God was so shadowy. No one had ever told her what He wanted of her; she had thought very little about Him, very little about death. She wondered if it would ever be remembered to her that she was very young. What did it mean to be good? She had never wilfully injured any one, she had never felt wicked; but she hoped God would remember she was very young. For a while this thought gave her some ease; then it flashed across her mind that the Queen was no older, and the Queen was virtuous, obviously virtuous. La Vallière also; she knew Louise de la Vallière was a good woman and one whom she had shamefully treated. Surely her sins were not difficult to remember now. She fell out of Madame de la Fayette’s arms and lay silent on the pillow. The room had filled again; the King’s physician, M. Vallot, had arrived. He was an old man and pompous; he came to the bedside and Madame lifted her head. “Thank you for your attention, Monsieur,” she said. “But I am poisoned. Unless you can treat me for that—” She sank down again. Monsieur Vallot smiled. There was no danger, he said; it was merely the pain that frightened her. He retired to consult with the other doctors. M. le Prince came to see her; she seemed pleased and tried to look at him, but he wore a black and gold brocade, and the candle light on it dazzled her. She half closed her eyes. “I am dying,” she murmured. M. le Prince was greatly moved; he tried to tell her that she was better. She shook her head and asked what time it was. “Nine o’clock, Madame,” he answered. She asked if they might have the window open, and complained of the heat; but no one dared for fear of the doctor. Then Madame caught hold of Monsieur le Prince’s arm so as to draw him down to her, and breathed the question she had so longed to ask. “The King–does he know? Is he coming?” The news was at Versailles, he told her; but no one thought her dying–she was not dying. Monsieur came to her bedside. M. Vallot, he said, had come to him four times and assured him on his life that there was no danger; the other doctors had agreed with him, and he had returned to Versailles. Madame looked at the pink figure of her husband and the jasmine drooping in his buttonhole. “I know my state better than the doctors,” she said; “and I think there is no remedy.” Her husband moved away with M. le Prince. Every one in the room seemed talking together; their voices echoed in her head horribly. She tried to compose her thoughts, but could not. If she might only have some respite from her pain! Why did not the King come? Mme d’Epernon brought her a draught of senna that M. Vallot had ordered. She drank it, and Mme Gamaches, approaching, said that the King had sent for news. “Tell his Majesty I am dying,” said Madame. Not content with that, she asked them to send M. de Crequi to Versailles to say that she was in great peril.