Fifteen or twenty days before the death of Mademoiselle de Fontanges, my sister and I were taking a walk in the new woods of Versailles.  We met the Marquise de Sevigne near the canal; she was showing these marvellous constructions to her daughter, the Comtesse de Grignan.  They greeted us with their charming amiability, and, after having spoken of several indifferent matters, the Marquise said to me:  “We saw, five or six days ago, a person, madame, of whom you were formerly very fond, and who charged us to recall her to the memory of her friends.  You are still of that number,—­I like to think so, and our commission holds good where you are concerned, if you will allow it.”

Then she mentioned to me that poor Duchesse de la Valliere, to whom I was once compelled by my unhappy star to give umbrage, and whom, in my fatal thoughtlessness, I had afflicted without desiring it.

Tears came into my eyes; Madame de Sevigne saw them, and expressed her regret at having caused me pain.  Madame de Thianges and I asked her if my old friend was much changed.  She and Madame de Grignan assured us that she was fresh, in good health, and that her face appeared more beautiful.  On the next day I wished absolutely to see her, and drove to the Carmelites.

On seeing my pretty cripple, who hobbled among us with so great a charm, I uttered a cry, which for a moment troubled her.  She sank down to salute the crucifix, as custom demands, and, after her short prayer, she came to me.  “I did not mention your name to Mesdames de Sevigne,” said she; “but, however, I am obliged to them, since they have been able to procure me the pleasure of seeing you once more.”

“The general opinion of the Court, and in the world, my dear Duchess,” answered I, “is that I brought about your disgrace myself; and the public, that loved you, has not ceased to reproach me with your misfortune.”

“The public is very kind still to occupy itself with me,” she answered; “but it is wrong in that, as in so many other matters.  My retirement from the world is not a misfortune, and I never suspected that the soul could find such peace and satisfaction in these silent solitudes.

“The first days were painful to me, I admit it, owing to the inexpressible difference which struck me between what I found here and what I had left elsewhere.  But just as the eye accustoms itself, little by little, to the feeble glimmer of a vault, in the same way my body has accustomed itself to the roughness of my new existence, and my heart to all its great privations.

“If life had not to finish, in fulfilment of a solemn, universal, and inevitable decree, the constraint that I have put upon myself might at length become oppressive, and my yoke prove somewhat heavy.  But all that will finish soon, for all undertakings come to an end.  I left you young, beautiful, adored, and triumphant in the land of enchantments.  But six years have passed, and they assure me that your own afflictions have come, and that you, yourself, have been forced to drink the bitter cup of deprivation.”