wished to say a word.  “You shall speak in your turn, Sir,” said the Duke of Orleans in a dry tone.  The court immediately decided in his favor by acclamation, and even without proceeding in the regular way to vote.  There remained the codicils, which annulled in fact the Regent’s authority.  A discussion began between the Duke of Orleans and the Duke of Maine; it was causing Philip of Orleans to lose the advantage he had just won; his friends succeeded in making him perceive this, and he put off the session until after dinner.  When they returned to the Palace of Justice the codicils were puffed away like the will by the breath of popular favor.  The Duke of Maine, despoiled of the command of the king’s household, declared that, under such conditions, it was impossible for him to be answerable for the king’s person, and that he “demanded to be relieved of that duty.”  “Most willingly, Sir,” replied the Regent; “your services are no longer required;” and he forthwith explained to the Parliament his intention of governing affairs according to the plan which had been found among the papers of the Duke of Burgundy.  “Those gentry know little or nothing of the French, and of the way to govern them,” had been the remark of Louis XIV. on reading the schemes of Fenelon, the Duke of Beauvilliers, and St. Simon.  The Parliament applauded the formation of the six councils of foreign affairs, of finance, of war, of the marine, of home or the interior, of conscience or ecclesiastical affairs; the Regent was intrusted with the free disposal of graces.  “I want to be free for good,” said he, adroitly repeating a phrase from Telemaque, “I consent to have my hands tied for evil.”

The victory was complete.  Not a shred remained of Louis XIV.’s will.  The Duke of Maine, confounded and humiliated, retired to his Castle of Sceaux, there to endure the reproaches of his wife.  The king’s affection and Madame de Maintenon’s clever tactics had not sufficed to found his power; the remaining vestiges of his greatness were themselves about to vanish before long in their turn.

[Illustration:  The Bed of Justice——­57]

On the 12th of September, the little king held a bed of justice; his governess, Madame de Ventadour, sat alone at the feet of the poor orphan, abandoned on the pinnacle of power.  All the decisions of September 2 were ratified in the child’s name.  Louis XIV. had just descended to the tomb without pomp and without regret.  The joy of the people broke out indecently as the funeral train passed by; the nation had forgotten the glory of the great king; it remembered only the evils which had for so long oppressed it during his reign.