measure the earth, has a higher claim to our respect than if he directed an opera.  He has thrown down the barriers which opposed the progress of philosophy, in spite of the clamour of the devotees:  the Encyclopaedia will do honour to his reign.”  Duclos, during this speech, shook his head.  I went away, and tried to write down all I had heard, while it was fresh.  I had the part which related to the Princes of the Bourbon race copied by a valet, who wrote a beautiful hand, and I gave it to Madame de Pompadour.  But she said to me, “What! is Duclos an acquaintance of yours?  Do you want to play the ‘bel esprit’, my dear good woman?  That will not sit well upon you.”  The truth is, that nothing can be further from my inclination.  I told her that I met him accidentally at the Doctor’s, where he generally spent an hour when he came to Versailles.  “The King knows him to be a worthy man,” said she.

Madame de Pompadour was ill, and the King came to see her several times a day.  I generally left the room when he entered, but, having stayed a few minutes, on one occasion, to give her a glass of chicory water, I heard the King mention Madame d’Egmont.  Madame raised her eyes to heaven, and said, “That name always recalls to me a most melancholy and barbarous affair; but it was not my fault.”  These words dwelt in my mind, and, particularly, the tone in which they were uttered.  As I stayed with Madame till three o’clock in the morning, reading to her a part of the time, it was easy for me to try to satisfy my curiosity.  I seized a moment, when the reading was interrupted, to say, “You looked dreadfully shocked, Madame, when the King pronounced the name of D’Egmont.”  At these words, she again raised her eyes, and said, “You would feel as I do, if you knew the affair.”—­“It must, then, be deeply affecting, for I do not think that it personally concerns you, Madame.”—­“No,” said she, “it does not; as, however, I am not the only person acquainted with this history, and as I know you to be discreet, I will tell it you.  The last Comte d’Egmont married a reputed daughter of the Duc de Villars; but the Duchess had never lived with her husband, and the Comtesse d’Egmont is, in fact, a daughter of the Chevalier d’Orleans.—­[Legitimate son of the Regent, Grand Prior of France.]—­At the death of her husband, young, beautiful, agreeable, and heiress to an immense fortune, she attracted the suit and homage of all the most distinguished men at Court.  Her mother’s director, one day, came into her room and requested a private interview; he then revealed to her that she was the offspring of an adulterous intercourse, for which her mother had been doing penance for five-and-twenty years.  ‘She could not,’ said he, ’oppose your former marriage, although it caused her extreme distress.  Heaven did not grant you children; but, if you marry again, you run the risk, Madame, of transmitting to another family the immense wealth, which does not, in fact, belong to you, and which is the price of crime.’