“But,” replied the King, “did you not tell him ’twas I who had placed you?”

“Yes, Sire,” replied the captain.  The King piqued, turned towards his suite, and said:  “That’s Louvois’s trade, is it not?  He thinks himself a great captain, and that he knows everything,” and forthwith he replaced the guard as he had put it in the morning.  It was, indeed, foolishness and insolence on the part of Louvois, and the King had spoken truly of him.  The King was so wounded that he could not pardon him.  After Louvois’s death, he related this incident to Pomponne, still annoyed at it, as I knew by means of the Abbe de Pomponne.

After the return from Mons the dislike of the King for Louvois augmented to such an extent, that this minister, who was so presumptuous, and who thought himself so necessary, began to tremble.  The Marechale de Rochefort having gone with her daughter, Madame de Blansac, to dine with him at Meudon, he took them out for a ride in a little ‘calache’, which he himself drove.  They heard him repeatedly say to himself, musing profoundly, “Will he?  Will he be made to?  No—­and yet—­no, he will not dare.”

During this monologue Louvois was so absorbed that he was within an ace of driving them all into the water, and would have done so, had they not seized the reins, and cried out that he was going to drown them.  At their cries and movement, Louvois awoke as from a deep sleep, drew up, and turned, saying that, indeed, he was musing, and not thinking of the vehicle.

I was at Versailles at that time, and happened to call upon Louvois about some business of my father’s.

The same day I met him after dinner as he was going to work with the King.  About four o’clock in the afternoon I learned that he had been taken rather unwell at Madame de Maintenon’s, that the King had forced him to go home, that he had done so on foot, that some trifling remedy was administered to him there, and that during the operation of it he died!

The surprise of all the Court may be imagined.  Although I was little more than fifteen years of age, I wished to see the countenance of the King after the occurrence of an event of this kind.  I went and waited for him, and followed him during all his promenade.  He appeared to me with his accustomed majesty, but had a nimble manner, as though he felt more free than usual.  I remarked that, instead of going to see his fountains, and diversifying his walk as usual, he did nothing but walk up and down by the balustrade of the orangery, whence he could see, in returning towards the chateau, the lodging in which Louvois had just died, and towards which he unceasingly looked.

The name of Louvois was never afterwards pronounced; not a word was said upon this death so surprising, and so sudden, until the arrival of an officer, sent by the King of England from Saint-Germain, who came to the King upon this terrace, and paid him a compliment of condolence upon the loss he had received.