“‘As for Madame Dubarri herself, she soon turned from her lamentations concerning the behaviour of the young court towards her, to give herself up to all the merriment of the hour, and was soon excited by the good fellowship of d’Aiguillon, whose “discretion” had worn off with the first few glasses, and who had retrograded into the same state of hilarity as when he met me in the morning. I could not quote now one half of the bon mots, the puns, the quolibets, uttered during the course of that repast. It was a complete souvenir of the régence, and I could well understand that the influence which Madame Dubarri had possessed over the mind of the king had owed its origin to the nature of the joyeux propos with which her conversation teemed, and which to Louis Quinze must have worn the mask of originality, as it was not probable that he could ever have heard the like before. I know not what hour of the night it could have been when we rose from table, of course much too late to think of returning home.
“‘We adjourned to the boudoir of the comtesse—a delicious retreat which poor “France” had taken a pleasure in adorning with his own hands—and here the gaiety of the pair became even more uproarious. Madame Dubarri told us much of her past life, never sparing details which would have excited astonishment, even had she told them of another, but which, related of herself, became unaccountable. She showed us, among other curiosities which the boudoir contained, a little volume, richly bound in white silk, and which consisted of the manuscript journal of the king, during an absence of a few days that he was once compelled to make at Versailles, while she remained at Fontainebleau. By one of those curious chances, which I believe happen to all who observe, my eye fell upon a passage which immediately set at rest, in my mind, the long discussions and disputes which had been excited concerning the dismissal of M. de Choiseul from the ministry. It ran thus, and forget not, that it was in the handwriting of the king himself.
“‘Friday, 10th.—Sent off the courier with the morning billet to you, ma chère, then arose. Looked from the window to see if the weather would be fine for the hunt. Saw on the wall of the Cours des Veneurs, an impertinent allusion to somebody, chalked in letters large enough for me to read even at that distance. One of the valets de meute must have been the perpetrator. Left my chamber in great anger. Found M. de Choiseul waiting in my study. Showed him the writing, took occasion to say (as much for himself, as in reference to the offence of which I complained) all the good I know (and it is not a little) of somebody. Wishing to anticipate all the malicious thoughts which I feared my unrestrained praise of somebody might give rise to in his mind, said, in conclusion, “After all, the worst that can be said is, that I succeeded Saint Foix in her affections.” “Exactly so, sire,” muttered Choiseul, “just as your majesty succeeded to King Pharomond, as sovereign of this country.” I did not choose to speak further on this subject, so changed the conversation. Choiseul likes an innocent plaisanterie, but there is no harm in Choiseul.”
“‘Upon what a slight thread will sometimes hang the destinies of men and of nations! Is it not evident that this “innocent plaisanterie,” as it was called by the good-natured but obtuse Louis Quinze, was of the kind most likely to inflame the hasty, choleric temper of Jeanne la Folle? In my own mind, I feel perfectly convinced that it was this ill-timed joke of the minister which caused his disgrace, as I find upon reference to dates, that it was upon the king’s return to Fontainebleau that the famous scenes of the oranges, “Saute Choiseul—Saute Praslin,” was enacted, and both Choiseul and Praslin were disgraced. It was evident that the page had been often read, for it was worn, and the writing in some places dimmed, as if with tears. Perhaps it was this circumstance which had caused the book to open just at this very passage, and rendered me the involuntary sharer in a secret which is not generally known even to this day.
“‘After we had sufficiently examined all the curiosities and expensive baubles with which the boudoir was decorated, Madame Dubarri, whose dread of seeing us depart seemed to increase as the hours flew by, then insisted on displaying the jewels which “ce cher France” had given her on various occasions. It was, indeed, a splendid sight; but, when I complimented her upon the possession of the finest rubies I had ever beheld, she shook her head mournfully, and said with a sigh, that she would give them all for a few days participation in the rejoicings which were going on there (she pointed to Versailles), not as she once had been, planner and promoter, but even as mere spectator. I asked why she did not seek forgetfulness in change of scene; why she did not travel. No, she could not tear herself away from the spot where she had reigned so long; she still had hope that the young queen would consent to receive her at court; she scarcely seemed to care upon what footing she was admitted, so long as she were allowed to join in the gaieties and festivities which were going on, almost beneath her very eye, and from which she felt it such a misfortune to be thus excluded.
“‘Her emotion was but momentary, however; for with the tears which the memory of the change in her situation had called up still in her eyes, she turned to my companion, and defied him to a game at bilboquet, declaring that she had, in former times, passed whole hours at this play with the king, who was passionately fond of it, but could never win when she was his adversary. D’Aiguillon readily consented, the bilboquets were brought, and more wine was served. In spite of the noisy rattle of the balls, and the noisier laughter and loud disputing of the players, I fell asleep, nor did I awake until daylight. To my astonishment, I found the comtesse and her host as eager and busy in the childish game as when they first began—not a whit fatigued, and seemingly disposed to continue for some hours longer. D’Aiguillon was by this time totally incapable of understanding my meaning when I warned him that it was time to go; and I withdrew unobserved, resolving to return alone to Paris, leaving him to finish the adventure as best he could.
“‘Just as I reached the gate, I perceived the royal hunt dashing down the side of the hill, and was glad to conceal myself behind the wall until the cortège had passed by, ashamed of being seen issuing from the dwelling of Madame Dubarri, although well aware that there was not one of those dainty courtiers, who now passed by with head averted and with eyes cast down, who had not thought it the greatest honour, but a short time before, to be admitted within the walls of that self-same Pavillon, which they seemed now to shun with such disdain. This circumstance would be too trifling to mention, were it not for the moral it contains; finer, because true, than all those which flourish just above the vignette at the close of the “Contes Moraux” of Marmontel, or those “dédiés à la Jeunesse” by Madame de Genlis.’
“M. de Talleyrand paused, with that peculiar smile on his countenance which those who live in his intimacy, know so well, as being meant to fill the place of some satirical trait which he does not choose to utter at the time, but which is not wholly lost notwithstanding.
“‘Yes, this was the last time I ever beheld the Comtesse Dubarri, ex-maîtresse en titre. As for d’Aiguillon, so enchanted did he seem with his new acquaintance, that, from that day forward, he spent a great portion of his time at the Pavillon; and, when I rallied him upon the attraction which seemed so irresistible, and reminded him of Ninon de L’Enclos and Diane de Poitiers, he shrugged his shoulders, and answered me with the greatest coolness—“Que voulez-vous, mon cher? where on earth could I go to get such exquisite Tokay as that which the old fool, King Casimir, sent as a present to Louis XIV.?” By this I judged, when his absences became less frequent, that the Tokay was drawing to a close, and when they ceased altogether, that it had totally disappeared. Autre moralité! as dear old Perrault has it at the end of his fairy tales.’
“The prince paused again more thoughtfully, and added, ‘Alas! it makes one’s heart ache to remember the sad fate which befel both of those gay, light-hearted individuals. The one died upon the scaffold for having sold her jewels (the jewels she had shewn me with such pride as the gifts of poor dear “France”) to send the money which the sale produced to the émigré noblesse—that noblesse who had treated her with such scorn—with such contempt! The other met a death more frightful still—the gay, the witty, the high-born d’Aiguillon fled to Holland, and perished there, they say, of misery and starvation!’