ven my
lap-dog is weary of their fawnings." In short, Madame de Pompadour
reigned so imperiously, that once at Versailles, about the conclusion of
dinner, an old man approached the king, and begged him to have the
goodness to recommend him to Madame de Pompadour. All present laughed
heartily at this conceit; except, however, the marchioness.

Madame de Maintenon had not more difficulty in amusing Louis XIV. when
grown old and devout, than had Madame de Pompadour in diverting his
successor, who, though still young, seemed like a man who had exhausted
all the pleasures and enjoyments of life. About the time when the
marchioness used to transform herself into milkmaids and peasant girls,
she commenced building a very romantic hermitage in the park of
Versailles, on the outskirts of the wood near the Saint Germain's road:
viewed from without it seemed a true hermitage, worthy in all points of
an anchorite's abode; but within it was a dwelling more suited to some
old _roue_ of the Regency. Vanloo, Boucher, and Latour had covered the
walls and ceilings with all the images of pagan art. The garden was a
_chef d'oeuvre_; it was a grove rather than a garden; a grove peopled
with statues, intersected by a multitude of winding paths and alleys, and
abounding with a number of arbors, recesses, and "shady blest retreats."
In the middle of the garden there was a farm--a true model-farm--with its
cattle, goats, and sheep, and all the paraphernalia of husbandry. The
marchioness presided daily at the construction of this hermitage.

"Where are you going, marchioness?" Louis XV. would say on seeing her
going out so frequently.

"Sire," she would reply, "I am building myself a hermitage for my old
age. You know I am rather devout: I shall end my days in solitude."

"Yes," replied the king, "like all those who have loved deeply, or who
have been loved deeply."

About the time when spring gives place to the first advances of summer;
when the trees were in leaf, and the plants in flower; when the bright
greensward, enameled with its countless flowrets, carpeted the alleys of
the park, Madame de Pompadour one morning begged Louis XV. to come and
breakfast with her at the hermitage.

The king was conducted thither by his valet. His surprise was great. At
first, before entering, at the sight of the humble thatched roof, he
imagined that he was about to breakfast like a true anchorite, and began
to fear seriously that the marchioness had n