“Alas!” replied she, in a piteous tone, “I have just quitted a most afflicted family; their loss is heavy and irreparable. The maréchale de Luxembourg is well nigh distracted with grief.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed I, “can the duchesse de Lauzun be dead?” “Alas! no.” “Perhaps poor madame de Boufflers?” “No, my friend.” “Who then is the object of so much regret? Speak; tell me.” “Madame Brillant.” “A friend of the old maréchale ‘s?” “More than a friend,” replied madame de Mirepoix; “her faithful companion; her only companion; her only beloved object, since her lovers and admirers ceased to offer their homage--in a word, her cat.” “Bless me!” cried I, “how you frightened me! But what sort of a cat could this have been to cause so many tears?” “Is it possible that you do not know madame Brillant, at least by name?” “I assure you,” said I, “this is the very first time I ever heard her name.” “Well, if it be so, I will be careful not to repeat such a thing to madame de Luxembourg; she would never pardon you for it. Listen, my dear countess,” continued madame de Mirepoix; “under the present circumstances it will be sufficient for you to write your name in her visiting-book.” I burst into a fit of laughter. “It is no joke, I promise you,” exclaimed the maréchale; “the death of madame Brillant is a positive calamity to madame de Luxembourg. Letters of condolence will arrive from Chanteloup; madame du Deffant will be in deep affliction, and the virtues and amiable qualities of the deceased cat will long furnish subjects of conversation.” “It was then a singularly engaging animal, I presume?” “On the contrary, one of the most stupid, disagreeable, and dirty creatures of its kind; but still it was the cat of madame de Luxembourg.” And after this funeral oration the maréchale and myself burst into a violent fit of laughter. When the king joined us, I acquainted him with this death, and my conversation with the maréchale. Louis XV listened to my recital with an air of gravity; when I had finished, he said, “The present opportunity is admirably adopted for satisfying the request of one of my retinue, one of the best-hearted creatures, and at the same time one of the silliest men in the kingdom.” “I beg your pardon, sire,” cried I, “but what is his name? For the description is so general, that I fear lest I should be at a loss to recollect of whom you are speaking.”