My son will not recognize the Abbe Saint-Albin, on account of the irregular life which his mother, La Florence, has led.  He fears being laughed at for acknowledging children so different.  The Abbe Dubois was a chief cause, too, why my son would not acknowledge this son.  It was because the Abbe, aspiring to the Cardinal’s hat, was jealous of every one who might be a competitor with him.  I love this Abbe Saint-Albin, in the first place, because he is attached to me, and, in the second, because he is really very clever; he has wit and sense, with none of the mummery of priests.  My son does not esteem him half so much as he deserves, for he is one of the best persons in the world; he is pious and virtuous, learned in every point, and not vain.  It is in vain for my son to deny him; any one may see of what race he comes, and I am sorry that he is not legitimated.  My son is much more fond of Seri’s Son.

The poor Abbe de Saint-Albin is grieved to death at not being acknowledged; while Fortune smiles upon his elder brother, he is forgotten, despised, and has no rank; he seeks only to be legitimated.  I console him as well as I can; but why should I tease my son about the business?

[The Abbe de Saint-Albin was appointed Bishop of Laon, and, after Dubois’ death, Archbishop of Cambrai.  When he wished to become a member of the Parliament he could not give the names either of his father or mother; he had been baptized in the name of Cauche, the Regent’s valet de chambre and purveyor.]

It would only put him in the way of greater inconveniences, for, as he has also several children by Parabere, she would be no less desirous that he should legitimate hers.  This consideration ties my tongue.

The daughter of the actress Desmarets is somewhat like her mother, but she is like no one else.  She was educated in a convent at Saint Denis, but had no liking for a nun’s life.  When my son had her first brought to him she did not know who she was.  When my son told her he was her father, she was transported with joy, fancying that she was the daughter of Seri and sister to the Chevalier; she thought, too, that she would be legitimated immediately.  When my son told her that could not be done, and that she was Desmarets’ daughter, she wept excessively.  Her mother had never been permitted to see her in the convent; the nuns would not have allowed it, and her presence would have been injurious to the child.  From the time she was born, her mother had not seen her until the present year (1719), when she saw her in a box at the theatre, and wept for joy.  My son married this girl to the Marquis de Segur.

An actress at the Opera House, called Mdlle. d’Usg, who is since dead, was in great favour with my son, but that did not last long.  At her death it appeared that, although she had had several children, neither she nor her mother nor her grandmother had ever been married.