"A rural gendarme threw himself at his feet and kissed his hand sobbing; he gave it to several others and, turning to the foot-guard who was on sentry and who presented arms to him: "'Come,' he said, 'I thank you, you have done your duty well. I am pleased with you; but you must be very tired.' "'Ah, Sire,' answered the old soldier, while great tears trickled down upon his white mustachios, 'it's nothing to be tired: if only we had been able to save Your Majesty!' "A grenadier, at that moment, made his way through the crowd and came up and stood in front of the King: "'What do you want?' asked His Majesty. "'Sire,' answered the soldier, raising his hand to his bear-skin, 'I wanted to look at you once more.' "The King, deeply moved, threw himself into his carriage, and the whole scene disappeared." MAINTENON, _September_ 1836. Calamities extend their effect by the fate of him who describes them: this narrative is the work of Madame de Chalais-Périgord, _née_ Beauvilliers-Saint-Aignan. The Duc de Beauvilliers[484] was, under Louis XIV., the governor of the Prince who was the stock of the family outlawed to-day. The last daughter of Fénelon's friend came unexpectedly upon the Duc de Bordeaux on his road and hastened to go to tell her father that she had seen the last heir of the Duc de Bourgogne pass. In the young princess, beauty, rank and fortune were combined; she had first turned her thoughts to the world, in search of pleasure; her hope, like the dove after the Deluge, finding the earth soiled, flew back to the Ark of God. When, in 1816, I passed this spot, on my way to write the eleventh book of the first part of these Memoirs at Montboissier[485], Maintenon Castle stood empty; Madame de Chalais was not yet born: since, she has spread out and reckoned her whole life over twenty-six years of mine. Thus have the shreds of my existence composed the spring-time of a number of women who have fallen after their month of May. Montboissier is now deserted and Maintenon inhabited: its new occupiers are my hosts. M. le Duc de Noailles, who, if nothing stops him, will achieve a brilliant career, was not of an age to vote when I was in the House of Peers: I did not hear him deliver those speeches in which he has pleaded, with the authority of arguments and the power of words, the cause of France and of the royal misfortunes. His part in life began when mine had finished: he took the oath to misfortune in a more useful way than I. Madame la Duchesse de Noailles is a niece of M. le Marquis de Mortemart, my old colonel in the Navarre Regiment; she bears a sad and gentle likeness to my sister Julie[486].