, should have recoiled from a view of those towers, which were
ever a reminder to him of death and the grave. He could no longer
endure the palace at St. Germain. The magnificent panorama of the
city, the winding Seine, the flowery meadows, the forest, the
villages, and the battlemented chateaux lost all their charms, since
the towers of St. Denis would resistlessly arrest his eye, forcing
upon his soul reflections from which he instinctively recoiled. He
therefore abandoned St. Germain entirely, and determined that the
palace he was constructing at Versailles should be so magnificent as
to throw every other abode of royalty into the shade.

Madame de la Valliere was daily becoming more wretched. Fully
conscious of her sin and shame, deserted by the king, supplanted by a
new favorite, and still passionately attached to her royal betrayer,
she could not restrain that grief which rapidly marred her beauty. The
waning of her charms, and the reproaches of her silent woe,
increasingly repelled the king from seeking her society. One day Louis
entered the apartment of Louise, and found her weeping bitterly. In
cold, reproachful tones, he demanded the cause of her uncontrollable
grief. The poor victim, upon the impulse of the moment, gave vent to
all the gushing anguish of her soul--her sense of guilt in the sight
of God--her misery in view of her ignominious position, and her
brokenness of heart in the consciousness that she had lost the love of
one for whom she had periled her very soul.

The king listened impatiently, and then haughtily replied, "Let there
be an end to this. I love you, and you know it. But I am not to be
constrained." He reproached her for her obstinacy in refusing the
friendship of her rival, Madame de Montespan, and added the cutting
words, "You have needed, as well as Madame de Montespan, the
forbearance and countenance of your sex."

Poor Louise was utterly crushed. She had long been thinking of
retiring to a convent. Her decision was now formed. She devoted a few
sad days to the necessary arrangements, took an agonizing leave, as
she supposed forever, of her children, to whom she was tenderly
attached, and for whom the king had made ample provision, and,
addressing a parting letter to him, entered her carriage, to seek, for
a second time, a final retreat in the convent of Chaillot.

It was late in the evening when she entered those gloomy cells where
broken hearts find a living burial. To the abbes