The attentions of public men are a thermometer, which, instead of our own notions, is very capable of letting us know the just degree of our favour.  The Governor of the Bastille, some months before, would have saluted me with his artillery; perhaps he still received me with a certain ceremony, but without putting any ardour into his politeness, or drawing too much upon himself.  In such circumstances one must see without regarding these insults of meanness, and, by a contrivance of distraction, escape from vile affronts.  The object of my expedition being explained, the Governor found on his register that poor Hathelin, aged thirty-two to thirty-four years, was an engraver by profession.  The lieutenant-general of police had arrested him long ago for a comic or satirical engraving on the subject of M. le Marquis de Montespan and the King.

I desired to see Hathelin, quite determined to ask his pardon for all his sufferings, with which I was going to occupy myself exclusively until I was successful.  The Governor, a man all formality and pride, told me that he had not the necessary authority for this communication; I was obliged to return to my carriage without having tranquillised my poor captive.

The same evening I called upon the lieutenant-general of police, and, after having eloquently pleaded the cause of this forgotten young man, I discovered that there was no ‘lettre de cachet’ to his prejudice, and procured his liberation.

He came to pay his respects and thanks to me, in my parlour at Saint Joseph, on the very day of his liberation.  He seemed to me much younger than his age, which astonished me greatly after his misfortunes.  I gave him six thousand francs, in order to indemnify him slightly for that horrible Bastille.  At first he hesitated to take them.

“Let your captivity be a lesson to you,” I said to him; “the affairs of kings do not concern us.  When such actors occupy the scene, it is permissible neither to applaud nor to hiss.”

Hathelin promised me to be good, and for the future to concern himself only with his graver and his private business.  He wished me a thousand good wishes, with an expansion of heart which caused his tears and mine to flow.  But artists are not made like other men; he, for all his good heart, was gifted with one of those ardent imaginations which make themselves critics and judges of notable personages, and, above all, of favourites of fortune.  Barely five or six months had elapsed when Hathelin published a new satirical plate, in which Madame de Maintenon was represented as weeping, or pretending to weep, over the sick-bed of M. Scarron.  The dying man was holding an open will in his hand, in which one could read these words:  “I leave you my permission to marry again—­a rich and serious man—­more so than I am.”