Madam, said I, I am so far from
blaming your grief, that I assure you I am willing to bear what
share of it is proper for me. I should very much wonder if you
were insensible of so great a loss. Mourn on, your tears are so
many proofs of your good-nature; but I hope, however, that time
and reason will moderate your grief.
She retired into her apartment, where, giving herself wholly up
to sorrow, she spent a whole year in mourning and afflicting
herself. At the end of that time, she begged leave of me to build
a burying-place for herself within the bounds of the palace,
where she would continue, she told me, to the end of her days. I
agreed to it, and she built a stately palace, with a cupola, that
may be seen here, and she called it the Palace of Tears. When it
was finished, she caused her gallant to be brought thither from
the place that she made him to be carried the same night that I
wounded him; she had hindered his dying by the drink she gave
him, and carried to him herself every day after he came to the
Palace of Tears.
Yet, with all her enchantments, she could not cure the wretch; he
was not only unable to walk, and to help himself, but had also
lost the use of his speech, and gave no sign of life but only by
his looks. Though the queen had no other consolation but to see
him, and to say to him all that her foolish passion could inspire
her with, yet every day she made him two long visits; I was very
well informed of all this, but pretended to know nothing of it.
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