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"Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition

is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may

be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place

will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead

of the same malady, I shall be laid under some other heap of poor

grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so fast,

there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!"

The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken

into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was

left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies,

was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance that

remained between him and his chateau.