Madame la Dauphine, greatly pleased with her new position, in that she represented the person of the Queen, had already given birth to M. le Duc de Bourgogne; she now brought into the world a second son, who was at once entitled Duc d’Anjou.  The King, to thank her for this gift, made her a present of an oriental casket, which could only be opened by a secret spring, and that not before one had essayed it for half an hour.  Madame la Dauphine found in it a superb set of pearls and four thousand new louis d’or.  As she had no generosity in her heart, she bestowed no bounties on her entourage.  The King this year made an expedition to Flanders.  Before getting into his carriage he came and passed half an hour or forty minutes with me, and asked me if I should not go and pass the time of his absence at the Petit-Bourg.

“At Petit-Bourg and at Bourbon,” I answered, “unless you allow me to accompany you.”  He feigned not to have heard me, and said:  “Lauzun, who, eleven or twelve years ago, refused the baton of a marshal of France, asks to accompany me into Flanders as aide-de-camp.  Purge his mind of such ideas, and give him to understand that his part is played out with me.”

“What business is it of mine,” I asked with vivacity, “to teach M. de Lauzun how to behave?  Let Madame de Maintenon charge herself with these homilies; she is in office, and I am there no longer.”

These words troubled the King; he said to me: 

“You will do well to go to Bourbon until my return from Flanders.”

He left on the following day, and the same day I took my departure.  I went to spend a week at my little convent of Saint Joseph, where the ladies, who thought I was still in favour, received me with marks of attention and their accustomed respect.  On the third day, the prioress, announcing herself by my second waiting-woman, came to present me with a kind of petition or prayer, which, I confess, surprised me greatly, as I had never commissioned any one to practise severity in my name.

A man, detained at the Bastille for the last twelve years, implored me in this document to have compassion on his sufferings, and to give orders which would strike off his chains and irons.

“My intention,” he said, “was not, madame, to offend or harm you.  Artists are somewhat feather-headed, and I was then only twenty.”  This petition was signed “Hathelin, prisoner of State.”  I had my horses put in my carriage at once, and betook myself to the chateau of the Bastille, the Governor of which I knew.

When I set foot in this formidable fortress, in spite of myself I experienced a thrill of terror.