"MESDAMES, you have asked me to give you some details of what is passing in the palace. I will do so; but do not imagine, for Heaven's sake, that I wish to spread evil reports or to act la scandaleuse. Far from it; as long as I remain in the Queen's service, whatever her conduct may be towards me, I shall bear it. I shall not dream of revenge."
"Oh, dear, no, not in the least," the ladies murmur; "nothing can be more proper."
"But, really, when I see such an affectation of devotion, that serge gown, and no ornaments except on state receptions; such severity, too, towards every one who dresses like the rest of the world—she told me the other day my dress was too décolleté—can you conceive?—it is more than human nature can bear. It sets me remembering certain stories well known to everybody within the palace, when her Majesty wore low dresses too, and was not quite such a dévote as she pretends to be now."
The assembled ladies assent silently. The Duchesse de Noailles, who is excited and has spoken quickly, having stopped to take breath, the Duchesse de Sennécy seizes the moment to break in—
"You may do as you please, dear Duchess, but for my part I am indignant with her Majesty. She has no gratitude. I might have ruined her years ago, when my cousin, Louise de Lafayette, could turn the late King Louis XIII. round her finger; one word from her, and the Queen would have been exiled! I am indignant, I repeat—I am actually not allowed to choose my own confessor! Her Majesty insists that I should select a Jesuit—a protégé of Mazarin—a man, as I believe, not to be trusted. And the reason she gives is, 'that it is for the good of my soul!' I can take care of my own soul, I suppose. I always confess twice a year. What is it to her Majesty if I do not confess at all!"
All the ladies murmur acquiescence, and the red-nosed Countess, Madame de Lude, says, "It is an impertinence."
"Every one must see," continues Madame de Sennécy, speaking rapidly, for she observes that Madame de Noailles is eager to proceed, "the power Mazarin exercises over her. In her youth Richelieu loved her: now it is Mazarin. She is born to ensnare the Sacred College—perhaps his Holiness himself, if he crossed the Apennines——"
"Oh, Duchess," exclaim several voices, "how shocking!" and some ladies hold up their fans before their faces.
"Gently, madame," says Madame de Noailles, interrupting; "I detest calumny. I only speak of the past—that cannot hurt her Majesty."