“‘No individual has ever been more calumniated than the poor, unhappy Dubarri. In most of the histories of “My own Times,” the “Mémoires pour Servir,” and the Souvenirs of M. This and Madame That, which have been vomited from the press during the last fifty years, she has been accused of every vice, of every crime that perverted human nature is capable of committing. Nothing was ever more unjust than these accusations. She had never forgotten, even amid all her grandeur, her ancient calling, and always felt a weight of _ennui_, of which she complained openly, with the greatest _naïveté_, at the pomp and ceremony which surrounded her at Versailles; and, above all, at the obsequious homage of which she was the object. She had succeeded in debasing her royal lover to her own level; but she was without ambition, and never sought to raise herself, or to use the influence she had acquired over the mind of the king for wanton mischief or malice. In the king’s cabinet, in his council-cabinet, or in the _galerie des glaces_, when assisting the king in his reception of foreign ambassadors, she was always the same “_Jeanne la Folle, de chez la Mère Morry_.” She had remained in everything the very type of the successful members of the unfortunate class from which she had been taken. Violent and vindictive against those who offended her, her wrath was speedily forgotten in the more powerful passion for amusement and pleasure, which seemed, like a very demon, to have possession of her soul. Night and day, from sunrise to sunset, was she ever ready for a noisy game, or a brawling dance.