The grand-dauphin had for some days past been ill of small-pox.  The king had gone to be with him at Meudon, forbidding the court to come near the castle.  The small court of Monseigneur were huddled together in the lofts.  The king was amused with delusive hopes; his chief physician, Fagon, would answer for the invalid.  The king continued to hold his councils as usual, and the deputation of market-women (dames de la Halle), come from Paris to have news of Monseigneur, went away, declaring that they would go and sing a Te Deum, as he was nearly well.  “It is not time yet, my good women,” said Monseigneur, who had given them a reception.  That very evening he was dead, without there having been time to send for his confessor in ordinary.  “The parish priest of Meudon, who used to look in every evening before he went home, had found all the doors open, the valets distracted, Fagon heaping remedy upon remedy without waiting for them to take effect.  He entered the room, and hurrying to Monseigneur’s bedside, took his hand and spoke to him of God.  The poor prince was fully conscious, but almost speechless.  He repeated distinctly a few words, others inarticulately, smote his breast, pressed the priest’s hand, appeared to have the most excellent sentiments, and received absolution with an air of contrition and wistfulness.” [Memoires de St. Simon, ix.] Meanwhile word had been sent to the king, who arrived quite distracted.  The Princess of Conti, his daughter, who was deeply attached to Monseigneur, repulsed him gently:  “You must think only of yourself now, Sir,” she said.  The king let himself sink down upon a sofa, asking news of all that came out of the room, without any one’s daring to give him an answer.  Madame de Maintenon, who had hurried to the king, and was agitated without being affected, tried to get him away; she did not succeed, however, until Monseigneur had breathed his last.  He passed along to his carriage between two rows of officers and valets, all kneeling, and conjuring him to have pity upon them who had lost all and were like to starve.

[Illustration:  The King leaving the Death-bed of Monseigneur——­36]

The excitement and confusion at Versailles were tremendous.  From the moment that small-pox was declared, the princes had not been admitted to Meudon.  The Duchess of Burgundy alone had occasionally seen the king.  All were living in confident expectation of a speedy convalescence; the news of the death came upon them like a thunderclap.  All the courtiers thronged together at once, the women half dressed, the men anxious and concerned, some to conceal their extreme sorrow, others their joy, according as they were mixed up in the different cabals of the court.  “It was all, however, nothing but a transparent veil,” says St. Simon, “which did not prevent good eyes from observing and discerning all the features.  The two princes and the two princesses, seated beside them, taking care of them, were most