nd now almost forgotten;
it seems to have been a compound of Loo and Commerce--the _Quinola_ or
_Pam_ was the knave of hearts.

'He was so good as to say I was a partner in his play, by which I got a
very convenient and agreeable place. I saluted the king in the way you
taught me, which he returned as if I had been young and handsome--I
received a thousand compliments--you know what it is to have a word from
everybody! This agreeable confusion without confusion lasts from three
o'clock till six. If a courtier arrives, the king retires for a moment
to read his letters, and returns immediately. There is always some music
going on, which has a very good effect; the king listens to the music
and chats to the ladies about him. At last, at six o'clock, they stop
playing--they have no trouble in settling their reckonings--there are no
counters--the lowest pools are five, six, seven hundred louis, the great
ones a thousand, or twelve hundred; they put in five each at first, that
makes one hundred, and the dealer puts in ten more--then they give four
louis each to whoever has Quinola--some pass, others play, but when you
play without winning the pool, you must put in sixteen to teach you how
to play rashly: they talk all together, and for ever, and of everything.
"How many hearts?" "Two!" "I have three!" "I have one!" "I have four!"
"He has only three!" and Dangeau, delighted with all this prattle, turns
up the trump, makes his calculations, sees whom he has against him, in
short--in short, I was glad to see such an excess of skill. He it is who
really knows "le dessous des cartes."

'At ten o'clock they get into their carriages: _THE KING, MADAME DE
MONTESPAN_, the Duke of Orleans, and Madame de Thianges, and the good
Hendicourt on the dickey, that is as if one were in the upper gallery.
You know how these calashes are made.

'The queen was in another with the princesses; and then everybody else,
grouped as they liked. Then they go on the water in gondolas, with
music; they return at ten; the play is ready, it is over; twelve
strikes, supper is brought in, and so passes Saturday.'

This lively picture of such frightful gambling, of the adulterous
triumph of Madame de Montespan, and of the humiliating part to which the
queen was condemned, will induce our readers to concur with Madame de
Sevigne, who, amused as she had been by the scene she has described,
calls it nevertheless, with her usual pure taste and good judgment,
_l