Though I do not know when it will have its whole lading, I must begin my letter this very moment, to tell you what I have just heard.  I called on the Princesse d’Hennin, who has been in town a week.  I found her quite alone, and I thought she did not answer quite clearly about her two knights:  the Prince de Poix has taken a lodging in town, and she talks of letting her house here, if she can.  In short, I thought she had a little of an Ariadne-air—­but this was not what I was in such a hurry to tell you.  She showed me several pieces of letters, I think from the Duchesse de Bouillon:  one says, that poor Duchesse de Biron is again arrested and at the Jacobins, and with her “une jeune `etourdie, qui ne fait que chanter toute la journ`ee;” and who, think you, may that be?—­only our pretty little wicked Duchesse de Fleury! by her singing and not sobbing, I suppose she was weary of her Tircis, and is glad to be rid of him.  This new blow, I fear, will overset Madame de Biron again.  The rage at Paris seems to increase daily or hourly; they either despair, or are now avowed banditti.  I tremble so much for the great- and most suffering victim of all, the Queen, that one cannot feel so much for many, as several perhaps deserve:  but her tortures have been of far longer duration than any martyrs, and more various; and her courage and patience equal to her woes!(864)

My poor old friend, the Duchesse de la Vali`ere, past ninety and stone-deaf, has a guard set upon her, but in her own house; her daughter, the Duchesse de Chatillon, mother of the Duchesse de la Tremouille, is arrested; and thus the last, with her attachment to the Queen, must be miserable indeed!—­But one would think I feel for nothing but Duchesses:  the crisis has crowded them together into my letter, and into a prison;-and to be prisoner amongst cannibals is pitiable indeed!

Thursday morning, 17th, past ten.

I this moment receive the very comfortable twin-letter.  I am so conjugal, and so much in earnest upon the article of recovery, that I cannot think of a pretty thing to say to very pretty Mrs. Stanhope; nor do I know what would be a pretty thing in these days.  I might come out with some old-fashioned compliment, that would have been very genteel In

“good Queen Bess’s golden day, when I was a dame of honour.”

Let Mrs. Stanhope(865) imagine that I have said all she deserves:  I certainly think it, and will ratify it, when I have learnt the language of the nineteenth century; but I really am so ancient, that as Pythagoras imagined he had been Panthoides Enphorbus in the Trojan war, I am not sure that I did not ride upon a pillion behind a gentleman-usher, when her Majesty Elizabeth went in procession to St. Paul’s on the defeat of the Armada!  Adieu! the postman puts an end to idle speculations—­but, Scarborough for ever! with three huzzas!

(863) The Duchess perished under the guillotine in the following year.-E.