Three years before her death the triumphant Athenee de Montespan had breathed her last at Bourbon.  If Louis XIV. had nothing else to repent of, the remorse of these two women ought to have wrung his heart.  Athenee de Montespan was a youthful, innocent beauty, fresh from the seclusion of provincial life, when she attracted the blighting regards of royalty.  A fete was to be given; she saw, she heard that she was its object.  She entreated her husband to take her back to his estate in Guyenne, and to leave her there till the king had forgotten her.  Her husband, in fatal confidence, trusted her resistance, and refused her petition.  It was a life-long sorrow; and he soon found his mistake.  He lived and died passionately attached to his wife, but never saw her after her fall.

When she retired from court, to make room for the empire of the subtle De Maintenon, it was her son, the Duc de Maine, who induced her, not from love, but from ambition, to withdraw.  She preserved, even in her seclusion in the country, the style of a queen, which she had assumed.  Even her natural children by the king were never allowed to sit in her presence, on a fauteuil, but were only permitted to have small chairs.  Every one went to pay her court, and she spoke to them as if doing them an honour; neither did she ever return a visit, even from the royal family.  Her fatal beauty endured to the last:  nothing could exceed her grace, her tact, her good sense in conversation, her kindness to every one.

But it was long before her restless spirit could find real peace.  She threw herself on the guidance of the Abbe de la Tour; for the dread of death was ever upon her.  He suggested a terrible test of her penitence.  It was, that she should entreat her husband’s pardon, and return to him.  It was a fearful struggle with herself, for she was naturally haughty and high spirited; but she consented.  After long agonies of hesitation, she wrote to the injured man.  Her letter was couched in the most humble language; but it received no reply.  The Marquis de Montespan, through a third person, intimated to her that he would neither receive her, nor see her, nor hear her name pronounced.  At his death she wore widow’s weeds; but never assumed his arms, nor adopted his liveries.

Henceforth, all she had was given to the poor.  When Louis meanly cut down her pension, she sent word that she was sorry for the poor, not for herself; they would be the losers.  She then humbled herself to the very dust:  wore the hardest cloth next her fair skin; had iron bracelets; and an iron girdle, which made wounds on her body.  Moreover, she punished the most unruly members of her frame:  she kept her tongue in bounds; she ceased to slander; she learned to bless.  The fear of death still haunted her; she lay in bed with every curtain drawn, the room lighted up with wax candles; whilst she hired watchers to sit up all night, and insisted that they should never cease talking or laughing, lest, when she woke, the fear of death might come over her affrighted spirit.