These things, in truth, never lacked some plausible pretext, and he chose the time when Madame de Montchevreuil and Mademoiselle de Nantes were presenting their homages to Madame de Maintenon.

CHAPTER XIII.

Marie Louise, Daughter of Henrietta of England, Betrothed to the King of Spain.—­Her Affliction.—­Jealousy of the King, Her Husband.

The unfortunate lady, Henrietta of England, had left, at her death, two extremely young girls, one of them, indeed, being still in the cradle.  The new Madame was seized with good-will for these two orphans to such an extent as to complain to the King.  They were brought up with the greatest care; they were, both of them, pretty and charming.

The elder was named Marie Louise.  It was this one whom Monsieur destined in his own mind for Monseigneur le Dauphin; and the Princess, accustomed early to this prospect, had insensibly adapted to it her mind and hope.  Young, beautiful, agreeable, and charming as her mother, she created already the keenest sensation at Court, and the King felt an inclination to cherish her as much as he had loved Madame.  But the excessive freedom which this alliance would not have failed to give his brother, both with his son-in-law and nephew, and with the Ministry, prevented his Majesty from giving way to this penchunt for Marie Louise.  On the contrary, he consented to her marriage with the King of Spain, and the news of it was accordingly carried to Monsieur le Duc d’Orleans.  He and his wife felt much annoyance at it.  But after communications of that kind there was scarcely any course open to be taken than that of acquiescence.  Monsieur conveyed the news to his beloved daughter, and, on hearing that she was to be made Queen of Spain, this amiable child uttered loud lamentations.

When she went to Versailles to thank the King, her uncle, her fine eyes were still suffused with tears.  The few words which she uttered were mingled with sighing and weeping; and when she saw the indifference of her cousin, who felicitated her like the rest, she almost fainted with grief and regret.

“My dear cousin,” said this dull-witted young lord, “I shall count the hours until you go to Spain.  You will send me some ‘touru’, for I am very fond of it?”

The King could not but find this reflection of his son very silly and out of place.  But intelligence is neither to be given nor communicated by example.  His Majesty had to support to the end this son, legitimate as much as you like, but altogether in degree, and with a person which formed a perpetual contrast with the person of the King.  It was my Duc du Maine who should have been in the eminent position of Monseigneur.  Nature willed it so.  She had proved it sufficiently by lavishing all her favours on him, all her graces; but the laws of convention and usage would not have it.  His Majesty has made this same reflection, groaning, more than once.