The Queen’s face changed; she moved back.
“God forgive you, Madame la Duchesse,” she said in a voice torn and broken. “God have mercy on you.” With that she burst into tears and hurried from the room, the light running down her silver dress.
Madame was silent; she lay with her hand over her eyes until they came to move her back into her own bed that had been re-made.
Then she asked for the King.
He had returned, she was told, to Versailles.
She never mentioned his name again. With his departure all hope and desire of life had gone; he had fled, forsaken her. She almost wished to die now, so that she might have respite from her pain.
The Mârechal de Granmont was brought to her bedside; she told him that she was poisoned and bid him farewell.
She began to cough.
“It is the death cough,” she said. “Do you remember how my mother coughed just before she died?” She then asked how long she had to live, and expressed again her desire to confess.
The King had gone and the doctors had said there was no hope.