Louis had walked on to his devotions in no very charitable frame of mind, as was easily to be seen from his clouded brow and compressed lips.  He knew his late favourite well, her impulsiveness, her audacity, her lack of all restraint when thwarted or opposed.  She was capable of making a hideous scandal, of turning against him that bitter tongue which had so often made him laugh at the expense of others, perhaps even of making some public exposure which would leave him the butt and gossip of Europe.  He shuddered at the thought.  At all costs such a catastrophe must be averted.  And yet how could he cut the tie which bound them?  He had broken other such bonds as these; but the gentle La Valliere had shrunk into a convent at the very first glance which had told her of waning love.  That was true affection.  But this woman would struggle hard, fight to the bitter end, before she would quit the position which was so dear to her.  She spoke of her wrongs.  What were her wrongs?  In his intense selfishness, nurtured by the eternal flattery which was the very air he breathed, he could not see that the fifteen years of her life which he had absorbed, or the loss of the husband whom he had supplanted, gave her any claim upon him.  In his view he had raised her to the highest position which a subject could occupy.  Now he was weary of her, and it was her duty to retire with resignation, nay, even with gratitude for past favours.  She should have a pension, and the children should be cared for.  What could a reasonable woman ask for more?

And then his motives for discarding her were so excellent.  He turned them over in his mind as he knelt listening to the Archbishop of Paris reciting the Mass, and the more he thought, the more he approved.  His conception of the deity was as a larger Louis, and of heaven as a more gorgeous Versailles.  If he exacted obedience from his twenty millions, then he must show it also to this one who had a right to demand it of him.  On the whole, his conscience acquitted him.  But in this one matter he had been lax.  From the first coming of his gentle and forgiving young wife from Spain, he had never once permitted her to be without a rival.  Now that she was dead, the matter was no better.  One favourite had succeeded another, and if De Montespan had held her own so long, it was rather from her audacity than from his affection.  But now Father La Chaise and Bossuet were ever reminding him that he had topped the summit of his life, and was already upon that downward path which leads to the grave.  His wild outburst over the unhappy Fontanges had represented the last flicker of his passions.  The time had come for gravity and for calm, neither of which was to be expected in the company of Madame de Montespan.