When dissuading Madame Scarron from undertaking a journey to Lisbon, I had my own private ends in view.  I considered her peculiarly fitted to superintend the education of the King’s children, and to maintain with success the air of mysterious reserve which for a while was indispensable to me.  I deputed my brother, M. de Vivonne, to acquaint her with my proposals,—­proposals which came from the King as well,—­nor did I doubt for one moment as regarded her consent and complacency, being, as she was, alone in Paris.

“Madame,” said M. de Vivonne to her, “the Marquise is overjoyed at being able to offer you an important position of trust, which will change your life once for all.”

“The gentle, quiet life which, thanks to the kindness of the King, I now lead, is all that my ambition can desire,” replied the widow, concealing her trouble from my brother; “but since the King wishes and commands it, I will renounce the liberty so dear to me, and will not hesitate to obey.”

Accordingly she came.  The King had a few moments’ parley with her, in order to explain to her all his intentions relative to the new life upon which she was about to enter, and M. Bontems—­[First Groom of the Chamber, and Keeper of the Privy Purse.]—­furnished her with the necessary funds for establishing her household in suitable style.

A month afterwards, I went incognito to her lonely residence, situate amid vast kitchen-gardens between Vaugirard and the Luxembourg.  The house was clean, commodious, thoroughly well appointed, and, not being overlooked by neighbours, the secret could but be safely kept.  Madame Scarron’s domestics included two nurses, a waiting-maid, a physician, a courier, two footmen, a coachman, a postilion, and two cooks.

Being provided with an excellent coach, she came to Saint Germain every week, to bring me my son, or else news of his welfare.

Her habitually sad expression somewhat pained the King.  As I soon noticed their mutual embarrassment, I used to let Madame Scarron stay in an inner room all the time that his Majesty remained with me.

In the following year, I gave birth to the Duc du Maine.  Mademoiselle d’Aubigne, who was waiting in the drawing-room, wrapped the child up carefully, and took it away from Paris with all speed.

On her way she met with an adventure, comic in itself, and which mortified her much.  When told of it, I laughed not a little; and, in spite of all my excuses and expressions of regret, she always felt somewhat sore about this; in fact, she never quite got over it.

Between Marly and Ruel, two mounted police officers, in pursuit of a nun who had escaped from a convent, bethought themselves of looking inside Madame Scarron’s carriage.  Such inquisitiveness surprised her, and she put on her mask, and drew down the blinds.  Observing that she was closely followed by these soldiers, she gave a signal to her coachman, who instantly whipped up his horses, and drove at a furious rate.