Rose had never pardoned M. de Duras an ill turn the latter had served him.  During one of the Court journeys, the carriage in which Rose was riding broke down.  He took a horse; but, not being a good equestrian, was very soon pitched into a hole full of mud.  While there M. de Duras passed, and Rose from the midst of the mire cried for help.  But M. de Duras, instead of giving assistance, looked from his coach-window, burst out laughing, and cried out:  “What a luxurious horse thus to roll upon Roses!”—­and with this witticism passed gently on through the mud.  The next comer, the Duc de Coislin, was more charitable; he picked up the worthy man, who was so furious, so carried away by anger, that it was some time before he could say who he was.  But the worst was to come; for M. de Duras, who feared nobody, and whose tongue was accustomed to wag as freely as that of Rose, told the story to the King and to all the Court, who much laughed at it.  This outraged Rose to such a point, that he never afterwards approached M. de Duras, and only spoke of him in fury.  Whenever he hazarded some joke upon M. de Duras, the King began to laugh, and reminded him of the mud-ducking he had received.

Towards the end of his life, Rose married his granddaughter, who was to be his heiress, to Portail, since Chief President of the Parliament.  The marriage was not a happy one; the young spouse despised her husband; and said that instead of entering into a good house, she had remained at the portal.  At last her husband and his father complained to Rose.  He paid no attention at first; but, tired out at last, said if his granddaughter persisted in her bad conduct, he would disinherit her.  There were no complaints after this.

Rose was a little man, neither fat nor lean, with a tolerably handsome face, keen expression, piercing eyes sparkling with cleverness; a little cloak, a satin skull-cap over his grey hairs, a smooth collar, almost like an Abbe’s, and his pocket-handkerchief always between his coat and his vest.  He used to say that it was nearer his nose there.  He had taken me into his friendship.  He laughed very freely at the foreign princes; and always called the Dukes with whom he was familiar, “Your Ducal Highness,” in ridicule of the sham Highnesses.  He was extremely neat and brisk, and full of sense to the last; he was a sort of personage.

CHAPTER XXI

On Saturday, the 19th of March, in the evening, the King was about to undress himself, when he heard cries in his chamber, which was full of courtiers; everybody calling for Fagon and Felix.  Monseigneur had been taken very ill.  He had passed the day at Meudon, where he had eaten only a collation; at the King’s supper he had made amends by gorging himself nigh to bursting with fish.  He was a great eater, like the King, and like the Queens his mother and grandmother.  He had not appeared after supper,