_Fontanges._ In quietism; that is, when I fell asleep at sermon time. I am ashamed that such a learned and pious man as M. de Fenelon should incline to it,[1] as they say he does. _Bossuet._ Mademoiselle, you quite mistake the matter. _Fontanges._ Is not then M. de Fenelon thought a very pious and learned person? _Bossuet._ And justly. _Fontanges._ I have read a great way in a romance he has begun, about a knight-errant in search of a father. The king says there are many such about his court; but I never saw them nor heard of them before. The Marchioness de la Motte, his relative, brought it to me, written out in a charming hand, as much as the copy-book would hold; and I got through, I know not how far. If he had gone on with the nymphs in the grotto, I never should have been tired of him; but he quite forgot his own story, and left them at once; in a hurry (I suppose) to set out upon his mission to Saintonge in the _pays de d'Aunis_, where the king has promised him a famous _heretic hunt_. He is, I do assure you, a wonderful creature: he understands so much Latin and Greek, and knows all the tricks of the sorceresses. Yet you keep him under. _Bossuet._ Mademoiselle, if you really have anything to confess, and if you desire that I should have the honour of absolving you, it would be better to proceed in it, than to oppress me with unmerited eulogies on my humble labours. _Fontanges._ You must first direct me, monseigneur: I have nothing particular. The king assures me there is no harm whatever in his love toward me. _Bossuet._ That depends on your thoughts at the moment. If you abstract the mind from the body, and turn your heart toward Heaven---- _Fontanges._ O monseigneur, I always did so--every time but once--you quite make me blush. Let us converse about something else, or I shall grow too serious, just as you made me the other day at the funeral sermon. And now let me tell you, my lord, you compose such pretty funeral sermons, I hope I shall have the pleasure of hearing you preach mine. _Bossuet._ Rather let us hope, mademoiselle, that the hour is yet far distant when so melancholy a service will be performed for you. May he who is unborn be the sad announcer of your departure hence![2] May he indicate to those around him many virtues not perhaps yet full-blown in you, and point triumphantly to many faults and foibles checked by you in their early growth, and lying dead on the open road, you shall have left behind you! To me the painful duty will, I trust, be spared: I am advanced in age; you are a child. _Fontanges._ Oh, no! I am seventeen.