The day after my arrival in Fontainebleau I went alone to the court, and I saw Louis XV., the handsome king, go to the chapel with the royal family and all the ladies of the court, who surprised me by their ugliness as much as the ladies of the court of Turin had astonished me by their beauty.  Yet in the midst of so many ugly ones I found out a regular beauty.  I enquired who she was.

“She is,” answered one of my neighbours, “Madame de Brionne, more remarkable by her virtue even than by her beauty.  Not only is there no scandalous story told about her, but she has never given any opportunity to scandal-mongers of inventing any adventure of which she was the heroine.”

“Perhaps her adventures are not known.”

“Ah, monsieur! at the court everything is known.”

I went about alone, sauntering through the apartments, when suddenly I met a dozen ugly ladies who seemed to be running rather than walking; they were standing so badly upon their legs that they appeared as if they would fall forward on their faces.  Some gentleman happened to be near me, curiosity impelled me to enquire where they were coming from, and where they were going in such haste.

“They are coming from the apartment of the queen who is going to dine, and the reason why they walk so badly is that their shoes have heels six inches high, which compel them to walk on their toes and with bent knees in order to avoid falling on their faces.”

“But why do they not wear lower heels?”

“It is the fashion.”

“What a stupid fashion!”

I took a gallery at random, and saw the king passing along, leaning with one arm on the shoulder of M. d’Argenson.  “Oh, base servility!” I thought to myself.  “How can a man make up his mind thus to bear the yoke, and how can a man believe himself so much above all others as to take such unwarrantable liberties!”

Louis XV. had the most magnificent head it was possible to see, and he carried it with as much grace as majesty.  Never did even the most skilful painter succeed in rendering justice to the expression of that beautiful head, when the king turned it on one side to look with kindness at anyone.  His beauty and grace compelled love at once.  As I saw him, I thought I had found the ideal majesty which I had been so surprised not to find in the king of Sardinia, and I could not entertain a doubt of Madame de Pompadour having been in love with the king when she sued for his royal attention.  I was greatly mistaken, perhaps, but such a thought was natural in looking at the countenance of Louis XV.

I reached a splendid room in which I saw several courtiers walking about, and a table large enough for twelve persons, but laid out only for one.

“For whom is this table?”

“For the queen.  Her majesty is now coming in.”

It was the queen of France, without rouge, and very simply dressed; her head was covered with a large cap; she looked old and devout.  When she was near the table, she graciously thanked two nuns who were placing a plate with fresh butter on it.  She sat down, and immediately the courtiers formed a semicircle within five yards of the table; I remained near them, imitating their respectful silence.