The other replied, “I am the Prince de Conti.”

Without the least ill-temper, the Prince took off his mask, and, laughing, said, “See how a man may be deceived.  I have been fancying for the last twenty years that I was the Prince de Conti.”  To keep one’s temper on such an occasion is really an uncommon thing.

The Prince thought himself quite cured, but he has had a relapse in Spain, and, although he is a general of cavalry, he cannot mount his horse.  I said on Tuesday last (17th July, 1719) to the young Princesse de Conti that I heard her husband was not entirely recovered.  She laughed and whispered to me,—­

“Oh, yes, he is quite well; but he pretends not to be so that he may avoid going to the siege, where he may be killed, for he is as cowardly as an ape.”  I think if I had as little inclination for war as he has, I would not engage in the campaign at all; there is nothing to oblige him to do so-it is to reap glory, not to encounter shame, that men go into the army.  His best friends, Lanoue and Cleremont, for example, have remonstrated with him on this subject, and he has quarrelled with them in consequence.  It is an unfortunate thing for a man not to know himself.

The Prince is terribly afflicted with a dysentery.  They wanted to carry him to Bayonne, but he has so violent a fever that he would not be able to support the journey.  He is therefore obliged to stay with the army (25th August, 1719).

He has been back nine or ten days, but I have heard nothing of him yet; he is constantly engaged in the Rue de Quincampoix, trying to gain money among the stock-jobbers (19th September, 1719).

At length he has been to see me.  Perhaps there was this morning less stock-jobbing than usual in the Rue de Quincampoix, for there he has been ever since his return.  His cousin, the Duke, is engaged in the same pursuit.  The Prince de Conti has not brought back much honour from the campaign; he is too much addicted to debauchery of all kinds.

Although he can be polite when he chooses, no one can behave more brutally than he does occasionally, and he becomes more and more mad daily.

At one of the last opera balls he seized a poor little girl just come from the country, took her from her mother’s side, and, placing her between his own legs, amused himself by slapping and filliping her until he made her nose and mouth bleed.  The young girl, who had done nothing to offend him, and who did not even know him, wept bitterly; but he only laughed, and said, “Cannot I give nice fillips?” All who were witnesses of this brutal scene pitied her; but no one dared come to the poor child’s assistance, for they were afraid of having anything to do with this violent madman.  He makes the most frightful grimaces, and I, who am extremely frightened at crazy people, tremble whenever I happen to be alone with him.

His wicked pranks remind me of my own.  When I was a child I used to take touchwood, and, placing pieces of it over my eyes and in my mouth, I hid myself upon the staircase for the purpose of terrifying the people; but I was then much afraid of ghosts, so that I was always the first to be frightened.  It is in the same way that the Prince de Conti does; he wishes to make himself feared, and he is the most timid person in the world.