The end came soon. In a few hours, Madame died in horrible agony. Her corpse immediately turned black.
Louis XIV. is in his private closet at Saint-Germain. He is in his robe de chambre, and he has been weeping; three extraordinary events for the King, not to hold his usual levee, to wear his robe de chambre, and to weep.
A dreadful rumour has just reached him—the words poison and murder have passed from mouth to mouth about the Court. At last he has heard them. What!—his beloved sister-in-law, she who but two days before had danced with him in a ballet, dressed as Aurora; she—the pride of his Court, the cynosure of all eyes—poisoned! Oh, horrible! By whom was this poison given? By his brother? Impossible. By one of his disgraceful favourites whom Madame hated? The Chevalier de Lorraine, perhaps? Was he the murderer? The King cannot brook suspense or delay. He sends privately for Morel, the maître d'hôtel of his brother. Morel comes trembling; he guesses the reason of the summons.
"Morel," says the King in an unsteady voice, "I have sent for you to tell me the truth. Now, on pain of instant death, answer me. Who murdered my sister-in-law? Presume not to equivocate or to deceive me. Did the Duchess die by poison?"
"She did, your Majesty."
Louis shudders. "By whose order was it administered?"
"By the order of the Chevalier de Lorraine," answers Morel. "Poison was put into a cup of chicorée-water, the Duchess's usual beverage, by the hands of the Marquis d'Effiat. Before God, your Majesty, I am innocent of all save the knowledge of this crime."
Louis, seeing that Morel is about to cast himself on his knees before him, by a stern gesture forbade it. He then motions him to proceed.