Time, too, had wrought a change in her character: she was much softened, and appreciated more justly the real blessings and misfortunes of life. In her own family she found sources of happiness. Her children were dutiful and affectionate, and the marriage of her daughter to the Duke de Broglie gave her pleasure. Her chief cause of disquietude was the ill health of her husband, in anticipation of whose death she composed a book, with the title, "The only Misfortune of Life, the Loss of a Person beloved." But she was not destined to be the sufferer now. She had ever despised the accommodation of the body, and gave herself no trouble about health. She affected to triumph over infirmity, and was wont to say, "I might have been sickly, like any body else, had I not resolved to vanquish physical weakness." But nature was not to be thus defied. Her health failed, and the use of opium aided the progress of disease. But sickness threw no cloud over her intellect; "I am now," she said, "what I have ever been--sad, yet vivacious;" but it displayed the moral beauties of her character in a more striking light. She was kind, patient, and devout. Her sleepless nights were spent in prayer. Existence no longer appeared to her in its gayest colors. "Life," she said, "resembles Gobelin tapestry; you do not see the canvass on the right side; but when you turn it, the threads are visible. The mystery of existence is the connection between our faults and our misfortunes. I never committed an error that was not the cause of a disaster." Yet she left life with regret, though death possessed for her no terrors. "I shall meet my father on the other side," she said, "and my daughter will ere long rejoin me." "I think," said she, one day, as if waking from a dream, "I think I know what the passage from life to death is; and I am convinced that the goodness of God makes it easy; our thoughts become confused, and the pain is not great." She died with the utmost composure, at Paris, July, 1817. Her husband survived her but a few months. "Grief put a period to his already precarious existence. He withdrew from Paris, to die beneath the beautiful sky of Provence, and there breathed his last sighs in the arms of his brother."