few days' illness, suddenly
taken from his family. "I never witnessed so heartrending a scene," M.
Maigne says, "as that which took place when Marechal Ney's lady, her
niece, and Madame Pannelier, her sister, came to acquaint her with this
misfortune.--[The wife of Marechal Ney was a daughter of Madame Auguie,
and had been an intimate friend of Hortense Beauharnais.]--When they
entered her apartment she was in bed. All three at once uttered a
piercing cry. The two ladies threw themselves on their knees, and kissed
her hands, which they bedewed with tears. Before they could speak to her
she read in their faces that she no longer possessed a son. At that
instant her large eyes, opening wildly, seemed to wander. Her face grew
pale, her features changed, her lips lost their colour, she struggled to
speak, but uttered only inarticulate sounds, accompanied by piercing
cries. Her gestures were wild, her reason was suspended. Every part of
her being was in agony. To this state of anguish and despair no calm
succeeded, until her tears began to flow. Friendship and the tenderest
cares succeeded for a moment in calming her grief, but not in diminishing
its power.

"This violent crisis had disturbed her whole organisation. A cruel
disorder, which required a still more cruel operation, soon manifested
itself. The presence of her family, a tour which she made in Switzerland,
a residence at Baden, and, above all, the sight, the tender and charming
conversation of a person by whom she was affectionately beloved,
occasionally diverted her mind, and in a slight degree relieved her
suffering." She underwent a serious operation, performed with
extraordinary promptitude and the most complete success. No unfavourable
symptoms appeared; Madame Campan was thought to be restored to her
friends; but the disorder was in the blood; it took another course: the
chest became affected. "From that moment," says M. Maigne, "I could never
look on Madame Campan as living; she herself felt that she belonged no
more to this world."

"My friend," she said to her physician the day before her death, "I am
attached to the simplicity of religion. I hate all that savours of
fanaticism." When her codicil was presented for her signature, her hand
trembled; "It would be a pity," she said, "to stop when so fairly on the
road."

Madame Campan died on the 16th of March, 1822. The cheerfulness she
displayed throughout her malady had nothing affected