daughter-in-law's speeches and actions are of the simplest, most
commonplace kind. Were it not for the King, she would pass her life in a
dressing-gown, night-cap, and slippers. At Court ceremonies and on
gala-days, she never appears to be in a good humour; everything seems to
weigh her down, notably her diamonds.

However, she has no remarkable defect, and one may say that she is devoid
of goodness, just as she is devoid of badness. When coming among us, she
contrived to bring with her Molina, the daughter of her nurse, a sort of
comedy confidante, who soon gave herself Court airs, and who managed to
form a regular little Court of her own. Without her sanction nothing can
be obtained of the Queen. My lady Molina is the great, the small, and
the unique counsellor of the princess, and the King, like the others,
remains submissive to her decisions and her inspection.

French cookery, by common consent, is held to be well-nigh perfect in its
excellence; yet the Infanta could never get used to our dishes. The
Senora Molina, well furnished with silver kitchen utensils, has a sort of
private kitchen or scullery reserved for her own use, and there it is
that the manufacture takes place of clove-scented chocolate, brown soups
and gravies, stews redolent with garlic, capsicums, and nutmeg, and all
that nauseous pastry in which the young Infanta revels.

Ever since La Valliere's lasting triumph, the Queen seems to have got it
into her head that she is despised; and at table I have often heard her
say, "They will help themselves to everything, and won't leave me
anything."

I am not unjust, and I admit that a husband's public attachments are not
exactly calculated to fill his legitimate consort with joy. But,