“With respect to our children,—I speak of all six,—whom she always recognized and welcomed, whom she always spoke to in the kindest and most loving manner, and whose various characters and dispositions ever remained clearly present to her mind, there was still something less lucid in her thoughts than with regard to me. As for her grandchildren, she spoke of them several times to me with charming details; but more frequently her ideas were confused with respect to their number, their sex, and even to the existence of the two last. She was most affectionate throughout to her sister, Madame de Montagu; she frequently inquired from us both how my mother was, fancying we had seen her lately. We shuddered on hearing her calmly say on the morning of her death, ‘To-day I shall see my mother.’
“The last day she told me, ‘When you see Madame de Simiane, give her my love.’ Thus her heart was all life when her poor limbs were already numbed by approaching death.
“I have already told you without any particulars that she had received the sacraments. I was present during the ceremony, which was more painful to us than to herself, for she had already taken the sacrament in her bed a short time previously.
“The next day, before she became quite speechless, Madame de Montagu and my daughters, fearing that my presence might prevent her from praying at her ease, asked me to leave them. My first impulse was to refuse their request, however tenderly and timidly made; I had a passionate desire to occupy her thoughts exclusively. However, I repressed my feelings, and gave up my place to her sister. I was scarcely gone when she called me back. So soon as I got nearer, she again took my hand in hers, saying, ‘Je suis toute à vous.’ These were her last words.
“It has been said that she had often lectured me. That was not her way; she frequently expressed, in the course of her delirium, the idea that she would go to heaven. She told me several times, ‘This life is short and full of troubles; let us unite in God and depart together for eternity.’ She wished us all, and me in particular, the peace of the Lord. Such is the manner in which that dear angel expressed herself during her illness, as well as in the will she had made a few years ago, and which is a model of refinement, of elevation of mind, and of eloquence from the heart.
“It seems as if, by dwelling on these details, I was trying to defer that last period, when, on seeing the doctor giving up all hopes of her recovery, and only thinking of prolonging life, we felt that for her there was to be no to-morrow. Until then we had only appeared before her two or three at a time; but that day, as she seemed to be seeking for us, we saw no harm in admitting all the members of the family, who seated themselves in a semi-circle before her, so that she could see every one. ‘What a pleasant sight!’ she said, while looking on us with complacency.
“She called for her daughters in turn, and had a charming word for each of them. She gave them each her blessing. I feel confident that she was happy during that morning. And how could the last moments be otherwise than calm for her whose piety, far from being troubled by terrors and scruples, never ceased to be all the time of her illness, before and during her delirium, all love and gratitude for the blessings, to use her own words, which God had bestowed and was still bestowing on her? for her who, notwithstanding the state of her brain, never lost a single joy which a heart such as hers could feel? Her delirium even became less confused. Instead of asking Madame de Montagu how my mother was, she told her, ‘I look upon you as having succeeded to her.’
“No doubt she felt that the last moment was approaching, when, after having told me in so touching a manner: ‘Have you been happy with me? Are you kind enough to love me? Well, then, give me your blessing.’ and when I answered: ‘You love me also, you will give me your blessing’[blessing’]; she gave me hers for the first and last time in a solemn and loving manner. Then her six children, each in turn, kissed her hand and face. She looked at them with inexpressible tenderness.
“Still more surely had she the idea of her approaching end, when, fearing a convulsion, as I believe, she made me a sign to step back; and, as I remained near her, she laid my hand on her eyes with a look of tender gratitude, thus giving me to understand what was the last duty she expected from me.
“We felt during these hours of gentle agony a struggle between the want of expressing our love, which she enjoyed so much, and the belief that these emotions wore out the little that was left in her of life. I kept in my words with nearly as much care as I repressed my sobs, when the touching expression of her eyes, a few scarcely uttered words, tore from my lips the expression of the feelings with which my heart was bursting. She revived, and found strength to exclaim: ‘Is it then true you have loved me? How happy I am! Kiss me.’ She raised her poor arms, which were almost lifeless, with wonderful animation. She passed one round my neck, and drawing my head towards hers, she pressed me to her heart, repeating: ‘What a blessing! how happy I am to be yours!’ Until her right hand became motionless, she carried mine successively to her lips and to her heart. My left hand did not leave hers, and as long as she breathed, I could feel that pressure, which seemed still to mean, ‘Je suis toute à vous.’