“Let your captivity be a lesson to you,” I said to him; “the affairs of kings do not concern us.  When such actors occupy the scene, it is permissible neither to applaud nor to hiss.”

Hathelin promised me to be good, and for the future to concern himself only with his graver and his private business.  He wished me a thousand good wishes, with an expansion of heart which caused his tears and mine to flow.  But artists are not made like other men; he, for all his good heart, was gifted with one of those ardent imaginations which make themselves critics and judges of notable personages, and, above all, of favourites of fortune.  Barely five or six months had elapsed when Hathelin published a new satirical plate, in which Madame de Maintenon was represented as weeping, or pretending to weep, over the sick-bed of M. Scarron.  The dying man was holding an open will in his hand, in which one could read these words:  “I leave you my permission to marry again—­a rich and serious man—­more so than I am.”

The print had already been widely distributed when the engraver and his plate were seized.  This time Hathelin had not the honour of the Bastille; he was sent to some depot.  And although his action was absolutely fresh and unknown to me, all Paris was convinced that I had inspired his unfortunate talent.  Madame de Maintenon was convinced of it, and believes it still.  The King has done me the honour to assure me lately that he had banished the idea from his mind; but he was so persuaded of it at first that he could not pardon me for so black an intrigue, and, but for the fear of scandal, would have hanged the engraver, Hathelin, in order to provide my gentlemen, the engravers, with a subject for a fine plate.

About the same time, the Jesuits caused Madame de Maintenon a much more acute pain than that of the ridiculous print.  She endured this blow with her accustomed courage; nevertheless, she conceived such a profound aversion to the leaders of this ever-restless company, that she has never been seen in their churches, and was at the greatest pains to rob them of the interior of Saint Cyr.  “They are men of intrigue,” she said to Madame de Montchevreuil, her friend and confidante.  “The name of Jesus is always in their mouths, he is in their solemn device, they have taken him for their banner and namesake; but his candour, his humility are unknown to them.  They would like to order everything that exists, and rule even in the palaces of kings.  Since they have the privilege and honour of confessing our monarch, they wish to impose the same bondage upon me.  Heaven preserve me from it!  I do not want rectors of colleges and professors to direct my unimportant conscience.  I like a confessor who lets you speak, and not those who put words into your mouth.”

With the intention of mortifying her and then of being able to publish the adventure, they charged one of their instruments to seek her out at Versailles in order to ask an audience of her, not as a Jesuit, but as a plain churchman fallen upon adversity.