insatiable ambition; for the last six months she has been in the daily habit of seeing the king, unknown to you and all the court, and this has been accomplished in the following manner: her father is valet de chambre to his majesty, and she has an only brother, two years younger than herself, whose astonishing resemblance to her has created continual mistakes; this brother is promised the inheritance of his father’s office; and, under pretext of acquiring the due initiation for future post, has been permitted every morning to attend the king’s rising.

“‘However, this embryo page is the sister, who comes each morning disguised in her brother’s clothes. The king has had many private conversations with the designing beauty; and, seduced by her many charms of mind and person, as well as dazzled by the hidden and concealed nature of their intrigue, finds his passion for her increases from day to day. Many are the designing persons ready to profit by the transfer of the king’s affections from you to this fresh favorite; and they flatter themselves the desired event is close at hand. You are to be confined by a lettre de cachet to the isle of St. Margaret, for the place of your exile is already chosen. The principal conspirators are two powerful noblemen, one of whom is reputed your most intimate friend. I learned all these particulars,’ continued the Jacobite, ‘from a young penitent, but not under the seal of confession. This penitent is the particular friend of the female in question, who confided the secret to her, from whom I received it, accompanied by the most flattering promises of future protection and advancement. These splendid prospects excited her jealous envy, and she came here to confess the whole to me, requesting I would seek you out and inform you of the whole affair. Here is a letter she obtained unknown to her aspiring friend, which she wishes you to see, as a pledge of the veracity of her statement.’ The marchioness cast her eyes over the paper held out to her by the Jacobite. It was a letter addressed by the king to his new mistress.

“You may imagine the terror of madame de Pompadour, her anxiety and impatience to return to Versailles. However, ere she quitted the friendly monk she assured him of her lasting gratitude, and begged of him to point out how she could best prove it. ‘For myself,’ replied he, ‘I ask nothing; but if you would render me your debtor, confer the first vacant bishopric on a man whom I greatly esteem, the abbÉ de Barral.’ You will easily suppose that the abbÉ de Barral had not long to wait for his preferment: as for the Jacobite the marchioness never again saw or heard anything of him. She mentioned him to the newly appointed bishop, who could not even understand to what she alluded. She related the affair, when he called heaven to witness that he knew nothing of any Jacobite either directly or indirectly.”

“And how did the marchioness get rid of her rival?” inquired I of madame de Mirepoix.

“By a very simple and effective expedient. She sent for the duc de Saint Florentin, whom she requested immediately to expedite two lettres de cachet; one for the valet de chambre, who was shut up in the chÂteau de Lectoure, and the other for the daughter, whom the marchioness sent to the isle of St. Marguerite, to occupy the place she had so obligingly destined for herself.”

“And now,” asked I, “did these unfortunate people ever get out of prison?”

“That I know not,” answered the marÉchale; “and, God forgive me, for aught I ever inquired they may be there now.”

“If so,” cried I, “the conduct of both the king and the duc de la VrilliÈre is abominable and unpardonable.”

“Why, bless your heart, my dear,” exclaimed the marÉchale, “do you expect that his majesty should recollect all the pretty women he has intrigued with, any more than the poor duke can be expected to keep a list in his memory of the different persons he has sent to a prison? He would require a prodigious recollection for such a purpose.” This unfeeling reply filled me with indignation, and redoubled the pity I already felt for the poor prisoners. I immediately despatched a note to the duc de Saint Florentin, requesting he would come to me without delay: he hastened to obey my summons. When he had heard my recital he remained silent some minutes, as though collecting his recollections upon the subject, and then replied,

“I do indeed remember that some obscure female was confined in the chÂteau of the isle Sainte Marguerite at the request of madame de Pompadour, but I cannot now say, whether at the death of the marchioness any person thought of interceding for her release.”

“That is precisely what I wish to ascertain,” cried I; “return to your offices, monsieur le duc, and use your best endeavors to discover whether this unfortunate girl and her parent are still in confinement; nor venture again in my presence until you have despatched the order for their deliverance: you will procure a conveyance for them from their prison to Paris at the expense of government. You understand, my lord?”

The following morning the duke brought me the desired information. He told me, that the father had been dead seven years, but the daughter still remained a prisoner: the order for restoring her to liberty had been forwarded the night preceding. I will now briefly relate the end of this mournful story.

Three weeks after this I received an early visit from the duc de la VrilliÈre, who came to apprize me, that my protÉgÉe from the isle of St. Marguerite was in my antechamber awaiting permission to offer me her grateful thanks. I desired she might instantly be admitted; her appearance shocked me; not a single trace of that beauty which had proved so fatal to its possessor now remained. She was pale, emaciated, and her countenance, on which care and confinement had imprinted the wrinkles of premature old age, was sad and dejected even to idiocy. I could have wished that madame de Pompadour, by way of punishment for her cruelty, could but have seen the object of her relentless persecution. I think she would have blushed for herself. When the poor girl entered my apartment she looked wildly around her, and casting herself at my feet, inquired with many tears to what motive she was indebted for my generous interference in her behalf. The duc de la VrilliÈre contemplated with the utmost sang froid the spectacle of a misery he had so largely contributed to. I requested of him to leave us to ourselves. I then raised my weeping protÉgÉe, consoled her to the best of my ability, and then requested her to give me the history of her captivity. Her story was soon told: she had been an inhabitant of the same prison for seventeen years and five months, without either seeing a human being, or hearing the sound of a human voice. Her recital made me shudder, and I promised her that henceforward her life should be rendered as happy as it had hitherto been miserable.

The king supped with me that evening. By some singular chance he was on this occasion in the happiest temper possible: he laughed, sung, joked with such unusual spirits, that I hesitated ere I disturbed a gaiety to which Louis XV was so little prone. However, I took him aside, saying, “Sire, I have to ask atonement and reparation for a most horrible piece of injustice.” After which, I proceeded to acquaint him with the distressing history of his unfortunate mistress. He appeared perfectly well to recollect the female to whom I alluded; and when I ceased speaking, he said, with a half-suppressed sigh,

“Poor creature! she has indeed been unfortunate; seventeen years and five months in prison! The duc de la VrilliÈre is greatly to blame in the affair; but when once he has placed persons between four walls, he thinks he has fulfilled the whole of his duty. He should recollect, that a good memory is a necessary qualification for situation he holds; it is indeed an imperative duty in him to think of the poor wretches he deprives of their liberty.”

“And in you too, sire,” interrupted I; “and it appears to me that you have lost sight of it, in the present affair, as culpably as your minister.”

“I confess it, indeed,” answered Louis XV; “but the unfortunate sufferer herself was not without a due share of blame in the matter. Her presumption had greatly irritated madame de Pompadour, who punished her as she thought fit: of course I could not, consistently with the regard I professed for the marchioness, interfere in the execution of her vengeance.”

“I do not agree with you,” said I.

“Why, what else could I do?” asked Louis XV, with the most imperturbable calmness; “she had superior claims, was acknowledged as chief favorite, and I could not refuse her the sacrifice of a mere temporary caprice.”

“Very well said,” answered I, “and founded upon excellent principles; but surely it was not necessary to shut up the object of your caprice in a state prison, and, above all, to leave her there for such a length of time. However, the mischief is done; and all we have to think of is to repair it. You have now, sire, a fine opportunity of displaying your royal munificence.”

“You think, then,” returned Louis XV, “that I am bound to make this unhappy girl some present? Well, I will; to-morrow I will send her 10,000 louis.”

“A thousand louis!” exclaimed I, clasping my hands; “what, as a recompense for seventeen years’ imprisonment? No, no, sire, you shall not get off so easily; you must must settle on her a pension of 12,000 livres, and present her with an order for 100,000 more as an immediate supply.”

“Bless me!” ejaculated the king, “why all, the girls in my kingdom would go to prison for such a dowry: however, she shall have the pension; but, in truth, my treasury is exhausted.”

“Then, sire,” returned I, “borrow of your friends.”

“Come, come, let us finish this business; I will give your protÉgÉe 4000 louis.”

“No, I cannot agree,” answered I, “to less than 5000.”

The king promised me I should have them; and, on the following day, his valet Turpigny brought me the order for the pension, and a bag, in which I found only 4000 louis. This piece of meanness did not surprise me, but it made me shrug up my shoulders, and sent me to my cabinet to take the sum deficient from my own funds. With this dowry my poor protÉgÉe soon found a suitable husband in the person of one of her cousins, for whom I procured a lucrative post under government. These worthy people have since well repaid me by their grateful and devoted attachment for the service I was enabled to render them. One individual of their family was, however, far from resembling them either in goodness of heart or generosity of sentiment—I allude to the brother of the lady; that same brother who formerly supplied his sister with his clothes, that she might visit the king unsuspected. Upon the incarceration of the father the son succeeded him in his office of valet de chambre, and acquired considerable credit at court; yet, although in the daily habit of seeing the king, he neither by word nor deed sought to obtain the deliverance of either his parent or sister. On the contrary, he suffered the former to perish in a dungeon, and allowed the latter to languish in one during more than seventeen years, and in all probability she would have ended her days without receiving the slightest mark of his recollection of his unfortunate relative. I know no trait of base selfishness more truly revolting than the one I have just related.

But this story has led me far from the subject I was previously commencing: this narrative, which I never call to mind without a feeling of pleasure, has led me away in spite of myself. Still I trust that my narrative has been sufficiently interesting to induce you to pardon the digression it has occasioned, and now I will resume the thread of my discourse.