He has sense, but he has been brought up like a scullion boy; he has strange whimsies, of which he is quite aware himself, but which he cannot control.  His wife is a charming woman, and is much to be pitied for being in fear of her life from this madman, who often threatens her with loaded pistols.  Fortunately, she has plenty of courage and does not fear him.  Notwithstanding this, he is very fond of her; and this is the more surprising, because his love for the sex is not very strong; and although he visits improper places occasionally, it is only for the purpose of tormenting the poor wretches who are to be found there.  Before he was married he felt no, affection for any woman but his mother, who also loved him very tenderly.  She is now vexed at having no longer the same ascendency over her son, and is jealous of her daughter-in-law because the Prince loves her alone.  This occasions frequent disturbances in the house.  The mother has had a house:  built at some distance from her son.  When they are good friends, she dismisses the workmen; but when they quarrel, she doubles the number and hastens the work, so that one may always tell, upon a mere inspection of the building, upon what terms the Princesse de Conti and her son are living.  The mother wished to have her grandson to educate; her daughter-in-law opposed it because she preferred taking care of him herself; and then ensued a dog-and-cat quarrel.  The wife, who is cunning enough, governs her husband entirely, and has gained over his favourites to be her creatures.  She is the idol of the-whole house.

In order to prevent the Prince de Conti from going to Hungary, the government of Poitou has been bought for him, and a place in the Council of the Regency allotted to him; by this means they have retained the wild beast.

Our young Princess says her husband has a rheum in his eyes.

To amuse her, he reads aloud Ovid in the original; and although she does not understand one word of Latin, she is obliged to listen and to remain silent, even though any one should come in; for if anybody interrupts him he is angry, and scolds all who are in the apartment.

At the last masked ball (4th March, 1718) some one who had dressed himself like the Prince de Conti, and wore a hump on his back, went and sat beside him.  “Who are you, mask?” asked the Prince.

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,—­