Jeanne Vaubernier--known in the bagnios by the name of Mademoiselle Lange--was born at Vaucouleurs, as was Jeanne d’Arc. Better still, this later Jeanne said openly at Versailles--dared she say otherwise?--that she was descended in a straight line from the illustrious, the venerated, the august, sacred, national maid, Jeanne. “Why did Du Barry come to Paris?’” says Leon Gozlan in that account of the Château de Lucienne which makes a brilliant and learned chapter in the history of France. “Does one ever know precisely why things are done? She obeyed the magnet which attracts to Paris all who in themselves have a title to glory, to celebrity, or to misfortune. Du Barry had a pretty, provincial face, bright and charming, a face astonished at everything, hair soft and ash-colored, blue eyes, veiled and half open, and a skin fair with rose tints. She was a child of destiny. Who could have said, when she crossed the great town in her basket cart, which rolled lazily along on its massive, creaking wheels, that some day she would have equipages more beautiful than any of those which covered her with mud in passing, and on her arms more laces and diamonds than any of these ladies attended by footmen in liveries?” When Jeanne left the provinces to come to Paris, she found her native country. She was granted the freedom of the city, and expanded in her joy like a delicate plant transplanted into a hothouse. She found herself at home for the first time; and felt that she could rule as a despot over all frequenters of the streets. She learned fashion and love at one and the same time. Gourdan had a hat made for her, and, as a reward, initiated her into the customs. But she was called to other destinies. One day, when she was walking in the Tuileries, a lunatic--and lunatics have second sight--asked her favor when she should become queen. Du Barry said to herself: “This man is mad.” But then she thought of the Pompadour, blushed--it was the only time--and turned her eyes towards Versailles. But Versailles was an unhoped-for shore to such a girl as this, a girl known to all Paris. Would the King care to be the lover of one who had ruled all his courtesans? Who could say? The King often wearied of what he had. Had not a poet already been found who compared her to Venus: O Jeanne, thy beauty seduces And charms the whole world; In vain does the duchess redden And the princess growl; They know that Venus rides proudly The foam of the wave. The poet, while not Voltaire, was no less a man than Bouffiers.