It was autumn.  M. d’Orleans had dismissed the councils for a fortnight.  I profited by this to go and spend the time at La Ferme.  I had just passed an hour alone with the Duke, and had taken my leave of him and gone home, where in order to be in repose I had closed my door to everybody.  In about an hour at most, I was told that Biron, with a message from M. le Duc d’Orleans, was at the door, with orders to see me, and that he would not go away without.  I allowed Biron to enter, all the more surprised because I had just quitted M. le Duc d’Orleans, and eagerly asked him the news.  Biron was embarrassed, and in his turn asked where was the Marquis de Ruffec (my son).  At this my surprise increased, and I demanded what he meant.  Biron, more and more confused, admitted that M. le Duc d’Orleans wanted information on this point, and had sent him for it.  I replied, that my son was with his regiment at Besancon, lodging with M. de Levi, who commanded in Franche-Comte.

“Oh,” said Biron, “I know that very well; but have you any letter from him?”

“What for?” I asked.

“Because, frankly, since I must tell you all,” said he, “M. le Duc d’Orleans wishes to see his handwriting.”

He added, that soon after I had quitted M. le Duc d’Orleans, whilst he was walking at Montmartre ma garden with his ‘roues’ and his harlots, some letters had been brought to him by a post-office clerk, to whom he had spoken in private; that afterwards he, Biron, had been called by the Duke, who showed him a letter from the Marquis de Ruffec to his master, dated “Madrid,” and charged him, thereupon, with this present commission.

At this recital I felt a mixture of anger and compassion, and I did not constrain myself with Biron.  I had no letters from my son, because I used to burn them, as I did all useless papers.  I charged Biron to say to M. le Duc d’Orleans a part of what I felt; that I had not the slightest acquaintance with anybody in Spain; that I begged him at once to despatch a courier there in order to satisfy himself that my son was at Besancon.

Biron, shrugging his shoulders, said all that was very good, but that if I could find a letter from the Marquis de Ruffec it would be much better; adding, that if one turned up and I sent it to him, he would take care that it reached M. le Duc d’Orleans, at table, in spite of the privacy of his suppers.  I did not wish to return to the Palais Royal to make a scene there, and dismissed Biron.  Fortunately, Madame de Saint-Simon came in some time after.  I related to her this adventure.  She found the last letter of the Marquis de Ruffec, and we sent it to Biron.  It reached the table as he had promised.  M. le Duc d’Orleans seized it with eagerness.  The joke is that he did not know the handwriting.  Not only did he look at the letter, but he read it; and as he found it diverting, regaled his company with it; it became the topic of their discourse, and entirely removed his suspicions.  Upon my return from La Ferme, I found him ashamed of himself, and I rendered him still more so by what I said to him on the subject.