ur's sister, her two faithful servants and the
doctor. There was a strange quiet for so many persons. The windows
were opened, letting in the mild air of the spring night. Beneath the
windows, a vast, silent and sorrowing crowd stood through the night,
while the moon and stars watched and waned. The eastern sky grew rosy,
and the long lances of the sun's advance-guard tipped the roofs and
spires with glory. While I was watching this miracle of a new day, I
heard the door to Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's room open behind me. I
caught one glimpse of Monsieur Voltaire as he leaned weeping over the
pillow whereon Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's head lay, naturally as if
she had fallen asleep. Her face was turned a little toward the window,
and one hand, half open, lay outside the coverlet--as Count Saxe had
dropped it last. He came out of the room. I saw that he was almost as
pale as the dead Adrienne; for she was dead, the beautiful, the
loving, the generous, and gifted. He walked steadily enough toward me;
then suddenly tottered. I helped him out of the room, and below and
into a coach. He spoke not one word as we drove toward the Luxembourg,
but wept--oh, how he wept!

I left him in his room, alone with his grief and his remorse. I went
to my own. At my writing table sat Gaston Cheverny, writing, his tears
dropping upon the paper. I believe everybody in Paris wept when
Adrienne Lecouvreur died.

"I am writing an account for Mademoiselle Capello," he said; then laid
down his pen, when he saw by my face what had happened.

Four days later Adrienne Lecouvreur was buried at midnight. I was
among the few at her interment. Monsieur Voltaire managed it all, with
a delicacy, a tenderness inexpressible. Those who say that man could
not love, knew not the nobility of his love for Adrienne Lecouvreur.
When her will was opened it was found that nearly all of her property
was left to the poor.

The death of Adrienne Lecouvreur made an epoch with my master. Except
her, he had not been fortunate in the women he had known best; and
there were no more, for him, like Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. He never
again spoke to the Duchesse de Bouillon. In that, he was unfailingly
true to the memory of the woman who had loved him so well.

This was in March of 1730. It seemed to me as if the days were growing
heavier, and Paris drearier, every week that passed. Not that Paris is
reckoned a dreary town; particularly in the spring and summer, when
everythin