November 12, 1722.
I hope to send you to-morrow a grand account of the coronation. I know
nothing new, except that I have been told one thing which causes me
the greatest joy. My son has broken from his mistresses, thinking that
he ought not to continue a style of life which would be a bad example
to the king and draw down upon him just condemnation. May God maintain
him in these good intentions and order all things for his happiness;
that is the only thing about which I am solicitous; I have no anxiety
as to what God may do with me.
November 21, 1722.
I grow worse hour by hour, and I suffer day and night; nothing that
they do for me relieves me. I have great need that God should inspire
me with patience; He would do me a great mercy if He delivered me from
my sufferings; therefore do not be distressed if you lose me; it will
be a great blessing for me.
In addition to my own illness I have another thing that goes to my
heart; my poor old Maréchale de Clérembault is very ill.
November 29, 1722.
You will receive to-day but a very short letter; I am worse than I
have ever been, and have not closed my eyes all night. Yesterday
morning we lost our poor maréchale; she had no attack, but life
appeared to abandon her. It gives me sincere pain; she was a lady of
great capacity and much merit; she was highly educated, though she did
not make it apparent. They tell me she has chosen as her heir the son
of her eldest brother. It is not surprising that a person eighty-eight
years of age should go; but, even so, it is painful to lose a friend
with whom one has passed fifty-one years of one's life. But I must
stop, my dear Louise; I suffer too much to say more to-day. If you
could see the state in which I am you would understand how much I wish
that it might end.
* * * * *
[Madame died nine days after this letter was written.]