she soon must stand, the
greatness of her transgression harrowed her soul, and increased her
desire to spend the rest of her life in works of piety and in prayer.
When convalescent, the king consented to her retirement to the
Carmelite convent. Like one in a dream, she took leave of her children
without a tear. Then, entering the apartment of the queen, she threw
herself upon her knees, and with the sobbings of a remorseful and
despairing heart implored her pardon for all the sorrow she had caused
her. The generous Maria Theresa raised her up, embraced her, and
declared her entirely forgiven.

The morning of her departure arrived. The king, who was that day to
leave Paris to visit the army in Flanders, attended high mass. Louise
also attended. Absorbed in prayer, she did not raise her eyes during
the service. She then, pale as death, and leaning upon the arm of her
mother, but for whose support she must have fallen, advanced to take
leave of the king. The selfish monarch, with a dry eye and a firm
voice, bade her adieu, coldly expressing the hope that she would be
happy in her retreat. Without the slightest apparent emotion, he saw
Louise, with her earthly happiness utterly wrecked, enter her carriage
and drive away, to pass the remainder of her joyless years in the
gloomy cell of the convent. He then turned and conversed with his
companions with as much composure as if nothing unusual had happened.

Louise, upon her arrival at the convent, cast herself upon her knees
before the abbess, saying that hitherto she had made so ill a use of
her free will that she came to resign it to the abbess forever. For
thirty-six years the heart-broken penitent endured the hardships of
her convent life--its narrow pallet, its hard fare, its prolonged
devotions, its silence, and its rigid fastings. Under the name of
Louisa of Mercy she with the most exemplary fidelity performed all her
dreary duties, until, in her sixty-sixth year, she fell asleep, and
passed away, we trust, to the bosom of that Savior who is ever ready
to receive the returning penitent.

The hapless Henrietta, duchess of Orleans, left a very beautiful
daughter, Maria Louisa. Her charms of countenance, person, and
manners attracted the admiration of the whole court, where she was a
universal favorite. She was compelled by the king, as a matter of
state policy, to marry Charles II., the young King of Spain, for whom
she felt no affection. Bitterly she wept in view of