The funeral of this unfortunate young lady was solemnised with all proper ceremonies, and conducted in the most honourable manner, as she was descended from a great family, allied to the Queen my mother.  When the day of interment arrived, four of my gentlemen were appointed bearers, one of whom was named La Boessiere.  This man had entertained a secret passion for her, which he never durst declare on account of the inferiority of his family and station.  He was now destined to bear the remains of her, dead, for whom he had long been dying, and was now as near dying for her loss as he had before been for her love.  The melancholy procession was marching slowly, along, when it was met by the Marquis de Varenbon, who had been the sole occasion of it.  We had not left Namur long when the Marquis reflected upon his cruel behaviour towards this unhappy young lady; and his passion (wonderful to relate) being revived by the absence of her who inspired it, though scarcely alive while she was present, he had resolved to come and ask her of her mother in marriage.  He made no doubt, perhaps, of success, as he seldom failed in enterprises of love; witness the great lady he has since obtained for a wife, in opposition to the will of her family.  He might, besides, have flattered himself that he should easily have gained a pardon from her by whom he was beloved, according to the Italian proverb, “Che la forza d’amore non riguarda al delitto” (Lovers are not criminal in the estimation of one another).  Accordingly, the Marquis solicited Don John to be despatched to me on some errand, and arrived, as I said before, at the very instant the corpse of this ill-fated young lady was being borne to the grave.  He was stopped by the crowd occasioned by this solemn procession.  He contemplates it for some time.  He observes a long train of persons in mourning, and remarks the coffin to be covered with a white pall, and that there are chaplets of flowers laid upon the coffin.  He inquires whose funeral it is.  The answer he receives is, that it is the funeral of a young lady.  Unfortunately for him, this reply fails to satisfy his curiosity.  He makes up to one who led the procession, and eagerly asks the name of the young lady they are proceeding to bury.  When, oh, fatal answer!  Love, willing to avenge the victim of his ingratitude and neglect, suggests a reply which had nearly deprived him of life.  He no sooner hears the name of Mademoiselle de Tournon pronounced than he falls from his horse in a swoon.  He is taken up for dead, and conveyed to the nearest house, where he lies for a time insensible; his soul, no doubt, leaving his body to obtain pardon from her whom he had hastened to a premature grave, to return to taste the bitterness of death a second time.