PARIS, December 15, 1686.
I wrote you a long letter, sir, more than a month ago, full of
friendship, secrets, and confidence. I know not what became of it; it
lost its way, perhaps, in seeking for you at the States, since you
have not answered it: but this will not prevent me from telling you a
melancholy, and at the same time a pleasing, piece of intelligence:
the death of the prince, which happened the day before yesterday,
the 11th instant, at a quarter after seven in the evening, and the
return of the Prince de Conti to court, through the kindness of the
prince, who asked this favor of the king in his last moments. The king
immediately granted it, and the prince had this consolation on his
death-bed; but never was joy drowned in so many tears. The Prince de
Conti is inconsolable at the loss he has sustained. It could not be
greater, particularly as he passed the whole time of his disgrace at
Chantilly, where he made an admirable use of the understanding and
abilities of the prince, and drew from the fountain-head all that
was to be acquired from so great a master, by whom he was tenderly
beloved. The prince flew, with a speed that has cost him his life,
from Chantilly to Fontainebleau, where Madame de Bourbon was seized
with the small-pox, in order to prevent the duke, who had not had the
disorder, from nursing her and being with her; for the duchess, who
has always nursed her, would have been sufficient to satisfy him of
the care that was taken of her health. He was very ill, and at length
died of an oppression with which he was seized, which made him say,
as he was on the point of returning to Paris, that he should take a
much longer journey. He sent for his confessor, Father Deschamps, and,
after lying in a state of insensibility for twenty-four hours, and
receiving all the sacraments, he died, regretted and bitterly lamented
by his family and his friends. The king was much afflicted at the
event, and, in short, the grief of losing so great a man and so great
a hero, whose place whole ages will not be able to supply, has been
felt by all ranks. A singular circumstance happened three weeks ago, a
little before the departure of the prince for Fontainebleau. Vernillon,
one of his gentlemen, returning from the chase at three o’clock, saw,
as he approached the castle, at one of the windows of the armory, an
apparition: that is, a man who had been dead and buried. He dismounted,
and came nearer; he still saw it. His valet, who was with him, said, “I
see the same, sir, that you see.” Vernillon had been silent, that his
valet might speak of his own accord. They entered the castle together,
and desired the keeper to give them the key of the armory. The keeper
went with them; they found all the windows closed, and a silence which
had been undisturbed for more than six months. This was told to the
prince: he appeared struck with it at first, and afterward laughed at
it. Every one heard the story and trembled for the prince. You see what
the event has been.