“Can you guarantee that I shall wake to-morrow morning?  I feel strong at this moment; let me take advantage of it.”

Louis inquired whether the duchess should be informed.  The duke, before replying, listened to the sounds of music that reached his room through the open windows from the little ball, sounds that seemed prolonged in the night on an invisible bow, then answered: 

“Let us wait a little.  I have something to finish.”

They brought to his bedside the little lacquered table that he might himself sort out the letters which were to be destroyed; but feeling his strength give way, he called Monpavon.

“Burn everything,” said he to him in a faint voice; and seeing him move towards the fireplace, where a fire was burning despite the warmth of the season.

“No,” he added, “not here.  There are too many of them.  Some one might come.”

Monpavon took up the writing-table, which was not heavy, and signed to the valet de chambre to go before him with a light.  But Jenkins sprang forward: 

“Stay here, Louis; the duke may want you.”

He took hold of the lamp; and moving carefully down the whole length of the great corridor, exploring the waiting-rooms, the galleries, in which the fireplaces proved to be filled with artificial plants and quite emptied of ashes, they wandered like spectres in the silence and darkness of the vast house, alive only over yonder on the right, were pleasure was singing like a bird on a roof which is about to fall in ruins.

“There is no fire anywhere.  What is to be done with all this?” they asked each other in great embarrassment.  They might have been two thieves dragging away a chest which they did not know how to open.  At last Monpavon, out of patience, walked straight to a door, the only one which they had not yet opened.

“Ma foi, so much the worse!  Since we cannot burn them, we will drown them.  Hold the light, Jenkins.”

And they entered.

Where were they?  Saint-Simon relating the downfall of one of those sovereign existences, the disarray of ceremonies, of dignities, of grandeurs, caused by death and especially by sudden death, only Saint-Simon might have found words to tell you.  With his delicate, carefully kept hands, the Marquis de Monpavon did the pumping.  The other passed to him the letters after tearing them into small pieces, packets of letters, on satin paper, tinted, perfumed, adorned with crests, coats of arms, small flags with devices, covered with handwritings, fine, hurried, scrawling, entwining, persuasive; and all those flimsy pages went whirling one over the other in eddying streams of water which crumpled them, soiled them, washed out their tender links before allowing them to disappear with a gurgle down the drain.