is cold, but very
civil; and she conceals even the blood of Lorraine, without ever
forgetting it. Nobody in France knows the world better, and nobody is
personally so well with the King. She is false, artful, and insinuating
beyond measure when it is her interest, but indolent and a coward. She
never had any passion but gaming, and always loses. For ever paying
court, the sole produce of a life of art is to get money from the King
to carry on a course of paying debts or contracting new ones, which she
discharges as fast as she is able. She advertised devotion to get made
_dame du palais_ to the Queen; and the very next day this Princess of
Lorraine was seen riding backwards with Madame Pompadour in the latter's
coach. When the King was stabbed, and heartily frightened, the mistress
took a panic too, and consulted D'Argenson, whether she had not best
make off in time. He hated her, and said, By all means. Madame de
Mirepoix advised her to stay. The King recovered his spirits, D'Argenson
was banished,[1] and La Marechale inherited part of the mistress's
credit.--I must interrupt my history of illustrious women with an
anecdote of Monsieur de Maurepas, with whom I am much acquainted, and
who has one of the few heads which approach to good ones, and who
luckily for us was disgraced, and the marine dropped, because it was his
favourite object and province. He employed Pondeveyle to make a song on
the Pompadour: it was clever and bitter, and did not spare even Majesty.
This was Maurepas absurd enough to sing at supper at Versailles.
Banishment ensued; and lest he should ever be restored, the mistress
persuaded the King that he had poisoned her predecessor Madame de
Chateauroux. Maurepas is very agreeable, and exceedingly cheerful; yet I
have seen a transient silent cloud when politics are talked of.

[Footnote 1: The Comte d'Argenson was Minister at War.]

Madame de Boufflers, who was in England, is a _savante_, mistress of the
Prince of Conti, and very desirous of being his wife. She is two women,
the upper and the lower. I need not tell you that the lower is gallant,
and still has pretensions. The upper is very sensible, too, and has a
measured eloquence that is just and pleasing--but all is spoiled by an
unrelaxed attention to applause. You would think she was always sitting
for her picture to her biographer.

Madame de Rochfort is different from all the rest. Her understanding is
just and delicate; with a finesse of wi