Her habitually sad expression somewhat pained the King.  As I soon noticed their mutual embarrassment, I used to let Madame Scarron stay in an inner room all the time that his Majesty remained with me.

In the following year, I gave birth to the Duc du Maine.  Mademoiselle d’Aubigne, who was waiting in the drawing-room, wrapped the child up carefully, and took it away from Paris with all speed.

On her way she met with an adventure, comic in itself, and which mortified her much.  When told of it, I laughed not a little; and, in spite of all my excuses and expressions of regret, she always felt somewhat sore about this; in fact, she never quite got over it.

Between Marly and Ruel, two mounted police officers, in pursuit of a nun who had escaped from a convent, bethought themselves of looking inside Madame Scarron’s carriage.  Such inquisitiveness surprised her, and she put on her mask, and drew down the blinds.  Observing that she was closely followed by these soldiers, she gave a signal to her coachman, who instantly whipped up his horses, and drove at a furious rate.

At Nanterre the gendarmes, being reinforced, cried out to the coachman to stop, and obliged Madame Scarron to get out.  She was taken to a tavern close by, where they asked her to remove her mask.  She made various excuses for not doing so, but at the mention of the lieutenant-general of police, she had to give in.

“Madame,” inquired the brigadier, “have you not been in a nunnery?”

“Pray, monsieur, why do you ask?”

“Be good enough to answer me, madame; repeat my question, and I insist upon a reply.  I have received instructions that I shall not hesitate to carry out.”

“I have lived with nuns, but that, monsieur, was a long while ago.”

“It is not a question of time.  What was your motive for leaving these ladies, and who enabled you to do so?”

“I left the convent after my first communion.  I left it openly, and of my own free will.  Pray be good enough to allow me to continue my journey.”

“On leaving the convent, where did you go?”

“First to one of my relatives, then to another, and at last to Paris, where I got married.”

“Married?  What, madame, are you married?  Oh, young lady, what behaviour is this?  Your simple, modest mien plainly shows what you were before this marriage.  But why did you want to get married?”

As he said this, the little Duc du Maine, suffering, perhaps, from a twinge of colic, began to cry.  The brigadier, more amazed than ever, ordered the infant to be shown as well.

Seeing that she could make no defence, Madame Scarron began to shed tears, and the officer, touched to pity, said: 

“Madame, I am sorry for your fault, for, as I see, you are a good mother.  My orders are to take you to prison, and thence to the convent specified by the archbishop, but I warn you that if we catch the father of your child, he will hang.  As for you, who have been seduced, and who belong to a good family, tell me one of your relatives with whom you are on friendly terms, and I will undertake to inform them of your predicament.”