priest, Fenelon saw from the first that
religion alone could triumph over this terrible nature; the Duke of
Beauvilliers, as sincere and as christianly as he, without much wits,
modestly allowed himself to be led; all the motives that act most
powerfully on a generous spirit, honor, confidence, fear and love of
God, were employed one after the other to bring the prince into
self-subjection. He was but eight years old, and Fenelon had been only
a few months with him, when the child put into his hands one day the
following engagement:--

"I promise M. l'Abbe de Fenelon, on the honor of a prince, to do at once
whatever he bids me, and to obey him the instant he orders me anything,
and, if I fail to, I will submit to any kind of punishment and disgrace."

"Done at Versailles the 29th of November, 1689.
"Signed: Louis."

[Illustration: Fenelon and the Duke of Burgundy----610]

The child, however, would forget himself, and relapse into his mad fits.
When his preceptor was chiding him one day for a grave fault, he went so
far as to say, "No, no, sir; I know who I am and what you are." Fenelon
made no reply; coldly and gravely he allowed the day to close and the
night to pass without showing his pupil any sign of either resentment or
affection. Next day the Duke of Burgundy was scarcely awake when his
preceptor entered the room. "I do not know, sir," said he, "whether you
remember what you said to me yesterday, that you know what you are and
what I am. It is my duty to teach you that you do not know either one or
the other. You fancy yourself, sir, to be more than I; some lackeys, no
doubt, have told you so, but I am not afraid to tell you, since you force
me to it, that I am more than you. You have sense enough to understand
that there is no question here of birth. You would consider anybody out
of his wits who pretended to make a merit of it that the rain of heaven
had fertilized his crops without moistening his neighbors. You would be
no wiser if you were disposed to be vain of your birth, which adds
nothing to your personal merit. You cannot doubt that I am above you in
lights and knowledge. You know nothing but what I have taught you; and
what I have taught you is nothing compared with what I might still teach
you. As for authority, you have none over me; and I, on the contrary,
have it fully and entirely over you; the king and Monseigneur have told
you so often enough. You fancy, perhaps, that I think my