Yesterday, directly after my dinner, I went to Paris, and found my
poor son in a state to melt a heart of rock. He is afflicted to the
soul, and all the more because he sees that if he had not shown such
excessive indulgence to his dear daughter, if he had better acted a
father's part, she would now be living and healthy.
With all her revenues she leaves behind her debts amounting to 400,000
francs, for my son to pay. Those people about her robbed and pillaged
the poor princess horribly; but that is always the way with a brood
of favourites. Her marriage with that toad's head [Rion] is unhappily
but too true. He is not, however, of a bad stock; he is allied to
good families; the Duc de Lauzun is his uncle, and Biron his nephew;
but, for all that, he was not worthy of the honours that came to him.
He was only a captain in the king's regiment. Women ran after him. I
thought him ugly and repulsive, and sickly looking besides. When the
news of the Duchesse de Berry's death reached the army, the Prince de
Conti went to find Rion and made him this pretty speech: "She is dead,
your milch cow, and you need not talk any more about her." My son
feels rather stung; but he does not wish to seem to know of it.