“It is the same with her,” says one English commentator. “From the first letter quoted, to the last; from the proud and merry boasting of the young mother with a boy, to the candid shudder about the approach of old age, and the refusal of Death to grant a moment to the dying statesman Louvois—‘No, not a single moment.’ She loved nature and truth without misgiving, and nature and truth loved her in return, and have crowned her with glory and honour.”[9] CHAPTER XXVI Leaving the Old Home—“Wrinkles”—Young Years and Old Friends—“A Bad Cook and a Little Bit of Hot Coal”—Voltaire—_Irène_—Making a Library—“Adieu, Mes Amis”—The Man in Black. The dawn of the new century did not find Mademoiselle de L’Enclos in the old home of the rue des Tournelles. One by one the relentless scythe of Death had cut down all the illustrious men and women of Ninon’s time. The _cercle_ had narrowed, the music and wit and joyousness the walls of that salon had so long echoed with, were silent. If Ninon touched her lute now, it could but stir regret and sadness for the void. At last, she tells, her beauty had faded, leaving no traces of it; yet much of the old animation, and even not a little of the _gaieté du cœur_, were with her still. The empty salon, and the “yellow chamber” and the Place Royale itself, once echoing with the footsteps of her best friends, must have only deepened her regrets. Of all the friends left her in Paris, there were but two as old, one indeed older than herself—Mademoiselle de Scudéri. The other lady, Madame de Sandwich, somewhere of the same age, ever _grande dame_, sweet and amiable, and coquette to the last, in the beautiful old _point de Venise_ and paduasoy silks she adorned herself with. Both these ladies occupied apartments in the faubourg St Germain, and, desiring to be nearer to them, Mademoiselle de L’Enclos disposed of her house in the rue des Tournelles, and took up her residence upon the quay, in a house facing the Tuileries. The trio, enjoying their old terms of friendship, interchanged visits, and dined together, and chatted, sometimes sighing in unison over the irrevocable delights of the past. Mademoiselle de Scudéri best preserved her cheery outlook upon the world; but, to be sure, as Ninon says, never having been beautiful, she had had the least to lose; for age could not rob her of her mental charms and delightful wit and fancy. “Time is a coward,” she said one day; “he only flings his wrinkles, as the Parthians flung their arrows, as they flew by.” One day, as the three were together, the message of the gentle lady’s recall came; and they laid her on a couch, and sent for the medical aid which was not likely to avail much for the ninety-four years. “Dry your tears,” she murmured on the last breath. “Soon it will be your turn, and in a better world we shall find again our young years, and our old friends.”