Her jet black hair was turned up, and confined by a diamond comb.  She looked earnestly at us.  Madame bowed to her, and whispered to me, pushing me by the elbow, “Speak to her.”  I stepped forward, and exclaimed, “What a lovely child!” “Yes, Madame,” replied she, “I must confess that he is, though I am his mother.”  Madame, who had hold of my arm, trembled and I was not very firm.  Mademoiselle Romans said to me, “Do you live in this neighbourhood?” “Yes, Madame,” replied I, “I live at Auteuil with this lady, who is just now suffering from a most dreadful toothache.”  “I pity her sincerely, for I know that tormenting pain well.”  I looked all around, for fear any one should come up who might recognise us.  I took courage to ask her whether the child’s father was a handsome man.  “Very handsome, and, if I told you his name, you would agree with me.”  “I have the honour of knowing him, then, Madame?” “Most probably you do.”  Madame, fearing, as I did, some rencontre, said a few words in a low tone, apologizing for having intruded upon her, and we took our leave.  We looked behind us, repeatedly, to see if we were followed, and got into the carriage without being perceived.  “It must be confessed that both mother and child are beautiful creatures,” said Madame—­“not to mention the father; the infant has his eyes.  If the King had come up while we were there, do you think he would have recognised us?” “I don’t doubt that he would, Madame, and then what an agitation I should have been in, and what a scene it would have been for the bystanders! and, above all, what a surprise to her!” In the evening Madame made the King a present of the cups she had bought, but she did not mention her walk, for fear Mademoiselle Romans should tell him that two ladies, who knew him, had met her there such a day.  Madame de Mirepoix said to Madame, “Be assured, the King cares very little about children; he has enough of them, and he will not be troubled with the mother or the son.  See what sort of notice he takes of the Comte de L——­, who is strikingly like him.  He never speaks of him, and I am convinced that he will never do anything for him.  Again and again I tell you, we do not live under Louis XIV.”  Madame de Mirepoix had been Ambassadress to London, and had often heard the English make this remark.

Some alterations had been made in Madame de Pompadour’s rooms, and I had no longer, as heretofore, the niche in which I had been permitted to sit, to hear Caffarelli, and, in later times, Mademoiselle Fel and Jeliotte.  I, therefore, went more frequently to my lodgings in town, where I usually received my friends:  more particularly when Madame visited her little hermitage, whither M. de Gontaut commonly accompanied her.  Madame du Chiron, the wife of the Head Clerk in the War-Office, came to see me.  “I feel,” said she, “greatly embarrassed, in speaking to you about an affair, which will, perhaps, embarrass you also.  This is the state of the case.  A very poor woman, to whom I have sometimes given