She had herself transported during the night to the House of the Ladies of Val-de-Grace, and desired that they should place in her chamber several relics from their altars.

Her confinement was not less laboured and sinister.  When she saw that all the assistance of art could not stop the bleeding, with which her deep bed was flooded, she caused the King to be summoned, embraced him tenderly, in the midst of sobs and tears, and died in the night, pronouncing the name of God and the name of the King, the objects of her love and of fears.

CHAPTER XVII.

Madame de Sevigne.—­Madame de Grignan.—­Madame de Montespan at the Carmelites.—­Madame de la Valliere.—­These Two Great Ruins Console One Another.—­An Angel of Sweetness, Goodness, and Kindness.

Fifteen or twenty days before the death of Mademoiselle de Fontanges, my sister and I were taking a walk in the new woods of Versailles.  We met the Marquise de Sevigne near the canal; she was showing these marvellous constructions to her daughter, the Comtesse de Grignan.  They greeted us with their charming amiability, and, after having spoken of several indifferent matters, the Marquise said to me:  “We saw, five or six days ago, a person, madame, of whom you were formerly very fond, and who charged us to recall her to the memory of her friends.  You are still of that number,—­I like to think so, and our commission holds good where you are concerned, if you will allow it.”

Then she mentioned to me that poor Duchesse de la Valliere, to whom I was once compelled by my unhappy star to give umbrage, and whom, in my fatal thoughtlessness, I had afflicted without desiring it.

Tears came into my eyes; Madame de Sevigne saw them, and expressed her regret at having caused me pain.  Madame de Thianges and I asked her if my old friend was much changed.  She and Madame de Grignan assured us that she was fresh, in good health, and that her face appeared more beautiful.  On the next day I wished absolutely to see her, and drove to the Carmelites.

On seeing my pretty cripple, who hobbled among us with so great a charm, I uttered a cry, which for a moment troubled her.  She sank down to salute the crucifix, as custom demands, and, after her short prayer, she came to me.  “I did not mention your name to Mesdames de Sevigne,” said she; “but, however, I am obliged to them, since they have been able to procure me the pleasure of seeing you once more.”

“The general opinion of the Court, and in the world, my dear Duchess,” answered I, “is that I brought about your disgrace myself; and the public, that loved you, has not ceased to reproach me with your misfortune.”

“The public is very kind still to occupy itself with me,” she answered; “but it is wrong in that, as in so many other matters.  My retirement from the world is not a misfortune, and I never suspected that the soul could find such peace and satisfaction in these silent solitudes.