I am afraid that the excesses of the Duchesse de Berry in eating and
drinking will put her underground. The fever never leaves her and she
has two paroxysms of it daily. She shows neither impatience nor anger,
though she suffered greatly from the emetic they gave her yesterday.
She has become as thin and shrunken as she was fat; yesterday she
confessed and received the communion.
July 17, 1719.
The Duchesse de Berry died last night between two and three o'clock;
her end was very gentle; they say she died as if she fell asleep. My
son remained beside her until she had entirely lost consciousness. She
was his favourite child.
The poor duchess took her own life as surely as if she had put a
pistol to her head; she secretly ate melons, figs, milk; she owned it
to me herself, and her physician told me she locked her door against
him and all the other doctors for fourteen days in order to do as
she liked. When the storm came up, as it did, she turned to death.
She said to me last night: "Ah! Madame, that peal of thunder did me
great harm,"--and indeed it was very visible. She received the last
sacraments with such firmness that it wrung our hearts.
My son has lost the power to sleep; his poor daughter could not
have been saved; her head was full of water; she had an ulcer in
the stomach, another in the hip, the rest of her inside was like
_bouillie_ and the liver attacked. She was taken at night, secretly,
with all her household, to Saint-Denis. Such embarrassment was felt
about her funeral oration that it was judged best to have none at all.
She said she died without regret, because she was reconciled with God,
and that if her life were prolonged she might offend Him again. That
touched us in a way I cannot express. At heart she was a good person;
and if her mother had taken more care of her and had brought her up
better there would be nothing but good to say of her. I own that her
loss goes to my heart--but let us talk of something else; this is too
sad.
The reason you could not read my last letter was that it was partly
torn by one of my dogs just as I finished it. I see you do not like
dogs, for if you loved them as I do you would forgive their little
faults. I have one, named _Reine inconnue_, which understands as well
as a man, and never leaves me an instant without weeping and howling
as long as I am out of her sight.