entire day; I do not
affirm that this throne was the throne of France, yet I dare assert that
it was a throne of purple, of gold, and of diamonds: this dream torments
me--it is at once the joy and torment of my life. Sire, for mercy's sake,
interpret it for me."

"The interpretation is very simple," replied the king; "but, in the first
place it is absolutely necessary that that velvet masque should fall."

"You have seen me."

"Where?"

"In the forest of Senart."

"Then," said the king, "you can divine that we should like to see you
again."

About a month or two after this interview, according to some biographers,
Madame d'Etioles, being determined by a _coup de main_ to attain her
grand object, namely, the securing a permanent footing at Versailles,
arrived one morning at the palace in a state of violent agitation, and
demanded an audience of the king. One of the gentleman ushers, a certain
M. de Bridge, who had been a guest at Etioles during the festivities of
the preceding season, conducted her into the presence of Louis XV.

"Sire," she exclaimed, "I am lost; my husband knows my glory and my
misfortune. I come to demand a refuge at your hands. If you shelter me
not from his anger he will kill me."

From that hour she took up her residence at Versailles to quit it no
more.

We know that Louis XV. passed his life in a state of constant lassitude
and _ennui_, from which it was almost impossible to arouse him;
indolence, indeed, may be said to have been the predominant trait in his
character: he hated politics and political matters, and all allusions to
state affairs were most irksome to him.

"Your people suffer, sire," said the Duke de Choiseul to him one day,
after a long political harangue.

"_Je m'ennuie!_" replied the king.

By skillfully and constantly varying the amusements of her royal lover,
with hunting-parties, promenades, fetes, spectacles, and _petits
soupers_, Madame d'Etioles was enabled to strengthen her empire over the
heart of Louis XV., by making him feel how necessary she had become to
his happiness. One striking advantage she had over her predecessors, and
this was, the art she possessed of being able to metamorphose herself at
all hours of the day. No one could better vary the play of her
physiognomy than Madame de Pompadour. At one time she would appear
languishing and sentimental as a madonna; at another, lively, gay, and
coquettish, as a Spanish peasant girl. She possessed also,