The interview of the Duchesse de Bourgogne with the King had not been long.  She met him in the avenue between the two stables, got down, and went to the door of the carriage.  Madame de Maintenon cried out, “Where are you going?  We bear the plague about with us.”  I do not know what the King said or did.  The Princess returned to her carriage, and came back to Versailles, bringing in reality the first news of the actual death of Monseigneur.

Acting upon the advice of M. de Beauvilliers, all the company had gone into the salon.  The two Princes, Monseigneur de Bourgogne and M. de Berry, were there, seated on one sofa, their Princesses at their sides; all the rest of the company were scattered about in confusion, seated or standing, some of the ladies being on the floor, near the sofa.  There could be no doubt of what had happened.  It was plainly written on every face in the chamber and throughout the apartment.  Monseigneur was no more:  it was known:  it was spoken of:  constraint with respect to him no longer existed.  Amidst the surprise, the confusion, and the movements that prevailed, the sentiments of all were painted to the life in looks and gestures.

In the outside rooms were heard the constrained groans and sighs of the valets—­grieving for the master they had lost as well as for the master that had succeeded.  Farther on began the crowd of courtiers of all kinds.  The greater number—­that is to say the fools—­pumped up sighs as well as they could, and with wandering but dry eyes, sung the praises of Monseigneur—­insisting especially on his goodness.  They pitied the King for the loss of so good a son.  The keener began already to be uneasy about the health of the King; and admired themselves for preserving so much judgment amidst so much trouble, which could be perceived by the frequency of their repetitions.  Others, really afflicted—­the discomfited cabal—­wept bitterly, and kept themselves under with an effort as easy to notice as sobs.  The most strong-minded or the wisest, with eyes fixed on the ground, in corners, meditated on the consequences of such an event—­and especially on their own interests.  Few words passed in conversation—­here and there an exclamation wrung from grief was answered by some neighbouring grief—­a word every quarter of an hour —­sombre and haggard eyes—­movements quite involuntary of the hands—­ immobility of all other parts of the body.  Those who already looked upon the event as favourable in vain exaggerated their gravity so as to make it resemble chagrin and severity; the veil over their faces was transparent and hid not a single feature.  They remained as motionless as those who grieved most, fearing opinion, curiosity, their own satisfaction, their every movement; but their eyes made up for their immobility.  Indeed they could not refrain from repeatedly changing their attitude like people ill at ease, sitting or standing, from avoiding each other too carefully, even from allowing their eyes to meet—­nor repress a manifest air of liberty—­nor conceal their increased liveliness—­nor put out a sort of brilliancy which distinguished them in spite of themselves.