[35] See the learned and remarkable work of M. Campardon: _Madame de Pompadour et la cour de Louis XV._, 1 vol., Plon. [36] _Curiosités historiques_, par M. Le Roy, 1 vol., Plon. [37] See rooms 56, 57, 58, 59 of M. Soulie’s Notice of the Museum of Versailles. No. 57 was the bedroom of the Marquise, No. 58 her study. [38] Sincere and tender Pompadour (For I can give you in advance This name which rhymeth with amour And soon will be the finest name in France), This tokay with which Your Excellence At Étioles regalèd me, Beareth it not some resemblance Unto the King who gave it thee? It is, like him, without melange, Joins strength to mildness, pleasant art, Pleases the eyes, enchants the heart, Does good and never knoweth change. [39] Spirits and hearts and ramparts terrible, All to his efforts yield, all bend beneath his law, And Berg-Op-Zoom and you, you are invincible; You have submitted only to my King. ’Tis to your arms he flies from Victory’s breast, Finds in your heart the guerdon of his toils. His glory nothing can augment, And you augment his happiness. [40] So then, you reunite All arts, all gifts to please; Pompadour, you embellish The court, Parnassus, and Cythera. Charm of all eyes, treasure of one alone, May your love be eternal! May all your days be marked by festivals! May new successes mark the days of Louis! May you both live devoid of enemies And both preserve your conquests. [41] Grotesque monument, infamous pedestal; The Virtues are on foot, and vice on horseback. [42] Here lies she who, starting from a dungheap, In order to make her fortune complete, Sold her honor to the farmer, And her daughter to the proprietor. [43] The noble lords abase themselves, The financiers enrich themselves, The Poissons aggrandize themselves; ’Tis the reign of good-for-naughts. They exhaust the treasury, They waste in buildings, The State falls into decadence, The King sets nothing straight. A little bourgeoise, Brought up like a wanton, Measuring all by her own standard, Makes a kennel of the court; Louis, in spite of his scruples, Burns coldly for her, And his ridiculous amour Makes all Paris laugh. A vapid countenance, And each tooth spotted, The skin yellow and freckled, The eyes frigid and the neck long, Witless and without character, The soul vile and mercenary, The tattle of a gossip, All is low with la Poisson. If among chosen beauties She were one of the prettiest, One pardons follies When their object is a gem. But when a ridiculous creature And so flat a figure Excites so many murmurs, Every one thinks the King a fool. [44]