The closing years of Fénelon’s life were inexpressibly saddened by the number of deaths that swept away in melancholy succession nearly all with whom his heartstrings were most closely intertwined. The first to go was his very dear friend Langeron, who died at Cambrai, November 10, 1710. He probably held a deeper measure of his love than any one else, possessed his entire confidence, which was never in the least degree shaken by mutual disagreement and reproof. He chose him for a coadjutor on the mission to Saintonge, shared with him the loving care of the little prince, to whom he was reader, kept him with him at Cambrai as one of his chief assistants and a principal amelioration of the bonds which tied him there. Three days after the death he wrote: “I have lost the greatest comfort of my life, and the best laborer God has given me in the service of His Church, a friend who has been my delight for thirty-four years. O, how full of sorrow life is! O God, how much our best friends cost us! The only solace of life is friendship, and friendship turns into irreparable grief. Let us seek the Friend who does not die, in whom we shall recover all the rest. Nothing could be deeper or truer than the virtues of him who has died. Nothing could be a greater witness of grace than was his death. I have never seen anything more lovely and edifying.... God’s will is done. He chose to seek my friend’s happiness rather than my comfort; and I should be wanting alike to God and my friend, if I did not will what He wills. In the sharpest moment of my grief I offered up him I so dreaded to lose.”