give her for having agreed with her father to
embrace the religious profession without her knowledge. The daughter
said that, as her mother had always taken the side of the former Abbess
against her, she had not confided this secret to her, from a conviction
that she would oppose it to please the Abbess. This threw the mother
into a paroxysm of grief. She said she was very unhappy both in her
husband and her children; that her husband was the most unjust person in
the world, for that he kept her brother-in-law in prison, who was one of
the best and most pious of men--in short, a perfect saint; and that God
would punish such wickedness. The daughter replied it was respect for
her mother that kept her silent; and the latter became quite furious.
This shows that she hates us like the very Devil, and that she loves none
but her lame brother, and those who love him or are nearly connected with
him.

She thinks there never was so perfect a being in the world as her mother.
She cannot quite persuade herself that she was ever Queen, because she
knew the Queen too well, who always called her daughter, and treated her
better than her sisters; I cannot tell why, because she was not the most
amiable of them.

It is quite true that there is little sympathy between my son's wife and
me; but we live together as politely as possible. Her singular conduct
shall never prevent me from keeping that promise which I made to the late
King in his last moments. He gave some good Christian exhortations to
Madame d'Orleans; but, as the proverb says, it is useless to preach to
those who have no heart to act.

In the spring of this year (1718) her brothers and relations said that
but for the antidotes which had been administered to Madame d'Orleans,
without the knowledge of me or my son, she must have perished.

I had resolved not to interfere with anything respecting this affair; but
had the satisfaction of speaking my mind a little to Madame du Maine.
I said to her: "Niece" (by which appellation I always addressed her),
"I beg you will let me know who told you that Madame d'Orleans had taken
a counterpoison unknown to us. It is the greatest falsehood that ever
was uttered, and you may say so from me to whoever told it you."

She looked red, and said, "I never said it was so."

"I am very glad of it, niece," I replied; "for it would be very
disgraceful to you to have said so, and you ought not to allow people to
bring you such tales."