nded around the neck of his dying
mother, where she ever wore it. The young man went to the bedside,
tore away the lace which veiled his mother's bosom, seized the key,
unlocked the casket, emptied its contents into his pockets, descended
to his carriage, and hurried away with the treasure, leaving his
mother to die without a relative to close her eyes. An hour after she
breathed her last.

The king was informed of the death of Madame de Montespan just as he
was setting out on a shooting excursion. "Ah! indeed," he said, "and
so the marchioness is dead. I should have thought that she would have
lasted longer. Are you ready, M. de la Rochefoucald? I have no doubt
that after this last shower the scent will lie well for the dogs.
Come, let us be off at once."

We have slightly anticipated the chronological sequence of events in
this narrative of the death of Madame de Montespan, which took place
in the year 1707. James II. of England died in exile at St. Germain in
September, 1701. The Prince of Orange then occupied the British throne
with the title of William III. He formed what was called the "Grand
Alliance" against the encroachments of France. For several years the
war of the "Spanish Succession" raged with almost unprecedented fury
throughout all Europe.

[Illustration: FRONT VIEW OF ST. GERMAIN.]

The king's health was now failing, and troubles in rapid succession
came crowding upon him. His armies encountered terrible defeats. The
king had thus far lived on friendly terms with his only brother
Philip, duke of Orleans, the playmate of his childhood, and the
submissive subject of maturer years. They were now both soured by
misfortune. In a chance meeting at Marly they fell into a violent
altercation respecting the conduct of one of the sons of the duke. It
was their first quarrel since childhood. The duke was so excited by
the event that he hastened to his palace at St. Cloud with flushed
cheeks and trembling nerves, where he was stricken down by apoplexy. A
courier was immediately dispatched to the king. He hastened to the
bedside of his brother, and found him insensible.

Philip was two years younger than Louis. To see him die was a louder
appeal to the conscience of the king than the view of St. Denis from
the terrace at St. Germain. Death was, to this monarch, truly the king
of terrors. He could not endure the spectacle of his brother's dying
convulsions. Burying his face in his hands, he wept and sobbed
bi