among the people, and even those at Court, alarmed Madame dreadfully.  It was said that the King meant to legitimate the child, and to give the mother a title.  “All that,” said Madame de Mirepoix, “is in the style of Louis XIV.—­such dignified proceedings are very unlike those of our master.”  Mademoiselle Romans lost all her influence over the King by her indiscreet boasting.  She was even treated with harshness and violence, which were in no degree instigated by Madame.  Her house was searched, and her papers seized; but the most important, those which substantiated the fact of the King’s paternity, had been withdrawn.  At length she gave birth to a son, who was christened under the name of Bourbon, son of Charles de Bourbon, Captain of Horse.  The mother thought the eyes of all France were fixed upon her, and beheld in her son a future Duc du Maine.  She suckled him herself, and she used to carry him in a sort of basket to the Bois de Boulogne.  Both mother and child were covered with the finest laces.  She sat down upon the grass in a solitary spot, which, however, was soon well known, and there gave suck to her royal babe.  Madame had great curiosity to see her, and took me, one day, to the manufactory at Sevres, without telling me what she projected.  After she had bought some cups, she said, “I want to go and walk in the Bois de Boulogne,” and gave orders to the coachman to stop at a certain spot where she wished to alight.  She had got the most accurate directions, and when she drew near the young lady’s haunt she gave me her arm, drew her bonnet over her eyes, and held her pocket-handkerchief before the lower part of her face.  We walked, for some minutes, in a path, from whence we could see the lady suckling her child.  Her jet black hair was turned up, and confined by a diamond comb.  She looked earnestly at us.  Madame bowed to her, and whispered to me, pushing me by the elbow, “Speak to her.”  I stepped forward, and exclaimed, “What a lovely child!”—­“Yes, Madame,” replied she, “I must confess that he is, though I am his mother.”  Madame, who had hold of my arm, trembled, and I was not very firm.  Mademoiselle Romans said to me, “Do you live in this neighbourhood?”—­“Yes, Madame,” replied I, “I live at Auteuil with this lady, who is just now suffering from a most dreadful toothache.”—­“I pity her sincerely, for I know that tormenting pain well.”  I looked all around, for fear any one should come up who might recognise us.  I took courage to ask her whether the child’s father was a handsome man.  “Very handsome, and, if I told you his name, you would agree with me.”—­“I have the honour of knowing him, then, Madame?”—­“Most probably you do.”  Madame, fearing, as I did, some rencontre, said a few words in a low tone, apologizing for having intruded upon her, and we took our leave.  We looked behind us, repeatedly, to see if we were followed, and got into the carriage without being perceived.  “It must be confessed