from the spirit of the
courtier, proved to be the misfortune of her later life. Too amiable,
perhaps too diplomatic, to frown openly upon the King's irregularities,
she was accused, whether justly or otherwise, of tacitly favoring his
relations with Mme. De Montespan. The husband of this lady took his
wife's infidelity very much to heart, and, failing to find any redress,
forced himself one day into the presence of Madam de Montausier, and
made a violent scene which so affected her that she fell into a profound
melancholy and an illness from which she never rallied. There is always
an air of mystery thrown about this affair, and it is difficult to
fathom the exact truth; but the results were sufficiently tragical to
the woman who was quoted by her age as a model of virtue and decorum.

In 1648, the troubles of the Fronde, which divided friends and added
fuel to petty social rivalries, scattered the most noted guests of the
Hotel de Rambouillet. Voiture was dead; Angelique Paulet died two years
later. The young Marquis de Pisani, the only son and the hope of his
family, had fallen with many brave comrades on the field of Nordlingen.
Of the five daughters, three were abbesses of convents. The health
of the Marquise, which had always been delicate, was still further
enfeebled by the successive griefs which darkened her closing years. Her
husband, of whom we know little save that he was sent on various foreign
missions, and "loved his wife always as a lover," died in 1652. She
survived him thirteen years, living to see the death of her youngest
daughter, Angelique, wife of the Comte de Grignan who was afterwards
the son-in-law of Mme. de Sevigne. She witnessed the elevation of her
favorite Julie, but was spared the grief of her death which occurred
five or six years after her own. The aged Marquise, true to her early
tastes, continued to receive her friends in her ruelle, and her salon
had a brief revival when the Duchesse de Montausier returned from the
provinces, after the second Fronde; but its freshness had faded with its
draperies of blue and gold. The brilliant company that made it so famous
was dispersed, and the glory of the Salon Bleu was gone.

There is something infinitely pathetic in the epitaph this much-loved
and successful woman wrote for herself when she felt that the end was
near:

Ici git Arthenice, exempte des rigueurs
Don't la rigueur du sort l'a touours poursuivie.
Et si tu veux, passa