voluptuousness. Neither the wit, the talents, the graces of the Marquise
de Pompadour, her beauty, nor even her love for the King, would have had
any further influence over that worn-out being.

He wanted a Roxalana of familiar gaiety, without any respect for the
dignity of the sovereign. Madame du Barry one day so far forgot propriety
as to desire to be present at a Council of State. The King was weak
enough to consent to it. There she remained ridiculously perched upon the
arm of his chair, playing all sorts of childish monkey tricks, calculated
to please an old sultan.

Another time she snatched a packet of sealed letters from the King's hand.
Among them she had observed one from Comte de Broglie. She told the King
that she knew that rascal Broglie spoke ill of her to him, and that for
once, at least, she would make sure he should read nothing respecting her.
The King wanted to get the packet again; she resisted, and made him run
two or three times round the table, which was in the middle of the
council-chamber, and then, on passing the fireplace, she threw the letters
into the grate, where they were consumed. The King became furious; he
seized his audacious mistress by the arm, and put her out of the door
without speaking to her. Madame du Barry thought herself utterly
disgraced; she returned home, and remained two hours, alone, abandoned to
the utmost distress. The King went to her; she threw herself at his feet,
in tears, and he pardoned her.

Madame la Marechale de Beauvau, the Duchesse de Choiseul, and the Duchesse
de Grammont had renounced the honour of the King's intimate acquaintance
rather than share it with Madame du Barry. But a few years after the
death of Louis XV., Madame la Marechale being alone at the Val, a house
belonging to M. de Beauvau, Mademoiselle de Dillon saw the Countess's