"But I cannot take my children to Fontevrault," I retorted; "the nuns,
and the Abbess herself, would never admit them. You know better than I
do that it is a nunnery."

"Your children," said he, "are not necessary to you; Madame de la
Valliere managed to leave here for good and all."

"Yes; and in forsaking them she committed a crime," I answered; "only
ferocious-hearted persons could have counselled her or commanded her to
do so." And saying this, I rose, and gave him a glance of disdain.

He grew somewhat gentler in manner as he slowly went on, "His Majesty
will take care of your children; it behoves you to save their mother.
And, in order to prove to you that I have not come here of my own accord,
but that, on the contrary, I am executing a formal command, here is a
letter of farewell addressed to you by the King."

I took the letter, which was couched in the following terms:

It is but right, madame, that on so solemn an occasion I should set an
example myself. I must ask you henceforth to consider our intimacy
entirely at an end. You must retire to Fontevrault, where Madame de
Montemart will take care of you and afford you distraction by her
charming society. Your children are in good hands; do not be in the
least uneasy about them. Farewell. I wish you all the firmness and
well-being possible. LOUISON

In the first flush of my indignation I was about to trample under foot so
offensive a communication. But the final phrase shocked me less than the