There was a universal talk of a young lady with whom the King was as much in love as it was possible for him to be.  Her name was Romans.  She was said to be a charming girl.  Madame de Pompadour knew of the King’s visits, and her confidantes brought her most alarming reports of the affair.  The Marechale de Mirepoix, who had the best head in Madame’s council, was the only one who encouraged her.  “I do not tell you,” said she, “that he loves you better than her; and if she could be transported hither by the stroke of a fairy’s wand; if she could entertain him this evening at supper; if she were familiar with all his tastes, there would, perhaps, be sufficient reason for you to tremble for your power.  But Princes are, above all, pre-eminently the slaves of habit.  The King’s attachment to you is like that he bears to your apartment, your furniture.  You have formed yourself to his manners and habits; you know how to listen and reply to his stories; he is under no constraint with you; he has no fear of boring you.  How do you think he could have resolution to uproot all this in a day, to form a new establishment, and to make a public exhibition of himself by so striking a change in his arrangements?” The young lady became pregnant; the reports current among the people, and even those at Court, alarmed Madame dreadfully.  It was said that the King meant to legitimate the child, and to give the mother a title.  “All that,” said Madame de Mirepoix, “is in the style of Louis XIV.—­such dignified proceedings are very unlike those of our master.”  Mademoiselle Romans lost all her influence over the King by her indiscreet boasting.  She was even treated with harshness and violence, which were in no degree instigated by Madame.  Her house was searched, and her papers seized; but the most important, those which substantiated the fact of the King’s paternity, had been withdrawn.  At length she gave birth to a son, who was christened under the name of Bourbon, son of Charles de Bourbon, Captain of Horse.  The mother thought the eyes of all France were fixed upon her, and beheld in her son a future Duc du Maine.  She suckled him herself, and she used to carry him in a sort of basket to the Bois de Boulogne.  Both mother and child were covered with the finest laces.  She sat down upon the grass in a solitary spot, which, however, was soon well known, and there gave suck to her royal babe.  Madame had great curiosity to see her, and took me, one day, to the manufactory at Sevres, without telling me what she projected.  After she had bought some cups, she said, “I want to go and walk in the Bois de Boulogne,” and gave orders to the coachman to stop at a certain spot where she wished to alight.  She had got the most accurate directions, and when she drew near the young lady’s haunt she gave me her arm, drew her bonnet over her eyes, and held her pocket-handkerchief before the lower part of her face.  We walked, for some minutes, in a path, from whence we could see the lady suckling her child.