If you will not, I must tell you. M. de Lauzun
marries on Sunday, at the Louvre,--whom now? I give you three guesses,--
six,--a hundred. Madame de Coulanges says, 'It is not hard to guess; it is
Madame de la Valliere.' Not at all, Madame! 'Mlle. de Retz?' Not a bit;
you are a mere provincial. 'How absurd!' you say; 'it is Mlle. Colbert.'
Not that, either. 'Then, of course, it is Mlle. de Crequi.' Not right yet.
Must I tell you, then? Listen! he marries on Sunday, at the Louvre, by his
Majesty's permission, Mademoiselle,--Mademoiselle de,--Mademoiselle (will
you guess again?)--he marries MADEMOISELLE,--La Grande Mademoiselle,--
Mademoiselle, daughter of the late Monsieur,--Mademoiselle, grand-
daughter of Henri Quatre,--Mademoiselle d'Eu,--Mademoiselle de Dombes,--
Mademoiselle de Montpensier,--Mademoiselle d'Orleans,--Mademoiselle, the
King's own cousin,--Mademoiselle, destined for the throne,--Mademoiselle,
the only fit match in France for Monsieur [the King's brother];--there's
a piece of information for you! If you shriek,--if you are beside
yourself,--if you say it is a hoax, false, mere gossip, stuff, and
nonsense,--if, finally, you say hard things about us, we do not complain;
we took the news in the same way. Adieu; the letters by this post will
show you whether we have told the truth.
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