“That,” said he, “is a sonorous name, the brilliant renown of which would only be enhanced by the title of princess.”

Duhamel promised to see all his colleagues in this matter, and to find me what I wanted without delay.

I quitted Paris without having met or recognised anybody, when, about twenty paces at the most beyond the Porte Saint Honor, certain sergeants or officials of some sort roughly stopped my carriage and seized my horses’ bridles “in the King’s name.”

“In the King’s name?” I cried, showing myself at the coach door.

“Insolent fellows!  How dare you thus take the King’s name in vain?” At the same time I told my coachman to whip up his horses with the reins and to drive over these vagabonds.  At a word from me the three footmen jumped down and did their duty by dealing out lusty thwacks to the sergeants.  A crowd collected, and townsfolk and passers-by joined in the fray.

A tall, fine-looking man, wrapped in a dressing-gown, surveyed the tumult like a philosopher from his balcony overhead.  I bowed graciously to him and besought him to come down.  He came, and in sonorous accents exclaimed: 

“Ho, there! serving-men of my lady, stop fighting, will you?  And pray, sergeants, what is your business?”

“It is a disgrace,” cried they all, as with one breath.  “Madame lets her scoundrelly footmen murder us, despite the name of his Majesty, which we were careful to utter at the outset of things.  Madame is a person (as everybody in France now knows) who is in open revolt against her husband; she has deserted him in order to cohabit publicly with some one else.  Her husband claims his coach, with his own crest and armorial bearings thereon, and we are here for the purpose of carrying out the order of one of the judges of the High Court.”

“If that be so,” replied the man in the dressing-gown, “I have no objection to offer, and though madame is loveliness itself, she must suffer me to pity her, and I have the honour of saluting her.”

So saying, he made me a bow and left me, without help of any sort, in the midst of this crazy rabble.

I was inconsolable.  My coachman, the best fellow in the world, called out to him from the top of his bog, “Monsieur, pray procure help for my mistress,—­for Madame la Marquise de Montespan.”

No sooner had he uttered these words than the gentleman came back again, while, among the lookers-on, some hissing was heard.  He raised both hands with an air of authority, and speaking with quite incredible vehemence and fire, he successfully harangued the crowd.

“Madame does not refuse to comply with the requirements of justice,” he added firmly; “but madame, a member of the Queen’s household, is returning to Versailles, and cannot go thither on foot, or in some tumbledown vehicle.  So I must beg these constables or sergeants (no matter which) to defer their arrest until to-morrow, and to accept me as surety.  The French people is the friend of fair ladies; and true Parisians are incapable of harming or of persecuting aught that is gracious and beautiful.”