He turned away, seemed glad to go.
Madame clutched hold of Mme de la Fayette. “I am horrible. Give me a mirror.”
She reached out and caught up a heavy glass from her dressing-table; her frail strength could hardly lift it. She looked in it a second, then dropped it on the quilt.
“Madame de la Fayette,” she said, “my nose has shrunk—”
The lady could only weep. It was true; her nose had sunk into her face with a ghastly and corpse-like effect. She tossed herself about; whether in bodily or mental agony it was impossible to tell.
Mme de Gamaches came to say that Mme de la Vallière and Mme de Montespan had come together.
“Admit neither of them,” said Madame. She sent Mme de la Fayette out to them.
The two would share the crown she had left. Why had they come now? They must be glad she was dying–not la Vallière perhaps; she was a gentle woman.
It was now eleven o’clock, and the doctors suddenly informed the King that there was no hope; and those symptoms that two hours before they had vowed meant nothing they now declared the certain signs of gangrene and approaching death, and advised that Madame took the Holy Sacrament.
The King accused them of losing their heads. Monsieur fought his way into the dressing-room where Madame lay and told her, in an agitated manner, what they had said.