It was a letter of madame de Pompadour, which I wished to have, and the maréchale gave me it instantly; the notes remained with her. I copy the note, to give you an idea of the sensibility of the king. “SIRE,--I am ill; dangerously so, perhaps. In the melancholy feeling which preys upon me, I have formed a desire to leave you a souvenir, which will always make me present to your memory. I have embroidered this portfolio with my own hair; accept it; never part with it. Enclose in it your most important papers, and let its contents prove your estimation of it. Will you not accord my prayer? Sign it, I beseech you; it is the caprice, the wish of a dying woman.” Beneath it was written, “This token of love shall never quit me. Louis.” CHAPTER XVII Conversation of the maréchale de Mirepoix with the comtesse du Barry on court friendship--Intrigues of madame de Bearn-- Preconcerted meeting with madame de Flaracourt---Rage of madame de Bearn--Portrait and conversation of madame de Flaracourt with the comtesse du Barry--Insult from the princesse de Guémenée--Her banishment--Explanation of the king and the duc de Choiseul relative to madame du Barry-- The comtesse d’Egmont However giddy I was I did not partake in the excessive gaiety of madame de Mirepoix. I was pained to see how little reliance could be placed on the sensibility of the king, as well as how far I could esteem the consideration of the maréchale for madame de Pompadour, from whom she had experienced so many marks of friendship. This courtier baseness appeared to me so villainous, that I could not entirely conceal how I was affected with displeasure. Madame de Mirepoix saw it, and, looking at me attentively, said, “Do you feel any desire to become pathetical in the country we live in? I warn you that it will be at your own expense. We must learn to content ourselves here with appearances, and examine nothing thoroughly.” “‘There is then no reality?” said I to her. “Yes,” she answered me, “but only two things, power and money: the rest is ‘leather and prunella’ (_contes bleus_): no person has time to love sincerely; it is hatred only that takes deep root and never dies. To hope to give birth to a real passion, an Orestean and Pyladean friendship, is a dream from which you must be awakened.” “Then you do not love me?”