She blushed, and ventured to inform me that this way of expressing herself was a turn of speech taken from her own native language, and that by saying “the,” as a matter of course “Marquise” was understood.

“No, madame,” I said, without appearing irritated; “in Paris, such an excuse as that is quite inadmissible, and since you associate with turnspits, pray ask your cooks, and they will tell you.”

Fearing to quarrel with the King, she was obliged to be more careful, but to change one’s disposition is impossible, and she has loathed and insulted me ever since.  Her husband, who himself probably taught her to do so, one day tried to make apologies for what he ruefully termed her reprehensible conduct.  “There, there, it doesn’t matter,” I said to him; “it is easier to offend me than to deceive me.  Allow me to quote to you the speech of Mademoiselle de Montpensier, ’You had a charming and accomplished wife, you ought to have prevented her from being poisoned, and then we should not have had this hag at Court.’”

CHAPTER XLII.

Madame de Montespan’s Father-confessor.—­He Alters His Opinion.—­Madame de Maintenon Is Consulted.—­A General on Theology.—­A Country Priest.—­The Marquise Postpones Her Repentance and Her Absolution.

My father-confessor, who since my arrival at Court had never vexed or thwarted me, suddenly altered his whole manner towards me, from which I readily concluded that the Queen had got hold of him.  This priest, of gentle, easy-going, kindly nature, never spoke to me except in a tone of discontent and reproach.  He sought to induce me to leave the King there and then, and retire to some remote chateau.  Seeing that he was intriguing, and had, so to speak, taken up his position, like a woman of experience I took up mine as well, and politely dismissed him, at which he was somewhat surprised.  In matters of religion, Madame de Maintenon, who understands such things, was my usual mentor.  I told her that I was disheartened, and should not go to confession again for ever so long.  She was shocked at my resolve, and strove all she could to make me change my mind and endeavour to lead me back into the right way.

She forever kept repeating her favourite argument, saying, “Good gracious! suppose you should die in that state!”

I replied that it was not my fault, as I had never ceased to obey the precepts of the Holy Church.  “It was my old father-confessor,” said I, “the Canon of Saint Thomas du Louvre, who had harshly refused to confess me.”

“What he does,” replied she, “is solely for your own good.”

“But if he has only my well-being in view,” I quickly retorted, “why did not he think of this at first?  It would have been far better to have stopped me at the outset, instead of letting me calmly proceed upon my career.  He is obeying the Queen’s orders, or else those of that Abbe Bossuet de Mauleon, who no longer dares attack me to my face.”