He married, in compliance with the wishes of his family, a beautiful, witty and chaste woman, who drove him to despair.
He was sought after and cherished by all distinguished men of letters. But it was two Ladies who kept him from experiencing the pangs of poverty.
La Fontaine, if there remain anything of thee, and if it be permitted to thee for a moment to soar above all time; see the names of La Sabliere and of Hervard pass with thine to the ages to come!
The life of La Fontaine was, so to speak, only one of continual distraction. In the midst of society, he was absent from it. Regarded almost as an imbecile by the crowd, this clever author, this amiable man, only permitted himself to be seen at intervals and by friends.
He had few books and few friends.
Amongst a large number of works that he has left, everyone knows his fables and his tales, and the circumstances of his life are written in a hundred places.
He died on the 16th of March, 1695.
Let us keep silence about his last moments, for fear of irritating those who never forgive.
His fellow-citizens honour him in his posterity to this day.
Long after his death, foreigners went to visit the room which he had occupied.