The Queen was not only a pious but a good woman. Indifferent to the gallantries of her husband, and free from ambition, she lived well with him, his mistresses, and ministers. Fond of talking and universally obliging, the nation thought her void of any particular attachment; yet she showed an unalterable friendship to the Duchess de Luynes: and her affection to her father, King Stanislas, and the loss of her son the Dauphin undoubtedly hastened her death. Though she could not prevent the expulsion of the Jesuits, the King’s esteem for her mitigated their fall. It was to the honour of both that, though the daughters of Stanislas and Augustus, the Queen and the Dauphiness lived in uninterrupted harmony. The Dauphin, who died while I was in France, was totally unknown till his death. His great caution of not giving jealousy to his father, and his respectable fear of not alarming the bigotry of his mother and wife, had made him conceal both his good sense and the freedom of his sentiments with such care, that the former was not suspected; and the latter was so unknown, that the nation, now running with their usual vehemence into any new opinion, and, consequently, growing Freethinkers, believed and hated him as an enthusiast. Yet he had a good understanding, had carefully, though secretly, cultivated it, and was a modern philosopher in the largest sense of that term. During his illness, which continued many weeks, he seemed neither to regret his youth nor hopes; was patient, complaisant, and indulgent; and a few days before his death gave proof of his good sense and good nature. A man of quality that attended him had the brutal absurdity to solicit him to ask some favour, on his behalf, of the King, “who,” said the person, “can refuse your Royal Highness nothing in your present condition.” The Dauphin laughed at the indelicacy, but would not divulge the name of the man. To please his family the Prince went through all the ceremonies of the Church, but shewed to his attendants, after they were over, how vain and ridiculous he thought them. Many expressions he dropped in his last hours that spoke the freedom of his opinions; and to the Duc de Nivernois he said, he was glad to leave behind him such a book as Mr. Hume’s Essays.[197] The Dauphiness, with whom he lived on the best terms, he had, however, no fondness for: his first wife had been far more dear to him. The second was morose and ungracious; and, dying in a year after her husband, was not at all regretted. In her last moments, having sharply reprimanded the Duchesse de Lauragais, the latter, turning to another lady, said, “Cette Princesse est si bonne, qu’elle veut que personne ne la regrette.”[198]