Chapter CLX: Letter IX: PARIS, December 15, 1686

I wrote you a long letter, sir, more than a month ago, full of friendship, secrets, and confidence. I know not what became of it; it lost its way, perhaps, in seeking for you at the States, since you have not answered it: but this will not prevent me from telling you a melancholy, and at the same time a pleasing, piece of intelligence: the death of the prince, which happened the day before yesterday, the 11th instant, at a quarter after seven in the evening, and the return of the Prince de Conti to court, through the kindness of the prince, who asked this favor of the king in his last moments. The king immediately granted it, and the prince had this consolation on his death-bed; but never was joy drowned in so many tears. The Prince de Conti is inconsolable at the loss he has sustained. It could not be greater, particularly as he passed the whole time of his disgrace at Chantilly, where he made an admirable use of the understanding and abilities of the prince, and drew from the fountain-head all that was to be acquired from so great a master, by whom he was tenderly beloved. The prince flew, with a speed that has cost him his life, from Chantilly to Fontainebleau, where Madame de Bourbon was seized with the small-pox, in order to prevent the duke, who had not had the disorder, from nursing her and being with her; for the duchess, who has always nursed her, would have been sufficient to satisfy him of the care that was taken of her health. He was very ill, and at length died of an oppression with which he was seized, which made him say, as he was on the point of returning to Paris, that he should take a much longer journey. He sent for his confessor, Father Deschamps, and, after lying in a state of insensibility for twenty-four hours, and receiving all the sacraments, he died, regretted and bitterly lamented by his family and his friends. The king was much afflicted at the event, and, in short, the grief of losing so great a man and so great a hero, whose place whole ages will not be able to supply, has been felt by all ranks. A singular circumstance happened three weeks ago, a little before the departure of the prince for Fontainebleau. Vernillon, one of his gentlemen, returning from the chase at three o’clock, saw, as he approached the castle, at one of the windows of the armory, an apparition: that is, a man who had been dead and buried. He dismounted, and came nearer; he still saw it. His valet, who was with him, said, “I see the same, sir, that you see.” Vernillon had been silent, that his valet might speak of his own accord. They entered the castle together, and desired the keeper to give them the key of the armory. The keeper went with them; they found all the windows closed, and a silence which had been undisturbed for more than six months. This was told to the prince: he appeared struck with it at first, and afterward laughed at it. Every one heard the story and trembled for the prince. You see what the event has been.