knew. Gentlemen went in search of her and her fortune, from Paris,
from Brussels, even from London and Vienna; but all came back
chopfallen.

So crept away the winter, the spring, the summer, the autumn. And so
went another year, and 1730 dawned, a year memorable for the loss of
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. She, too, showed me a condescension beautiful
and worthy of her. She did not lack for friends among the greatest
during her fading away. Besides my master and Monsieur Voltaire, was
my Lord Peterborough, a great, tall devil of an Englishman, with a
head on his shoulders and a heart in his bosom, who made some fine
campaigns in Spain. Count Saxe and Monsieur Voltaire had a tacit
agreement to visit Mademoiselle Lecouvreur on different days, although
I believe the sense that she would soon be lost to both of them
softened their feelings one to the other. All this time Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur could still act, three times a week; but when she was not
at the theater she was usually in her bed--and always patient, gentle
and smiling. She had not always been so patient. I have been told
that, her sister once impudently demanding money of her, Mademoiselle
Lecouvreur threw both shoes at her. But as some one has said, "Death
lights up a terrible flambeau in which the aspect of all things is
changed."

Great crowds attended all of Mademoiselle Lecouvreur's performances at
the Theatre Francais; and in spite of her weakness, the fire of genius
carried her through her parts with a supernatural strength. When it
was over, though, she was no more the great artist, but poor, ailing,
dying Adrienne Lecouvreur. On the days when she lay on her couch in
her chamber, she was sometimes kind enough to ask for me. When I would
go in I would be asked to take a chair within the _ruelle_ and she
would talk to me with her old kindness. Often her mind went back to
her childhood days; for this woman was far above the paltriness of
being ashamed of her origin, as Monsieur Voltaire was. She once said
to me, Count Saxe sitting by:

"Babache, how merry we were as children--though we were often ragged,
and I, for one, had not always as much as I would have liked to eat.
But we were not troubled with governesses or masters, were we,
Babache?" She laughed as she said this, her beautiful tired eyes
lighting up.

"Indeed we were not, Mademoiselle, and I believe the children of the
poor are, in general, happier than the children of the rich," I
answered.