“You are right, but it is compulsory. Believe me, kings are not moulded like other men: early disgusted with all things, they only exist in a variety of pleasures; what pleases them this evening will displease them tomorrow; they wish to be happy in a different way. Louis XV is more kingly in this respect than any other. You must devise amusements for him.”
“Alas,” I replied, “how? Shall I give him a new tragedy of la Harpe’s,—he will yawn; an opera of Marmontel,—he will go to sleep. Heavens! how unfortunate I am!”
“Really, my dear,” replied the maréchale, “I cannot advise you; but I can quote a powerful example. In such a case madame de Pompadour would have admitted a rival near the throne.”
“Madame de Pompadour was very amiable, my dear,” I replied, “and I would have done so once or twice, but the part of Mother Gourdan does not suit me; I prefer that of her young ladies.”
At these words the maréchale laughed, whilst I made a long grave face. At this instant comte Jean entered, and exclaimed,
“Really, ladies, you present a singular contrast. May I ask you, sister, what causes this sorrow? What ails you?”
“Oh, brother!” was my response, “the king is dying of ennui.”
“That is no marvel,” said my brother-in-law.
“And to rouse him,” I added, “it is necessary, the maréchale says, that I must take a pretty girl by the hand, and present her to the king with these words: ‘Sire, having found that you grow tired of me, I present this lady to you, that you may amuse yourself with her.”
“That would be very fine,” replied comte Jean; “it would show him that you had profited by my advice.” Then, whispering in my ear, “You know, sister, I am capable of the greatest sacrifices for the king.”