January, 1681.—Caused much annoyance by a tiresome Italian fellow prisoner called Mattioli, who, feigning either madness or illness, or both, caused a commotion in the prison, necessitating the arrival of doctors and priests. Kept awake by noise of bolts being drawn, and the opening and shutting of doors. Wrote to the King complaining of this which is a direct infringement of his promise. Asked to be moved to a quieter spot.
September 2,1681.—Moved to the Fortress of Exiles. Prison said to be empty. Hope this will prove true.
October 10,1681.—Saint Mars very nearly spoke to me to-day. He was evidently bursting with something he longed to communicate. However, I made such a gesture, that I think he felt the frown through my velvet mask and withdrew.
January 5, 1687.—After months, and indeed years of peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away, I have again been subjected to intolerable annoyance. Fouquet's valet fell ill, and Saint Mars informed me of the fact. I wrote to the King at once saying that either Saint Mars or I must go.
April 30, 1687.—King has granted my request. Arrived at Sainte Marguerite in a chair with wheels covered with wax-cloth. I think I shall be quieter here. I have been promised that no other prisoner shall be lodged here at all, but the promises of Kings are as iridescent and as brittle as Venetian glass.
January, 1690.—Alas! Alas! for the vanity of human wishes. Here I was perfectly contented, and, as I thought, quiet at last. Day followed day of perfect enjoyment, unmarred by conversation, undisturbed by study, unvexed by the elements, when the peace of my solitude is rudely shattered by the arrival of two Protestant ministers. It is true I am never to see them, but the mere fact of knowing that there are two Protestant ministers in the same building is enough to poison life!
June 1, 1698.—More Protestant ministers have arrived, worse than the last. They sing hymns. I have written to the King asking him to transfer me to the Bastille at once. I always said that the Bastille was the only tolerable dwelling-place in France.
September 13, 1698.—Arrived at the Bastille this afternoon. Lodged on the third floor of the Bertandière tower—the thickest tower. Really quiet.
September 19.—A man hammered over my head at four o'clock this morning. It is intolerable. Shall I ever find a place where I can sleep from 4 to 8 a.m. without being disturbed? As it is, I might just as well be living in a fashionable inn.