a mysterious manner, and several devotees, who were, in their hearts, enemies of Madame de Pompadour.  But these men had not petty objects in view:  one required the government of a province; another, a seat in the Council; a third, a Captaincy of the Guards; and this man would have obtained it if the Marechale de Mirepoix had not requested it for her brother, the Prince de Beauvan.  The Chevalier du Muy was not among these apostates; not even the promise of being High Constable would have tempted him to make up to Madame, still less to betray his master, the Dauphin.  The Prince was, to the last degree, weary of the station he held.  Sometimes, when teased to death by ambitious people, who pretended to be Catos, or wonderfully devout, he took part against a Minister against whom he was prepossessed; then relapsed into his accustomed state of inactivity and ennui.

The King used to say, “My son is lazy; his temper is Polonese—­hasty and changeable; he has no tastes; he cares nothing for hunting, for women, or for good living; perhaps he imagines that if he were in my place he would be happy; at first, he would make great changes, create everything anew, as it were.  In a short time he would be as tired of the rank of King as he now is of his own; he is only fit to live en philosophe, with clever people about him.”  The King added, “He loves what is right; he is truly virtuous, and does not want understanding.”

M. de St. Germain said, one day, to the King, “To think well of mankind, one must be neither a Confessor, not a Minister, nor a Lieutenant of Police.”  “Nor a King,” said His Majesty.  “Ah!  Sire,” replied he, “you remember the fog we had a few days ago, when we could not see four steps before us.  Kings are commonly surrounded by still thicker fogs, collected around them by men of intriguing character, and faithless Ministers—­all, of every class, unite in endeavouring to make things appear to Kings in any light but the true one.”  I heard this from the mouth of the famous Comte de St. Germain, as I was attending upon Madame, who was ill in bed.  The King was there; and the Count, who was a welcome visitor, had been admitted.  There were also present, M. de Gontaut, Madame de Brancas, and the Abbe de Bernis.  I remember that the very same day, after the Count was gone out, the King talked in a style which gave Madame great pain.  Speaking of the King of Prussia, he said, “That is a madman, who will risk all to gain all, and may, perhaps, win the game, though he has neither religion, morals, nor principles.  He wants to make a noise in the world, and he will succeed.  Julian, the Apostate, did the same.”  “I never saw the King so animated before,” observed Madame, when he was gone out; “and really the comparison with Julian, the Apostate, is not amiss, considering the irreligion of the King of Prussia.  If he gets out of his perplexities, surrounded as he is by his enemies, he will be one of the greatest men in history.”