On the following Saturday, as the King was taking a walk after mass, and amusing himself at the carp basin between the Chateau and the Perspective, we saw the Duchesse de Lude coming towards him on foot and all alone, which, as no lady was with the King, was a rarity in the morning.  We understood that she had something important to say to him, and when he was a short distance from her, we stopped so as to allow him to join her alone.  The interview was not long.  She went away again, and the King came back towards us and near the carps without saying a word.  Each saw clearly what was in the wind, and nobody was eager to speak.  At last the King, when quite close to the basin, looked at the principal people around, and without addressing anybody, said, with an air of vexation, these few words: 

“The Duchesse de Bourgogne is hurt.”

M. de la Rochefoucauld at once uttered an exclamation.  M. de Bouillon, the Duc de Tresmes, and Marechal de Boufflers repeated in a, low tone the words I have named; and M. de la Rochefoucauld returning to the charge, declared emphatically that it was the greatest misfortune in the world, and that as she had already wounded herself on other occasions, she might never, perhaps, have any more children.

“And if so,” interrupted the King all on a sudden, with anger, “what is that to me?  Has she not already a son; and if he should die, is not the Duc de Berry old enough to marry and have one?  What matters it to the who succeeds me,—­the one or the other?  Are the not all equally my grandchildren?” And immediately, with impetuosity he added, “Thank God, she is wounded, since she was to be so; and I shall no longer be annoyed in my journeys and in everything I wish to do, by the representations of doctors, and the reasonings of matrons.  I shall go and come at my pleasure, and shall be left in peace.”

A silence so deep that an ant might be heard to walk, succeeded this strange outburst.  All eyes were lowered; no one hardly dared to breathe.  All remained stupefied.  Even the domestics and the gardeners stood motionless.

This silence lasted more than a quarter of an hour.  The King broke it as he leaned upon a balustrade to speak of a carp.  Nobody replied.  He addressed himself afterwards on the subject of these carps to domestics, who did not ordinarily join in the conversation.  Nothing but carps was spoken of with them.  All was languishing, and the King went away some time after.  As soon as we dared look at each other—­out of his sight, our eyes met and told all.  Everybody there was for the moment the confidant of his neighbour.  We admired—­we marvelled—­we grieved, we shrugged our shoulders.  However distant may be that scene, it is always equally present to me.  M. de la Rochefoucauld was in a fury, and this time without being wrong.  The chief ecuyer was ready to faint with affright; I myself examined everybody with my eyes and ears, and was satisfied with myself for having long since thought that the King loved and cared for himself alone, and was himself his only object in life.