The next request made by Louis XV was for his daughters, who presented themselves bathed in tears, and vainly striving to repress that grief which burst forth in spite of all their endeavours. The king replied to their sobs, by saying, “My children, I have the small-pox; but weep not. These gentlemen [pointing towards the physicians] assure me they can cure me.” But, while uttering this cheerful sentence, his eye caught the stern and iron countenance of La Martinière, whose look of cool disbelief seemed to deny the possibility of such an event.
With a view to divert her father from the gloom which all at once came over his features, the princess Adélaïde informed him that she had a letter addressed to him by her sister, madame Louise.
“Let me hear it,” cried the king; “it is, no doubt, some heavenly mission with which she is charged. But who knows?” He stopped, but it was easy to perceive that to the fear of death was added a dread of his well-being in another world. Madame Adélaïde then read the letter with a low voice, while the attendants retired to a respectful distance. All eyes were directed to the countenance of the king, in order to read there the nature of its contents; but already had the ravages of his fatal disease robbed his features of every expression, save that of pain and suffering.
The princesses now took their stations beside their parent, and established themselves as nurses, an office which, I can with truth affirm, they continued to fill unto the last with all the devotion of the purest filial piety.
On this same day Louis XV caused me to be sent for. I ran to his bedside trembling with alarm. The various persons engaged in his apartment retired when they saw me, and we were left alone.
“My beloved friend,” said the king, “I have the small-pox; I am still very ill.”
“Nay, sire,” interrupted I, “you must not fancy things worse than they are; you will do well, depend upon it, and we shall yet pass many happy days together.”
“Do you indeed think so?” returned Louis XV. “May heaven grant your prophecy be a correct one. But see the state in which I now am; give me your hand.”
He took my hand and made me feel the pustules with which his burning cheeks were covered. I know not what effect this touch of my hand might have produced, but the king in his turn patted my face, pushed back the curls which hung negligently over my brow; then, inclining me towards him, drew my head upon his pillow. I submitted to this whim with all the courage I could assume; I even went so far as to be upon the point of bestowing a gentle kiss upon his forehead. But, stopping me, with a mournful air, he said, “No, my lovely countess; I am no longer myself, but here is a miniature which has not undergone the same change as its unfortunate master.”
I took the miniature, which I placed with respectful tenderness in my bosom, nor have I ever parted with it since.