Maria Theresa, though a king’s daughter, made no more effect at Court than if she had been a mere middle-class person.  The King, in fact, by his considerateness, splendour, and glory, served to support her dignity.  He hoped and even desired that she should be held in honour, partly for her own sake, in a great measure for his.  But as soon as she started upon some argument or narration where force of intellect was needed, she always seemed bewildered, and he soon interrupted her either by finishing the tale himself, or by changing the conversation.  This he did good-naturedly and with much tact, so that the Queen, instead of taking offence, was pleased to be under such an obligation to him.  From such a wife this prince could not look to have sons of remarkable talent or intellect, for that would have been nothing short of a miracle.  And thus the little Dauphin showed none of those signs of intelligence which the most ordinary commonplace children usually display.  When the Queen heard courtiers repeat some of the droll, witty sayings of the Comte de Vegin, or the Duc du Maine, she reddened with jealousy, and remarked, “Everybody goes into ecstasies about those children, while Monsieur le Dauphin is never even mentioned.”

She had brought with her from Spain that Donna Silvia Molina, of whom I have already spoken, and who had got complete control over her character.  Instead of tranquillising her, and so making her happy, Donna Silvia thought to become more entertaining, and above all, more necessary to her, by gossiping to her about the King’s amours.  She ferreted out all the secret details, all the petty circumstances, and with such dangerous material troubled the mind and destroyed the repose of her mistress, who wept unceasingly, and became visibly changed.

La Molina, enriched and almost wealthy, was sent back to Spain, much to the grief of Maria Theresa, who for several days after her departure could neither eat nor sleep.

At the same time, the King got rid of that little she-dwarf, named Mexica, in whose insufferable talk and insufferable presence the Queen took delight.  But the sly little wretch escaped during the journey, and managed to get back to the princess again, hidden in some box or basket.  The Queen was highly delighted to see her again; she pampered her secretly in her private cabinet with the utmost mystery, giving up every moment that she could spare.

One day, by way of a short cut, the King was passing through the Queen’s closet, when he heard the sound of coughing in one of the cupboards.  Turning back, he flung it open, where, huddled up in great confusion, he found Mexica.

“What!” cried his Majesty; “so you are back again?  When and how did you come?”

In a feeble voice Mexica answered, “Sire, please don’t send me away from the Queen any more, and she will never complain again about Madame de Montespan.”

The King laughed at this speech, and then came and repeated it to me.  I laughed heartily, too, and such a treaty of peace seemed to contain queer compensation clauses:  Madame de Montespan and Mexica were mutually bound over to support each other; the spectacle was vastly droll, I vow.