At Nanterre the gendarmes, being reinforced, cried out to the coachman to stop, and obliged Madame Scarron to get out.  She was taken to a tavern close by, where they asked her to remove her mask.  She made various excuses for not doing so, but at the mention of the lieutenant-general of police, she had to give in.

“Madame,” inquired the brigadier, “have you not been in a nunnery?”

“Pray, monsieur, why do you ask?”

“Be good enough to answer me, madame; repeat my question, and I insist upon a reply.  I have received instructions that I shall not hesitate to carry out.”

“I have lived with nuns, but that, monsieur, was a long while ago.”

“It is not a question of time.  What was your motive for leaving these ladies, and who enabled you to do so?”

“I left the convent after my first communion.  I left it openly, and of my own free will.  Pray be good enough to allow me to continue my journey.”

“On leaving the convent, where did you go?”

“First to one of my relatives, then to another, and at last to Paris, where I got married.”

“Married?  What, madame, are you married?  Oh, young lady, what behaviour is this?  Your simple, modest mien plainly shows what you were before this marriage.  But why did you want to get married?”

As he said this, the little Duc du Maine, suffering, perhaps, from a twinge of colic, began to cry.  The brigadier, more amazed than ever, ordered the infant to be shown as well.

Seeing that she could make no defence, Madame Scarron began to shed tears, and the officer, touched to pity, said: 

“Madame, I am sorry for your fault, for, as I see, you are a good mother.  My orders are to take you to prison, and thence to the convent specified by the archbishop, but I warn you that if we catch the father of your child, he will hang.  As for you, who have been seduced, and who belong to a good family, tell me one of your relatives with whom you are on friendly terms, and I will undertake to inform them of your predicament.”

Madame Scarron, busy in soothing the Duc du Maine, durst not explain for fear of aggravating matters, but begged the brigadier to take her back to Saint Germain.

At this juncture my brother arrived on his way back to Paris.  He recognised the carriage, which stood before the inn, with a crowd of peasants round it, and hastened to rescue the governess, for he soon succeeded in persuading these worthy police officers that the sobbing dame was not a runaway nun, and that the new-born infant came of a good stock.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Saint Denis View.—­Superstitions, Apparitions.—­Projected Enlargement of Versailles.—­Fresh Victims for Saint Denis.

One evening I was walking at the far end of the long terrace of Saint Germain.  The King soon came thither, and pointing to Saint Denis, said, “That, madame, is a gloomy, funereal view, which makes me displeased and disgusted with this residence, fine though it be.”