Almost always these bad-natured folks have cowardly souls.  Adrien, his head in a whirl, presented himself to my Suisse at Versailles, who, finding his look somewhat sinister, refused to receive him.  He retired to my hotel in Paris, where the Suisse, being less of a physiognomist, delivered him the key of his old room, and was willing to allow him to pass the night there.

Adrien, thinking of naught but how to harm me and give me a memorable proof of his vengeance, ran and set fire to my two storehouses, and, to put a crown on his rancour, went and hanged himself in an attic.

About two o’clock in the morning, a sick-nurse, having perceived the flames, gave loud cries and succeeded in making herself heard.  Public help arrived; the fire was mastered.  My Suisse sought everywhere for the Italian, whom he thought to be in danger; he stumbled against his corpse.  What a scene!  What an affliction!  The commissary having had his room opened, on a small bureau a letter was found which he had been at the pains of writing, and in which he accused me of his despair and death.

The people of Paris have been at all times extravagance and credulity itself.  They looked upon this young villain as a martyr, and at once dedicated an elegy to him, in which I was compared with Medea, Circe, and Fredegonde.

It is precisely on account of this elegy that I have cared to set down this cruel anecdote.  My readers, to whom I have just narrated the facts with entire frankness, can see well that, instead of having merited reproaches, I should only have received praise for my restraint and moderation.

It is, assuredly, most painful to have to suffer the abuse of those for whom we have never done aught; but the outrages of those whom we have succoured, maintained, and favoured are insupportable injuries.

CHAPTER III.

The Equipage at Full Speed.—­The Poor Vine-grower.—­Sensibility of Madame de Maintenon.—­Her Popularity.—­One Has the Right to Crush a Man Who Will Not Get Out of the Way.—­What One Sees.—­What They Tell You.—­All Ends at the Opera.—­One Can Be Moved to Tears and Yet Like Chocolate.

Another event with a tragical issue, and one to which I contributed even less, served to feed and foster that hatred, mixed with envy, which the rabble populace guards always so persistently towards the favourites of kings or fortune.

Naturally quick and impatient, I cannot endure to move with calm and state along the roads.  My postilions, my coachmen know it, driving in such fashion that no equipage is ever met which cleaves the air like mine.

I was descending one day the declivity of the Coeur-Volant, between Saint Germain and Marly.  The Marquises de Maintenon and d’Hudicourt were in my carriage with M. le Duc du Maine, so far as I can remember.  We were going at the pace which I have just told, and my outriders, who rode in advance, were clearing the way, as is customary.  A vine-grower, laden with sticks, chose this moment to cross the road, thinking himself, no doubt, agile enough to escape my six horses.  The cries of my people were useless.  The imprudent fellow took his own course, and my postilions, in spite of their efforts with the reins, could not prevent themselves from passing over his body; the wheels followed the horses; the poor man was cut in pieces.