But Racine never finished that comment. The words froze on his lips, and silenced by the scarlet flush on Madame de Maintenon’s face, and the uncontrollable trembling of the king, as if some reptile had stung him, Racine, recognising his blunder, stammered out some words which only made things worse. The whilom wife of the criticised dead play-writer cast furious glances at the tragic poet, while Louis said, in tones seething with anger—“I have recently seen certain scribbled comments of yours, Monsieur, in which you make an attempt to account for the misery suffered by the people during my rule. Poets are generally wretched statesmen, and, moreover, we do not permit criticism, direct or indirect upon our authority. Ah,” he added, when again Racine strove to defend himself, “no excuses. Remain at home for the future; and direct the course of your studies into other channels.” So Racine received his dismissal from Versailles, and soon after, taking his disgrace to heart, the melancholy, long stolen over him from ill-health, increased, and aggravated the cruel disease to which he succumbed after an operation conducted by the unskilful physician who attended him. The king’s heart softened towards him during those last days, and he was constantly sending messengers to inquire after him. Racine was interred in the cemetery of the place to which his heart had so warmly attached itself—Port Royal; but after the destruction of the monastery and the Grange, some twelve years later, his remains were transferred to Paris, and laid in the church of St Étienne du Mont, beside those of Pascal; and Louis bestowed a pension of 2000 livres on his widow, and a reversion of it to her children, till the death of the last of them. In the death of Madame de Sévigné, Ninon lost another friend. The troops of enthusiastic admirers of this most delightful woman and letter-writer would render further endeavour in the way of eulogy trite and superfluous. To know her in life must have been to experience an extraordinary satisfaction; but the content is left to know her through that flow of correspondence—the voluminous letters touching upon every conceivable topic of contemporary interest. From descriptions of Court life and its glitter and splendour, to the hideous details recorded of the prisoner Brinvilliers, or the terrible tragedy of the Brittany gentleman in the ballroom, or the skilful gamester, Dangeau, or Picard, the Paris footman who wouldn’t make hay. “He was not engaged,” he said, “for such work. It was none of his business—the silly fellow. If you see him, don’t welcome him; don’t protect him; and don’t blame me. Only look upon him as of all the servants in the world the least addicted to hay-making.”