Struck down mysteriously one day at Mass in the Cathedral of Aix by a stalking epidemic,--he had not spared himself in visits of condolence to the stricken and bereaved,--in the springtide of 1480, the King was borne tenderly to the palace. No more tender nurse could there be than his devoted consort. She took her station at once at his bedside, and, laying her head upon his pillow, she cheered and solaced him as none other could; only did she rouse herself for needful ablutions, for food, and for the saying of the “Hours” in the oratory. With her was a little maiden, René’s grandchild Marguerite, thirteen years of age, Yolande de Vaudémont’s daughter, a great pet of Queen Jehanne. The child had the sweetest of sweet voices,--a quality very precious in the estimation of the King,--and she soothed his sufferings and refreshed his weaknesses by childish songs and minstrelsy, whilst she stroked his withered hands and in them placed her own. At dawn of day, July 10, amid the rustling of the summer foliage outside the wide-open windows of the palace, came whisperings from the sick-room--soft, low, and sad: “_Le bon Roy est mort!_” It was gently told to the weeping Queen by the royal physicians, but her Ladies of Honour in the anteroom caught the ominous news besides. They stole outside the heavy arras and told the terrible secret to the valets and men-at-arms; then it flashed out through the galleries and across the courtyards, and stayed the janitors of the gates as they prepared to open them as usual for the new day’s life. “_Le bon Roy est mort!_” soon was echoed through the city streets, and tears and protestations of affection and tender souvenirs of regret found full utterance. “_Le bon Roy is mort!_” was like the knell of doom. No one could realize it or prophesy. III. No one has told us of Queen Jehanne’s sorrow--better so. No stranger ever shares a full heart’s loss. Broken, but submissive and self-sustained, her consort’s fortitude in distress had come to her as well; she failed not at the moment of her trial. With her own hands she led the last offices of reverent duty to the dead. Shrouded in a simple white linen shift, but covered with the crimson and ermine mantle of state, they laid their deceased Sovereign upon the canopied bed of Estate, moved to the centre of the great hall. The Queen herself had closed his eyes, and now she arranged his hands. In them she placed a costly ruby cross he had given her at her marriage; at his feet she laid the “_Livre des Heures_,” which was also his nuptial gift; and then she placed around his neck the Sovereign’s jewel,--there was no heir to wear it, alas!--and last of all she knelt and sprinkled holy water on his corpse.