I remember that about a year, perhaps, before the death of the King, having gone up early after dinner into the apartments of Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans at Marly, I found her in bed with the megrims, and M. d’Orleans alone in the room, seated in an armchair at her pillow.  Scarcely had I sat down than Madame la Duchesse began to talk of some of those execrable imputations concerning M. d’Orleans unceasingly circulated by Madame de Maintenon and M. du Maine; and of an incident arising therefrom, in which the Prince and the Cardinal de Rohan had played a part against M. d’Orleans.  I sympathised with her all the more because the Duke, I knew not why, had always distinguished and courted those two brothers, and thought he could count upon them.  “And what will you say of M. d’Orleans,” added the Duchesse, “when I tell you that since he has known this, known it beyond doubt, he treats them exactly the same as before?”

I looked at M. d’Orleans, who had uttered only a few words to confirm the story, as it was being told, and who was negligently lolling in his chair, and I said to him with warmth: 

“Oh, as to that, Monsieur, the truth must be told; since Louis the Debonnaire, never has there been such a Debonnaire as you.”

At these words he rose in his chair, red with anger to the very whites of his eyes, and blurted out his vexation against me for abusing him, as he pretended, and against Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans for encouraging me and laughing at him.

“Go on,” said I, “treat your enemies well, and rail at your friends.  I am delighted to see you angry.  It is a sign that I have touched the sore point, when you press the finger on it the patient cries.  I should like to squeeze out all the matter, and after that you would be quite another man, and differently esteemed.”

He grumbled a little more, and then calmed down.  This was one of two occasions only, on which he was ever really angry with me.

Two or three years after the death of the King, I was chatting in one of the grand rooms of the Tuileries, where the Council of the Regency was, according to custom, soon to be held, and M. d’Orleans at the other end was talking to some one in a window recess.  I heard myself called from mouth to mouth, and was told that M. d’Orleans wished to speak to me.  This often happened before the Council.  I went therefore to the window where he was standing.  I found a serious bearing, a concentrated manner, an angry face, and was much surprised.

“Monsieur,” said he to me at once, “I have a serious complaint against you; you, whom I have always regarded as my best of friends.”

“Against me!  Monsieur!” said I, still more surprised.  “What is the matter, then, may I ask?”

“The matter!” he replied with a mien still more angry; “something you cannot deny; verses you have made against me.”

“I—­verses!” was my reply.  “Why, who the devil has been telling you such nonsense?  You have been acquainted with me nearly forty years, and do you not know, that never in my life have I been able to make a single verse—­much less verses?”