He said no more at that time. Madame de Maintenon sat beside him. Père Letellier, his confessor, and a Jesuit, hovered about his bed. In his hand was a paper concerning the Bull _Unigenitus_, which he urged the King to sign. So merciless was his persistence, that the attendants drove him from the room. The Duc de Maine, and his brother, the Comte de Toulouse, watched. The royal will and codicil, sealed with seven seals, making Maine virtually Regent, was walled up until the King's death. The parliament was known to be in favour of the Duc d'Orléans. It was needful to be first in the field. Maine never took his eyes off his father. There lay that father, his prominent features sharpened by approaching death, upon his bed, such as we see it now, for no other monarch has lain in it since; the tester and framework of dark wood, from which gloomy satin curtains hang, carved and gilt, and guarded by a _ruelle_ or balustrade of gilded pillars, which none dare pass. Upon his feet lay a counterpane, worked by the pupils of Saint-Cyr. On the walls, near enough for his eye to rest upon, hung the portrait of his mother, Anne of Austria, and two other pictures—St. John, by Raphael, and David, by Domenichino. These pictures never left him, even on his shortest journeys. On the mantelpiece, near the bed, was a bust of his dead favourite, Adelaide de Savoie. At the King's desire, Madame de Ventadour brought in the five-year old Duc d'Anjou, son of the Duc de Bourgogne, his great-grandson and successor. "Allow me to kiss him, madame," said Louis, courteous to the last. The child was laid upon the bed, and burst out crying. Madame de Ventadour took him in her arms to comfort him. "My child," said Louis, bending his dim eyes upon the rosy-cheeked boy, "you will soon be King over a great people. Give thanks to God for all you possess. Keep peace with your neighbours. I have loved war too much. Do all that I have left undone." Again and again he kissed the frightened child, ere he would let him go. Then he desired to speak with such nobles and courtiers as waited without. "I die," he said, "in the Catholic faith. I am myself ignorant of the merits of the various schisms which divide it. I have followed such advice as was given me. If I have erred, my advisers alone are responsible, not I. I call God to witness that what I say is true. Gentlemen, I bid you all good-bye. Forget my bad example. Pray for me." Then the dying monarch turned his face towards Madame de Maintenon, who was seated within the _ruelle_ of the bed. "Madame," he said in a low voice, "I regret no one but you. I have not made you happy." His voice hitherto firm, now faltered. "But I have one consolation in leaving you," he added, "we shall soon meet again." He tried to look at her, but Madame de Maintenon turned from him with disgust. She shuddered.