usset.

"I am sure," she said, "I am going to die. Madame de Vintimille and
Madame de Chateauroux both died _as young as myself_: it is a species of
fatality which strikes all those who have loved the king. What I regret
least is life,--I am weary of flatteries and insults, of friendships and
hatreds; but I own to you that I am terrified at the idea of being cast
into some ditch or other, whether it be by the clergy, by Monseigneur the
Dauphin, or by the people of Paris."

Madame du Hausset took her hands within her own, and assured her that if
France had the misfortune to lose her, the king would not fail to give
her a burial worthy of her rank and station.

"Alas!" rejoined Madame de Pompadour, "a burial worthy of me!--when we
recollect that Madame de Mailly, repenting of having been his first
mistress, desired to be interred in the cemetery of the Innocents; and
not only that, but even under the common water-pipe."

She passed the night in tears. On the following morning, however, she
resumed a little courage, and hastened to call to her aid all the
resources of art to conceal the first ravages of time; but in vain did
she seek to recover that adorable smile which twenty years before had
made Louis XV. forget that he was King of France.

From this time forth she showed herself in Paris no more; and at court
she would only appear by candle-light, and then in the apparel of a Queen
of Golconda, crowned with diamonds, her arms covered with bracelets, and
wearing a magnificent Indian robe, embroidered with gold and silver. She
was always the beautiful Marchioness de Pompadour, but a closer
inspection would show that the lovely face of former days was now but a
made-up face, still charming, but like a restored painting, showing
evident symptoms of having been here and there effaced and retouched.
It was in the mouth that she first lost her beauty. She had in early life
acquired the habit of biting her lips to conceal her emotions, and at
thirty years of age her mouth had lost all its vivid brilliancy of color.

Some persons have stated that Madame de Pompadour died from the effects
of poison, administered either by the Jesuits, who never ceased
persecuting her with anonymous letters, or by her enemies at Versailles;
but this story is not deserving of credit. Most persons are agreed that
Madame de Pompadour died simply because she was five and forty years of
age; and owing as she did all her power but to the charm of