Once again the admirers looked askance and grew scornful and sarcastic, and the humour of Madame Deshoulières’ pen acquiring the sombre tints of her cruel fortunes, she was nicknamed the “_Mendicant Muse_.” So, with the addition of three children to maintain, the poor woman remained until the death of Monsieur Deshoulières, forsaken by her old troops of friends and admirers. Then she penned the immortal trifle beginning— “Dans ces près fleuris Qu’arrose la Seine, Cherchez qui vous mêne, Mes chères brébis.” It was her charming device for winning the attention and generosity of Louis XIV., and attained its end. The king awarded her a pension of two thousand livres, and the editor of the _Mercure Galant_, laying the credit of this good fortune to his own account, straightened out things by continuing to publish Madame Deshoulières’ verses _gratis_ in his columns. Once more the fine-weather friends flocked about her, and belauded her attractions, personal and intellectual. In these lay no exaggeration, for Antoinette Deshoulières was exceptionally gifted. Her conversation was brilliant, delicate, and sparkling with originality. The poets chanted her praises, and Benserade changed his sobriquet of the “_Mendicant Muse_” to the “_Calliope Française_.” Among other well-remembered trifles from her pen, the pretty poem of _Les Oiseaux_ is to be recorded. It is by these charming productions that the memory of Antoinette Deshoulières lives. Her aims in graver poetry and drama fell below their mark. For her, these were the unattainable, and possibly it was failure in this direction which impelled her to a jealousy unworthy of her excellent judgment and native good taste, when she rendered high praise to the _Phèdre_ of Pradon, and criticised in a satirical poem the grand tragedy of Racine on the same subject. From every point of view it was a lamentable mistake, and laid her open to storms of sarcastic abuse— “Dans un fauteuil doré Phèdre tremblante Et blême Dit des vers ou d’abord personne n’entend rien.” So wrote Madame Deshoulières, and the flippancy on the tremendous theme evoked general disgust. “What is this tumbled from the clouds?” cried Madame de la Sablière. “This sweet and interesting shepherdess, who talked so tenderly to her sheep and flowers and birds, has suddenly changed her crook into a serpent!” Madame de Sévigné preferred to be entirely of the opinion of Madame Deshoulières, but if envy of the great tragic poet was in the heart of the one, personal animosity was beyond question in that of the other; for Madame de Sévigné had never forgiven either Boileau or Racine for favouring the intrigue of her grandson, de Grignan with the Champmeslé.