Beyond the walls of the mansion of Ecouen, in the village which surrounds it, Madame Campan had taken a small house where she loved to pass a few hours in solitary retirement.  There, at liberty to abandon herself to the memory of the past, the superintendent of the imperial establishment became, once more, for the moment, the first lady of the chamber to Marie Antoinette.  To the few friends whom she admitted into this retreat she would show, with emotion, a plain muslin gown which the Queen had worn, and which was made from a part of Tippoo Saib’s present.  A cup, out of which Marie Antoinette had drunk; a writing-stand, which she had long used, were, in her eyes, of inestimable value; and she has often been discovered sitting, in tears, before the portrait of her royal mistress.

After so many troubles Madame Campan sought a peaceful retreat.  Paris had become odious to her.

She paid a visit to one of her most beloved pupils, Mademoiselle Crouzet, who had married a physician at Mantes, a man of talent, distinguished for his intelligence, frankness, and cordiality.

[M.  Maigne, physician to the infirmaries at Mantes.  Madame Campan found in him a friend and comforter, of whose merit and affection she knew the value.]

Mantes is a cheerful place of residence, and the idea of an abode there pleased her.  A few intimate friends formed a pleasant society, and she enjoyed a little tranquillity after so many disturbances.  The revisal of her “Memoirs,” the arrangement of the interesting anecdotes of which her “Recollections” were to consist, alone diverted her mind from the one powerful sentiment which attached her to life.  She lived only for her son.  M. Campan deserved the tenderness of, his mother.  No sacrifice had been spared for his education.  After having pursued that course of study which, under the Imperial Government, produced men of such distinguished merit, he was waiting till time and circumstances should afford him an opportunity of devoting his services to his country.  Although the state of his health was far from good, it did not threaten any rapid or premature decay; he was, however, after a few days’ illness, suddenly taken from his family.  “I never witnessed so heartrending a scene,” M. Maigne says, “as that which took place when Marechal Ney’s lady, her niece, and Madame Pannelier, her sister, came to acquaint her with this misfortune.—­[The wife of Marechal Ney was a daughter of Madame Auguie, and had been an intimate friend of Hortense Beauharnais.]—­When they entered her apartment she was in bed.  All three at once uttered a piercing cry.  The two ladies threw themselves on their knees, and kissed her hands, which they bedewed with tears.  Before they could speak to her she read in their faces that she no longer possessed a son.  At that instant her large eyes, opening wildly, seemed to wander.  Her face grew pale, her features changed, her lips lost their colour, she struggled to speak, but uttered only inarticulate sounds, accompanied by piercing cries.  Her gestures were wild, her reason was suspended.  Every part of her being was in agony.  To this state of anguish and despair no calm succeeded, until her tears began to flow.  Friendship and the tenderest cares succeeded for a moment in calming her grief, but not in diminishing its power.