The death of M. le Duc d’Orleans made a great sensation abroad and at home; but foreign countries rendered him incomparably more justice, and regretted him much more, than the French.  Although foreigners knew his feebleness, and although the English had strangely abused it, their experience had not the less persuaded them of the range of his mind, of the greatness of his genius and of his views, of his singular penetration, of the sagacity and address of his policy, of the fertility of his expedients and of his resources, of the dexterity of his conduct under all changes of circumstances and events, of his clearness in considering objects and combining things; of his superiority over his ministers, and over those that various powers sent to him; of the exquisite discernment he displayed in investigating affairs; of his learned ability in immediately replying to everything when he wished.  The majority of our Court did not regret him, however.  The life he had led displeased the Church people; but more still, the treatment they had received from his hands.

The day after death, the corpse of M. le Duc d’Orleans was taken from Versailles to Saint-Cloud, and the next day the ceremonies commenced.  His heart was carried from Saint-Cloud to the Val de Grace by the Archbishop of Rouen, chief almoner of the defunct Prince.  The burial took place at Saint-Denis, the funeral procession passing through Paris, with the greatest pomp.  The obsequies were delayed until the 12th of February.  M. le Duc de Chartres became Duc d’Orleans.

After this event, I carried out a determination I had long resolved on.  I appeared before the new masters of the realm as seldom as possible—­ only, in fact, upon such occasions where it would have been inconsistent with my position to stop away.  My situation at the Court had totally changed.  The loss of the dear Prince, the Duc de Bourgogne, was the first blow I had received.  The loss of the Regent was the second.  But what a wide gulf separated these two men!

ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: 

A good friend when a friend at all, which was rare
Artagnan, captain of the grey musketeers
Death came to laugh at him for the sweating labour he had taken
From bad to worse was easy
Others were not allowed to dream as he had lived
We die as we have lived, and ’tis rare it happens otherwise