He did not see madame de la Fayette yesterday, because she wept, and he was to take the sacrament: he sent at noon to inquire after her. Believe me that he has not made reflections all his life to no purpose. He has in this manner approached so near to the last moments that their actual presence has nothing new nor strange for him. M. de Marsillac arrived at midnight, the day before yesterday, overwhelmed with grief. He was long before he could command his countenance and manner. He entered at last, and found his father in his chair, little different from his usual appearance. As M. de Marsillac is his friend among his children, there must have been some internal emotion; but he manifested none, and forgot to speak to him of his illness. I am continually with madame de la Fayette, who could never have experienced the delights of friendship and affection were she less afflicted than she is." On the 17th of March the scene closed; and madame de Sévigné writes, "M. de la Rochefoucauld died this night. My head is so full of this misfortune, and of the extreme affliction of my poor friend, that I must write about it. On Saturday, yesterday, the remedies had done wonders; victory was proclaimed; his fever had diminished. In this state, yesterday, at six o'clock, he turned to death: fever recurred; and, in a word, gout treacherously strangled him: and, although he was still strong, and had not been weakened by losing blood, five or six hours sufficed to carry him off. At midnight he expired in the arms of M. de Condom (Bossuet). M. de Marsillac never quitted him for a moment: he is plunged in inexpressible affliction. Yet he will return to his former life; find the king and the court as they were; and his family will still be around him. But where will madame de la Fayette find such a friend, such society; a similar kindness, resource, and reliance, or equal consideration for herself and her son? She is infirm; she is always at home, and cannot run about town. M. de la Rochefoucauld was sedentary. This state rendered them necessary to each other and nothing could equal their mutual confidence, and the charm of their friendship." This grief, this friendship, is the most honourable monument a man can receive: who would not desire thus to be sepultured in the heart of one loved and valued? One might regret the pain felt; but, as madame de la Sévigné so beautifully observes, this pain is the proof of the truth and warmth of the affection that united them, and the pleasure they mutually imparted and received. In successive letters there are traces of the inconsolable affliction of madame de la Fayette. "She has fallen from the clouds: every moment she perceives the loss she has suffered;" and again, "Poor madame de la Fayette knows not what to do with herself. The loss of M. de la Rochefoucauld makes so terrible a void in her life that she feels more sensibly the value of so delightful an intimacy. Every