“Her love for God and for my father occupied almost exclusively her last moments. What she was for my father in the midst of this delirium is not to be conceived. The effect his presence produced on her, the choice of the words she used to express her love, with more confidence than she had ever shown before; how, with complete incoherence in her ideas, she followed up interests which, though imaginary, were in keeping with her character and her opinions; the charm with which she spoke to him of God and of religion,—all this cannot be expressed by words, and such a delirium could only be hers. ‘God owed her the reward,’ M. de Grammont said to my father, ‘of permitting her thus to reveal to you the depth of her tenderness.’ “In the midst of this delirium she repeated three times over Tobit’s prayer, the same she had recited on seeing the towers of Olmütz. We lost her on Christmas night, at twelve o’clock, in the year 1807. It was at the foot of our Saviour’s cradle that our sacrifice was accomplished. In the morning she had bestowed her blessing on each of us. Her last words were, ‘I do not suffer.’ She also said to us, ‘May the peace of the Lord be with you.’ And to my father, ‘I am entirely yours’ (_Je suis toute à vous_).” M. Jules Cloquet says in his recollections of La Fayette:— “La Fayette had a high regard for the domestic virtues, which he considered the basis of society and the only certain and pure source of public prosperity. He even wished to introduce them into politics; and his public life was in this respect a picture of his private life. He always spoke with respect and tenderness of both his parents, whom he lost almost in his infancy. In his children he cherished the memory of their mother (Mademoiselle de Noailles), whom he had loved most tenderly, and whose name he never mentioned but with visible emotion. One day during his last illness I surprised him kissing her portrait, which he always wore suspended to his neck, in a small gold medallion. Around the portrait were the words, ‘_Je suis à vous_,’ and on the back was engraved this short and touching inscription, ‘_Je vous fus donc une douce campagne: eh bien! bénissez moi_’ (I was then a gentle companion to you! So then give me your blessing!). “I have since been informed that regularly every morning La Fayette sent out his valet Bastien, shut himself up in his room, and taking the portrait in both hands, looked at it earnestly, pressed it to his lips, and remained silently contemplating it for about a quarter of an hour. Nothing was more disagreeable to him than to be disturbed during this daily homage to the memory of his virtuous partner.” His grief for her loss may be judged of from the two following letters written by him at the time of this overwhelming affliction:—