usted with all things, they only exist in a
variety of pleasures; what pleases them this evening will displease them
tomorrow; they wish to be happy in a different way. Louis XV is more
kingly in this respect than any other. You must devise amusements for
him."

"Alas," I replied, "how? Shall I give him a new tragedy of la
Harpe's,--he will yawn; an opera of Marmontel,--he will go to sleep.
Heavens! how unfortunate I am!"

"Really, my dear," replied the marechale, "I cannot advise you; but I
can quote a powerful example. In such a case madame de Pompadour would
have admitted a rival near the throne."

"Madame de Pompadour was very amiable, my dear," I replied, "and I would
have done so once or twice, but the part of Mother Gourdan does not suit
me; I prefer that of her young ladies."

At these words the marechale laughed, whilst I made a long grave face.
At this instant comte Jean entered, and exclaimed,

"Really, ladies, you present a singular contrast. May I ask you, sister,
what causes this sorrow? What ails you?"

"Oh, brother!" was my response, "the king is dying of ennui."

"That is no marvel," said my brother-in-law.

"And to rouse him," I added, "it is necessary, the marechale says, that
I must take a pretty girl by the hand, and present her to the king with
these words: 'Sire, having found that you grow tired of me, I present
this lady to you, that you may amuse yourself with her."

"That would be very fine," replied comte Jean; "it would show
him that you had profited by my advice." Then, whispering in my ear,
"You know, sister, I am capable of the greatest sacrifices for the
king."

"What are you saying, Comte Jean?" asked the marechale, who had heard
some words.

"I said to my sister," answered he, coolly, "that she ought to be
executed to please the king."

"And you, too, brother," I cried.

"Yes, sister," said he, with a theatrical tone, "I see the dire
necessity, and submit to it unrepiningly. Let us yield to fate, or
rather, let us so act as to make it favorable to us. The king requires
some amusement, and let us find him a little wench. We must take heed
not to present any fine lady: no, no; by all the devils--! Excuse me,
marechale, 'tis a habit I have."

"It is nature, you mean," replied the marechale: "the nightingale is
born to sing, and you, comte Jean, were born to swear; is it not true?"

"_Morbleu_, madam, you are right."

After this conversation the marechale went out, and