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It was that he might be buried that he went through the farce of confession, of absolution, and of the last sacrament. The priests knew that he was not in earnest, and Voltaire knew that they would not allow him to be buried in any of the cemeteries of Paris. His death was kept a secret. The Abbe Mignot made arrangements for the burial at Romilli-on-the-Seine, more than 100 miles from Paris.
Once decided, Beauvouloir had confidence in the chances and changes of life; it might be that the duke would die before the marriage; besides, there were many examples of such marriage; a peasant girl in Dauphine, Francoise Mignot, had lately married the Marechal d'Hopital; the son of the Connetable Anne de Montmorency had married Diane, daughter of Henri II. and a Piedmontese lady named Philippa Duc.
"I only met Robespierre in society once," said the King to me. "It was at a place called Mignot, near Poissy, which still exists. It belonged to a wealthy cloth manufacturer of Louviers, named M. Decreteau. It was in ninety-one or two. M. Decreteau one day invited me to dinner at Mignot. I went. When the time came we took our places at table.
There are also in an iron chest, the golden bulls and papal decrees, most of the keys of the Bastille, the wills of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, with his journal, autograph letters of Napoleon, one written by him to Louis XVIII, with a variety of other most interesting objects. The Fontaine de la Naiade in the same street, has a clever bas-relief by Mignot.
Jules Mignot, the farmer in question, was at home, and promised to go to the glacière in the morning, pledging his word and all that he was worth for the existence and soundness of the ladders; a matter of considerable importance, for M. Thury had been unable to reach the ice, as also my sisters, by reason of a failure in this respect.
The accompanying engraving is from a sketch which attempts to represent it; the reality is much less prim, and much more full of beautiful detail, but still the engraving gives a fair idea of the general appearance of the cave. While I was occupied in making sketches and measurements, Mignot was engaged in chopping discontentedly at the floor, in two or three different places.
When we left the lower darkness and ascended to the floor of ice once more, Mignot expressed a desire to see my attempt at a sketch of the glacière from that point, as he had been much struck during his negotiatory visit of the night before by the sketch of the entrance to the Glacière of S. Georges, chiefly because he had guessed what it was meant for.
It opened into the blackest possible darkness, and Mignot thrust his legs through, feeling for a foothold, which, by lowering himself almost to his armpits, he soon discovered: the foothold, however, proved to be a loose stone, which gave way under him and bounded down, apparently over an incline of like stones, to a distance which sounded very alarming.
"What is your name and pursuit?" "David Mignot. I am a poet." The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes. "How do you live?" "I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father's flock," David answered, with his head high, but a flush upon his cheek. "Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you have blundered upon to-night. This lady is my niece, Mademoiselle Lucie de Varennes.
And standing there in the sunshine was the commander of the field battery, Captain Mignot. A tall and bearded man, essentially grave, he listened while Lieutenant Puaux explained the request from General Foch that I see his battery. He turned and scanned the sky. "We regret," he said seriously, "that at the moment there is no aëroplane in sight. We will, however, show Madame everything."
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