ul to utter at the outset of things. Madame is a person (as
everybody in France now knows) who is in open revolt against her husband;
she has deserted him in order to cohabit publicly with some one else. Her
husband claims his coach, with his own crest and armorial bearings
thereon, and we are here for the purpose of carrying out the order of one
of the judges of the High Court."

"If that be so," replied the man in the dressing-gown, "I have no
objection to offer, and though madame is loveliness itself, she must
suffer me to pity her, and I have the honour of saluting her."

So saying, he made me a bow and left me, without help of any sort, in the
midst of this crazy rabble.

I was inconsolable. My coachman, the best fellow in the world, called
out to him from the top of his bog, "Monsieur, pray procure help for my
mistress,--for Madame la Marquise de Montespan."

No sooner had he uttered these words than the gentleman came back again,
while, among the lookers-on, some hissing was heard. He raised both
hands with an air of authority, and speaking with quite incredible
vehemence and fire, he successfully harangued the crowd.

"Madame does not refuse to comply with the requirements of justice," he
added firmly; "but madame, a member of the Queen's household, is
returning to Versailles, and cannot go thither on foot, or in some
tumbledown vehicle. So I must beg these constables or sergeants (no
matter which) to defer their arrest until to-morrow, and to accept me as
surety. The French people is the friend of fair ladies; and true
Parisians are incapable of harming or of persecuting aught that is
gracious and beautiful."

All those present, who at first had hissed, replied to this speech by
cries of "Bravo!" One of my men, who had been wounded in the scuffle,
had his hand all bloody. A young woman brought some lavender-water, and
bound up the wound with her white handkerchief, amid loud applause from
the crowd, while I bowed my acknowledgments and thanks.

The King listened with interest to the account of the adventure that I
have just described, and wished to know the name of the worthy man who
had acted as my support and protector. His name was De Tarcy-Ronancour.
The King granted him a pension of six thousand francs, and gave the Abbey
of Bauvoir to his daughter.

As for me, I kept insisting with might and main for a separation of body
and estate, which alone could put an end to all my anxiety. When a