a door from the one we were in.  The door opened, and in came the King, Madame de Pompadour, and M. de Gontaut.  “Long live the powder of prelinpinpin!” said the King.  “Doctor, can you get me any of it?” It happened that, when the King returned from his walk, he was struck with a fancy to listen to our conversation.  Madame de Pompadour was extremely kind to the Doctor, and the King went out laughing, and talking with great admiration of the powder.  I went away, and so did the Doctor.  I immediately sat down to commit this conversation to writing.  I was afterwards told that M. Quesnay was very learned in certain matters relating to finance, and that he was a great ‘economiste’.  But I do not know very well what that means.  What I do know for certain is, that he was very clever, very gay and witty, and a very able physician.

The illness of the little Duke of Burgundy, whose intelligence was much talked of, for a long time occupied the attention of the Court.  Great endeavours were made to find out the cause of his malady, and ill-nature went so far as to assert that his nurse, who had an excellent situation at Versailles, had communicated to him a nasty disease.  The King shewed Madame de Pompadour the information he had procured from the province she came from, as to her conduct.  A silly Bishop thought proper to say she had been very licentious in her youth.  The poor nurse was told of this, and begged that he might be made to explain himself.  The Bishop replied, that she had been at several balls in the town in which she lived, and that she had gone with her neck uncovered.  The poor man actually thought this the height of licentiousness.  The King, who had been at first uneasy, when he came to this, called out, “What a fool!” After having long been a source of anxiety to the Court, the Duke died.  Nothing produces a stronger impression upon Princes, than the spectacle of their equals dying.  Everybody is occupied about them while ill—­but as soon as they are dead, nobody mentions them.  The King frequently talked about death—­and about funerals, and places of burial.  Nobody could be of a more melancholy temperament.  Madame de Pompadour once told me that he experienced a painful sensation whenever he was forced to laugh, and that he had often begged her to break off a droll story.  He smiled, and that was all.  In general, he had the most gloomy ideas concerning almost all events.  When there was a new Minister, he used to say, “He displays his wares like all the rest, and promises the finest things in the world, not one of which will be fulfilled.  He does not know this country—­he will see.”  When new projects for reinforcing the navy were laid before him, he said, “This is the twentieth time I have heard this talked of—­France never will have a navy, I think.”  This I heard from M. de Marigny.

I never saw Madame de Pompadour so rejoiced as at the taking of Mahon.  The King was very glad, too, but he had no belief in the merit of his courtiers—­he looked upon their success as the effect of chance.  Marechal Saxe was, as I have been told, the only man who inspired him with great esteem.  But he had scarcely ever seen him in his closet, or playing the courtier.