Madame is now twenty-six, and as strong and healthy as any young woman can be. Very early on a certain morning, in the first days of June, a page rides out of the park gates of Saint-Cloud in furious haste. He bears a message of life and death to the King, who is at Saint-Germain. He spurs his steed along the paved roads which lead from palace to palace, along the heights. The word he carries is—_that Madame is dying_. Never did messenger of evil cause such consternation. The King flies to Saint-Cloud; he loved the sweet princess. He is followed by the Queen, accompanied by _la Grande Mademoiselle_. When the royal coach draws up under the grand portico, Valtot, the Court doctor, is there to receive them. He says the illness of Madame is nothing but a violent attack of colic, and is of no consequence whatever. But this attack of colic had seized Madame so suddenly she could not bear to be carried to her own bed, but lay on a little couch in a recess of one of the reception-rooms. A very serious attack of colic, truly. When Maria Theresa enters, she finds Madame in convulsions; her long hair streaming over her face and pillow, her limbs cramped, her body contorted, her nightgown unfastened to relieve her breathing, her arms bare and hanging out of the sleeves, her face bearing every appearance of approaching death. "You see what a state I am in," she whispers to the Queen between the paroxysms. "Save me, oh, save me—my sufferings are horrible!" The Queen kisses her hand. Every one was affected. The King leans over her with the utmost affection. "Surely," cries the King to Valtot, "you will not let her die without help?" Except the royal party no one seems to care about her. Monsieur is quite indifferent. He laughs and talks in the very room where she is lying. The end came soon. In a few hours, Madame died in horrible agony. Her corpse immediately turned black. * * * * * Louis XIV. is in his private closet at Saint-Germain. He is in his _robe de chambre_, and he has been weeping; three extraordinary events for the King, not to hold his usual levee, to wear his _robe de chambre_, and to weep. A dreadful rumour has just reached him—the words _poison_ and _murder_ have passed from mouth to mouth about the Court. At last he has heard them. What!—his beloved sister-in-law, she who but two days before had danced with him in a ballet, dressed as Aurora; she—the pride of his Court, the cynosure of all eyes—poisoned! Oh, horrible! By whom was this poison given? By his brother? Impossible. By one of his disgraceful favourites whom Madame hated? The Chevalier de Lorraine, perhaps? Was he the murderer? The King cannot brook suspense or delay. He sends privately for Morel, the _maître d'hôtel_ of his brother. Morel comes trembling; he guesses the reason of the summons.