embraced them
in a cold, constrained manner. I was present, having joined
Mademoiselle's governess. I remarked to Madame, in the evening,
that the King had not appeared very cordial in his caresses.
"That is his way," said she; "but do not those children appear
made for each other? If it was Louis XIV., he would make a Duc
du Maine of the little boy; I do not ask so much; but a place
and a dukedom for his son is very little; and it is because he is
his son that I prefer him to all the little Dukes of the Court.
My grandchildren would blend the resemblance of their grandfather
and grandmother; and this combination, which I hope to live to
see, would, one day, be my greatest delight." The tears came
into her eyes as she spoke. Alas! alas! only six months elapsed,
when her darling daughter, the hope of her advanced years, the
object of her fondest wishes, died suddenly. Madame de Pompadour
was inconsolable, and I must do M. de Marigny the justice to
say that he was deeply afflicted. His niece was beautiful as
an angel, and destined to the highest fortunes, and I always
thought that he had formed the design of marrying her. A dukedom
would have given him rank; and that, joined to his place, and
to the wealth which she would have had from her mother, would
have made him a man of great importance. The difference of age
was not sufficient to be a great obstacle. People, as usual, said
the young lady was poisoned; for the unexpected death of persons
who command a large portion of public attention always gives birth
to these rumours. The King shewed great regret, but more for
the grief of Madame than on account of the loss itself, though
he had often caressed the child, and loaded her with presents. I
owe it, also, to justice, to say that M. de Marigny, the heir
of all Madame de Pompadour's fortune, after the death of her
daughter, evinced the sincerest and deepest regret every time
she was seriously ill. She, soon after, began to lay plans for
his establishment. Several young ladies of the highest birth were
thought of; and, perhaps, he would have been made a Duke, but
his turn of mind indisposed him for schemes either of marriage
or ambition. Ten times he might have been made Prime Minister,
yet he never aspired to it. "That is a man," said Quesnay to me,
one day, "who is very little known; nobody talks of his talents
or acquirements, nor of his zealous and efficient patronage of the
arts: no man, since Colbert, has done so