Louis XV had not neglected his prayers, and gave two hundred thousand livres to the poor, besides ordering masses at St. Geneviève. Parliament opened the shrine, and knelt gravely before that miraculous relic. The least serious of all these good worshippers was, strange to say, the curate of St. Geneviève: “Ah, well!” said he gaily, when Louis was dead, “let us continue to talk of the miracles of St. Geneviève. Of what can you complain? Is not the King dead?” At the last moment it was not God who held the heart of Louis--it was his mistress. “Ask the Countess to come here again,” he said. “Sire, you know that she has gone away,” they answered. “Ah! has she gone? Then I must go!” So he departed. His end drew forth some maledictions. There were insults even at his funeral services. “Nevertheless,” said one old soldier, “he was at the battle of Fontenoy.” That was the most eloquent funeral oration of Louis XV. “The King is dead, long live the King!” But before the death of Louis XVI they cried: “The king is dead, long live the Republic!” Rose-colored mourning was worn in the good city of Paris. The funeral oration of the King and a lament for his mistress were pronounced by Sophie Arnould, of which masterpiece of sacred eloquence the last words only are preserved: “Behold us orphaned both of father and mother.” If Madame du Barry was one of the seven plagues of royalty, she died faithful to royalty. After her exile to Pont aux Dames she returned to Lucienne, where the duc de Cossé Brissac consoled her for the death of Louis XV. But what she loved in Louis was that he was a king; her true country was Versailles; her true light was the sun of court life. Like Montespan, also a courtesan of high order, she often went in these dark days to cast a loving look upon the solitary park in the maze of the Trianon. Yet she was particularly happy at Lucienne. I have compared her to Manon Lescaut, and I believe her to have been also a sister to Ganesin. All three were destroyed by passion. One day she found herself still young at Lucienne, although her sun was setting. She loved the duc de Brissac, and how many pages of her past romance would she that day have liked to erase and forget! “Why do you weep, Countess?” asked her lover. “My friend,” she responded, “I weep because I love you, shall I say it? I weep because I am happy.” She was right; happiness is a festival that should know no to-morrow. But on the morrow of her happiness, the Revolution knocked at the castle gate of Lucienne. “Who goes there?” “I am justice; prepare for destiny.”