I may, with truth, affirm that I received the honors and attention of a queen; verses, plays, all written to convey some praise or compliment to me; and the king testified the lively gratification it afforded him to see me thus an object of general solicitude, as well as of the most flattering distinction. His conduct towards the prince de Condé became more gracious than it had ever been observed to be to the princes of the blood; for there existed a singular coolness in the royal family towards all the princes of this branch. The king looked upon it as vastly inferior to his own, because it had been separated from the throne before the accession of Henry IV to the crown; he even asserted, that there was much to be said upon this subject, and prudence compels me to pass over the many histories and circumstances related by him to me of this brilliant portion of his noble race.
Neither the prince de Condé, whom I knew well, nor the prince de la Marche, entertained much regard for their relations; and they had always some spiteful story in store respecting the posterity of Louis XIII. There is one historical fact which has never been cleared up.
One day I was conversing with the comte de la Marche upon the disputes concerning the parliaments, and expressing my fear, that, if driven to desperate measures, the people would rise in open rebellion in favor of the magistracy. “They would be still more clamourous,” replied he, “if they knew all I could tell them.”
“And what do you know more than myself?’” asked I; “your highness alarms me by speaking thus.”
“Amongst events now passed and gone is one that would materially affect the public peace, if known.”
“You must explain yourself, my lord,” said I. He refused; but I persisted in pressing the matter with so much earnestness, that at last he said, in a low voice,
“Did you ever hear of the man who wore the iron mask?”
“Yes, certainly,” replied I, “who was he?”
“A great prince, and a most unfortunate man.”
“But who was he really?”