“Monsieur the Venetian drummer,” I said to him, with the hauteur which it was necessary to oppose to his audacity, “Monsieur le Marechal de Vivonne, who is always too good, saved your life without knowing you.  I gave you to the King, imagining that I knew you.  Now I am undeceived, and I know, without the least possibility of doubt, that beneath the appearance of a good heart you hide the ungrateful and insolent rogue.  The King needs persons more discreet, less violent, and more polite.  Madame de Montespan gave you up to the King; Madame de Montespan has taken you back this morning to her service.  You depend for the future on nobody but Madame de Montespan, and it is her alone that you are bound to obey.  Your service in her house has commenced this morning; it will finish this evening, and, before midnight, you will leave her for good and all.  I have known on all occasions how to pardon slight offences; there are some that a person of my rank could not excuse; yours is of that number.  Go; make no answer!  Obey, ingrate!  Disappear, I command you!”

At these words he tried to throw himself at my feet.  “Go, wretched fellow!” I cried to him; and, at my voice, my lackeys ran up and drove him from the room and from the chateau.

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.