The duke’s father, the dauphin, or heir apparent, died in April, 1711, leaving, of course, his son as next in the succession to the throne. Then, indeed, did Fénelon’s hopes and the hopes of the nation rise high. Cambrai became thronged with people who thought it well to be in the good graces of one who might very soon be the power behind the throne and the most important man in France. But alas! alas for human plans and prospects! The dauphine, Burgundy’s wife, died February 12th, of a strange malady which baffled all the physicians; then the duke himself, having caught the infection, died February 18th, and their eldest son succumbed to the same complaint, March 18th. The royal household was overwhelmed, the nation was stunned, and no one felt the loss more than, probably no one as much as, Fénelon. He writes: “I am struck down with grief; the shock has made me ill without any malady. My health has suffered terribly, and whatever revives my grief brings on a certain amount of feverish agitation. I am humbled by my weakness. All my links are broken; there is nothing left to bind me to earth; but the ties which bind me to heaven are strengthened. O, what suffering this true friendship breeds! But if I could restore him to life by turning a straw I would not do it, for it is God’s will.” It was undoubtedly the darkest hour of his days. He never wholly rallied from the blow, or took the same interest in his labors that he did before. But there is the best of evidence that his faith in God did not fail, and that in all the suffering, both for himself and for his country, around which the gloomiest shadows seemed now to be gathering, he had no thought of the Almighty unworthy of his goodness. In November, 1712, died another most dearly loved and life-long friend, the Duke of Chevreuse, opening up all his wounds afresh, as he says; but he adds, “God be praised, be it ours to adore his impenetrable purposes!” In August, 1714, Fénelon lost the last of that special group who had stuck to him more closely than brothers, the Duke de Beauvilliers. They had never met since he left Versailles, but their hearts were most closely knit. “Our best friends,” he wrote, “are the source of our greatest sorrow and bitterness. One is tempted to say that all good friends should wait and die on the same day. Friendship will be the cause of my death.”