Translated from ‘Memoires sur la vie privee de Marie-Antoinette, ; suivis de souvenirs et anecdotes historiques sur les regnes de Louis […]’
The memoirs about Marie-Antoinette do not arouse neither slyness nor desire. Are they some enemy sentiments that only disarm the memory of her misfortunes? In that pain, we see it appear and shine for a moment, in which we are forced to sympathize. The heart is seduced by her grace, and nearly touched by her pains, yet we do not posses her moments of happiness. At the center of festivals that she lavishes France, of this court that she receives homages, of the gardens that please people by the simplicity of her taste, of the imagination that remains to strike the destiny of those who wait : of the salons of Versailles, or of the woods of the Trianon where we believe to have already appreciated the tours of the Temple. If it were possible to let only one severe inflexible elaborated idea of the most light critiques critique, they would come nearly at the edge of the lips, in the midst of regrets and the accents of suffering.