omest of my granddaughters. She has a fine skin, a
superb complexion, very white teeth, good eyes, and a faultless shape,
but she stammers a little; her hands are extremely delicate, the red and
white are beautifully and naturally mingled in her skin. I never saw
finer teeth; they are like a row of pearls; and her gums are no less
beautiful. A Prince of Auhalt who is here is very much in love with her;
but the good gentleman is ugly enough, so that there is no danger. She
dances well, and sings better; reads music at sight, and understands the
accompaniment perfectly; and she sings without any grimace. She persists
in her project of becoming a nun; but I think she would be better in the
world, and do all in my power to change her determination: it seems,
however, to be a folly which there is no eradicating. Her tastes are all
masculine; she loves dogs, horses, and riding; all day long she is
playing with gunpowder, making fusees and other artificial fireworks.
She has a pair of pistols, which she is incessantly firing; she fears
nothing in the world, and likes nothing which women in general like; she
cares little about her person, and for this reason I think she will make
a good nun.

She does not become a nun through jealousy of her sister, but from the
fear of being tormented by her mother and sister, whom she loves very
much, and in this she is right. She and her sister are not fond of their
mother's favourites, and cannot endure to flatter them. They have no
very reverent notions, either, of their mother's brother, and this is the
cause of dissensions. I never saw my granddaughter in better spirits
than on Sunday last; she was with her sister, on horseback, laughing, and
apparently in great glee. At eight o'clock in the evening her mother
arrived; we played until supper; I thought we were afterwards going to
play again, but Madame d'Orleans begged me to go into the cabinet with
her and Mademoiselle d'Orleans; the child there fell on her knees, and
begged my permission, and her mother's, to go to Chelles to perform her
devotions. I said she might do that anywhere, that the place mattered
not, but that all depended upon her own heart, and the preparation which
she made. She, however, persisted in her desire to go to Chelles. I
said to her mother:

"You must decide whether your daughter shall go to Chelles or not."

She replied, "We cannot hinder her performing her devotions."

[In the Memoirs of t