Finding no sort of response to his repeated messages, Villeroy went in search himself of the prince, and found him in his tent, at his confessor’s knees. The first duty of a good Christian, he said, was to make his peace at such times with Heaven. So the religious discipline of his governess and stepmother, the widow Scarron and Madame de Maintenon, had borne fruit. It was of a different flavour from the prayer of the brave servant of King Charles I.—Sir Edmund Verney—before Edgehill: “Lord, Thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me.” And there was no battle won or lost that day on the Dutch frontier, and Louis, when they brought to Versailles news of the enemy’s safe retreat, was at a loss to understand the situation; for no one cared, or dared, to tell him the truth, until Lavienne, his _valet-de-chambre_ in chief, in the days of Louis’s amours, hazarded the observation that, after all, proverbs could speak falsely, and that “Good blood _could_ lie;” and then he went on to add the other truths concerning Monsieur du Maine. In the face of the fulsome praise following in the journals—which lied as only journals know how—the king was overwhelmed with grief and chagrin; and, beside himself, he broke his cane in a fit of anger on the back of one of an unlucky servant, whom he happened to detect surreptitiously eating a bit of marchpane. This ebullition, creating the consternation of all the Court, just sitting down to dinner, brought Madame Louis Quatorze and Père la Chaise upon the scene. “Parbleu, mon père,” said the king, gradually regaining his senses, “I have just chastised a wretched creature who greatly merited it.” “Ah!” gasped the confessor. “And I have broken my cane on his back. Have I offended God?” “No, my son, no,” replied the holy man. “It is merely that the excitement may be harmful to your precious health.” Fortunately the cane, being of slenderest rosewood, had easily snapped. Before the end of the next campaign, the redoubtable Duc du Maine was recalled: d’Elbœuf hastened to say to him, making a profound bow, “Have the goodness, Monseigneur, to inform me where you propose entering on the next campaign.” The duke turned, smiling, and extended his hand to d’Elbœuf, whose ironical tones he had failed to perceive. “Wherever it is,” added d’Elbœuf, “I should wish to be there.” “Why?” demanded the duke. “Because,” replied d’Elbœuf, after a silence, “at least one’s life would be safe.” Monsieur du Maine gave a jump, as if he had trodden on a serpent, and went away without replying, not being better furnished with wit than he was with valour. And the autumn leaves of Ninon’s life were ever fast falling around her. In her Château de Boulogne Madame de la Sablière passed away, and la Fontaine, finding life a sad thing without her, quickly followed her.