hat
with me about matters of interest.

The Queen, whom I had managed to please by my amusing talk, always kept
me close to her side, both when taking long walks or playing cards. At a
given signal, a knock overhead, I used to leave the Queen, excusing
myself on the score of a headache, or arrears of correspondence; in
short, I managed to get away as best I could.

The King left us in order to capture Douai, then Tournay, and finally the
whole of Flanders; while the Queen continued to show me every sign of her
sincere and trustful friendship.

In August, on the Day of Our Lady, while the King was besieging Lille, a
letter came to the Queen, informing her that her husband had forsaken
Madame de la Valliere for her Majesty's lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de
Montespan. Moreover, the anonymous missive named "the prudent Duchesse
de Montausier" as confidante and accomplice.

"It is horrible--it is infamous!" cried the Queen, as she flung aside the
letter. "I shall never be persuaded that such is the case. My dear
little Montespan enjoys my friendship and my esteem; others are jealous
of her, but they shall not succeed. Perhaps the King may know the
handwriting; he shall see it at once!" And that same evening she
forwarded the letter to him.

The Comte de Vegin had been born, and the Queen was absolutely ignorant
of his existence. My pregnancy with the Duc du Maine had likewise
escaped her notice, owing to the large paniers which I took to wearing,
and thus made the fashion. But the Court is a place where the best of
friends are traitors. The Queen was at length convinced, after long
refusing to be so, and from that day forward she cordially detested me.

While the King was conquering Holland, she instructed her chief almoner
to have a sermon of a scandalous sort to be preached, which, delivered
with all due solemnity in her presence, should grieve and wound me as
much as possible.

On the day appointed, a preacher, totally unknown to us, gets into the
pulpit, makes a long prayer for the guidance of the Holy Ghost, and then,
rising gracefully, bows low to the Queen. Raising his eyes to heaven, he
makes the sign of the cross and gives out the following text: "Woman,
arise and sin no more. Go hence; I forgive thee."

As he uttered these words, he looked hard at my pew, and soon made me
understand by his egordium how interesting his discourse would be to me.
Written with rare grace of style, it was merely a pi