The King appeared much moved; naturally he wept with great facility; he was, therefore, all tears.  He had never had cause not to love his brother tenderly; although on bad terms with him for the last two months, these sad moments recalled all his tenderness; perhaps, too, he reproached himself for having hastened death by the scene of the morning.  And finally, Monsieur was younger than he by two years, and all his life had enjoyed as good health as he, and better!  The King heard mass at Saint Cloud; and, towards eight o’clock in the morning, Monsieur being past all hope, Madame de Maintenon and Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne persuaded the King to stay no longer, and accordingly returned with him in his carriage to Marly.  As he was going out and was showing some sign of affection to M. de Chartres—­both weeping very much—­that young Prince did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity.  “Oh Sire!” he exclaimed, embracing the King’s thighs, “what will become of me?  I lose Monsieur, and I know that you do not like me.”  The King, surprised and much touched, embraced him, and said all the tender things he could.

On arriving at Marly, the King went with the Duchesse de Bourgogne to Madame de Maintenon.  Three hours after came M. Fagon, who had been ordered not to leave Monsieur until he was dead or better—­which could not be but by miracle.  The King said, as soon as he saw him:  “Well!  M. Fagon, my brother is dead?”—­“Yes, Sire,” said Fagon, “no remedy has taken effect.”

The King wept a good deal.  He was pressed to dine with Madame de Maintenon; but he would not do so, and had his dinner, as usual, with the ladies.  The tears often ran down his cheek, during the meal, which was short.  After this, he shut himself up in Madame de Maintenon’s rooms until seven o’clock, and then took a turn in his garden.  Afterwards he worked with Chamillart and Pontchartrain; and arranged all the funeral ceremonies of Monsieur.  He supped an hour before his customary time, and went to bed soon afterwards.

At the departure from St. Cloud of the King, all the crowd assembled there little by little withdrew, so that Monsieur dying, stretched upon a couch in his cabinet, remained exposed to the scullions and the lower officers of the household, the majority of whom, either by affection or interest, were much afflicted.  The chief officers and others who lost posts and pensions filled the air with their cries; whilst all the women who were at Saint Cloud, and who lost their consideration and their amusement, ran here and there, crying, with dishevelled hair, like Bacchantes.  The Duchesse de la Ferme, who had basely married her daughter to one of Monsieur’s minions, named La Carte, came into the cabinet; and, whilst gazing on the Prince, who still palpitated there, exclaimed, giving vent to her profound reflections, “Pardi!  Here is a daughter well married!”

“A very important matter!” cried Chatillon, who himself lost everything by this death.  “Is this a moment to consider whether your daughter is well married or not?”