Arvde Barine

I. Anne of Austria and Richelieu—Birth of Louis XIV.—II. L'AstrÉe and its Influence—III. Transformation of the Public Manners—The Creation of the Salon—The HÔtel de Rambouillet and Men of Letters.

I

But little information concerning the affairs of the day previous to the last months of the reign of Louis XIII. can be gleaned from the MÉmoires of La Grande Mademoiselle. It is hardly credible that a young girl raised at the Court of France, not at all stupid, and because of her birth so situated as to see and to hear everything, could have gone through some of the most thrilling catastrophes of that tragic time without seeing or hearing anything. At a later day Mademoiselle was the first to wonder at it; she furnishes an example surpassing imagination.

In 1637, before starting on her journey into the province, she went to bid adieu to "their Majesties," who were at Chantilly. Mademoiselle fell upon a drama. Richelieu had just disgraced the Queen of France, who had been declared guilty of abusing her religious retreat at the Convent of Val-de-GrÂce by holding secret correspondence with Spain. Val-de-GrÂce had been ransacked, and one of Anne of Austria's servants had been arrested. Anne herself had been questioned like a criminal, and she had had a very bitter tÊte-À-tÊte in her chamber with such a Richelieu as she had never met before.

It was then ten years since Louis XIII., abruptly entering his wife's private apartments, had interrupted a declaration of love made by his Minister. After Marie de MÉdicis, Anne of Austria! Evidently it was a system of policy in which pride of personal power played its part. Possibly the heart also played some small rÔle when Anne of Austria was young and beautiful; but it was the heart of a Richelieu, and unless we know what such a thing is like it is difficult to explain the Minister's attitude at Chantilly. Historians have not taken the trouble to tell us, because there were things more important to them and to the history of Europe than the exploits of so high-flying a Cardinal. Nevertheless, even an historian could have made an interesting chapter out of the sentimental life of Richelieu. It was a violent and cruel life; as violent and as pitiless as the passions that haunted his harrowed soul. Michelet compared the Duke's life to "a lodging that had been ransacked." In him love was a cloak thickly lined with hatred. Mme. de Motteville, who witnessed Richelieu's courtship of the Queen, was astonished by his way of making love. "The first marks of his affection," she writes, "were his persecutions of her. They burst out before everybody, and we shall see that this new way of loving will last as long as the Cardinal lives."

Anne of Austria felt only his persecutions. Richelieu was not pleasing to women. He was the earthly All-powerful. He possessed riches and genius, but they knew that he was cruel—even pitiless—in anger; and he could not persuade them to pretend to love him; all, even Marion de Lorme, mocked and laughed at him, and Retz gave a reason for their conduct:

Not being a pedant in anything else, he was a thorough pedant in gallantry, and this is the fault that women never pardon. The Queen detested Richelieu, and she made him feel it; but he took his revenge at Val-de-GrÂce. After the outburst—after the word treason had been spoken—it rested with him to have mercy, or to send into shameless banishment the barren Queen. It gave him pleasure to see her cowering before him, frightened and deprived of all her pride. He exulted in disdaining her with an exaggerated and insulting affectation of respect, and fearing lest the scene should not be known to posterity, he painted it with all the zest of the reaction of his wounded dignity.[27] He listened complacently while she drove the nails into her coffin, rendering more proofs of her docility "than he should have dared to expect"; incriminating herself, as she explained in her own way, by palpable untruths, all her treasonable letters to her brothers and to her friends in Spain. When she had told a great deal more than she knew, Richelieu put a few sharp questions, and the Queen completely lost her head.

Then [wrote Richelieu, in his chronicle] she confessed to the Cardinal everything which is in the paper signed by her afterwards. She confessed with much displeasure and confusion, because she had taken oaths contrary to what she was confessing. While she made the said confession to the Cardinal her shame was such that she cried out several times, "Oh, how kind you must be, Monsieur the Cardinal!" protesting that all her life she should be grateful and recognise the obligation she was under to those who drew her out of the affair. She had the honour to say to the Cardinal: "Give me your hand," presenting her own as a mark of the fidelity with which she should keep all her promises. Through respect the Cardinal refused to give her his hand. From the same motive he retired instead of approaching her.

Officially Louis XIII. pardoned the intrigue of Val-de-GrÂce, but the courtiers were not deceived, and they immediately deserted the Queen's apartment. When they passed her windows they modestly lowered their eyes. It was just at that time that Mademoiselle arrived. It was at the end of August. She read her welcome in every face. Now that she had come gayety became a duty and amusements an obligation. The feeling of relief was general. Mademoiselle wrote:

I put all the Court in good humour. The King was in great grief because of the suspicions they had awakened against the Queen, and not long before that they had found the strong box that had made all the trouble at Val-de-GrÂce, about which too much has been said already. I found the Queen in bed, sick. Any one would be sick after such an affront as she had received.

CARDINAL RICHELIEU

Of all at Court, Anne of Austria was not the least happy to see Mademoiselle. Now she could pour out her sorrow. Mme. de Saint Georges, Mademoiselle's governess, was one of her familiar friends. The Queen told her everything. Mademoiselle was permitted to sit with the two ladies to avert suspicion. So the child found herself in possession of secrets whose importance and danger must have been known to her. It may be that she would have liked nothing better than to recount them in her memoirs, but she was "forced to admit with sheepish reticence that to her grief she had never remembered anything of it."

Some months later she was entangled in the King's romance with Mlle. de Hautefort, and "did not notice anything"—and this is to her credit—of all the struggles made by the Cabals to turn the adventure to their profit. In spite of her lack of memory she had opened wide both eyes and ears. The schemes of lovers always interested her, as they interest all little girls. To this instinct of her sex we owe a very pretty picture of the transformation of man by love. And the man was no other than the annoying and annoyed Louis XIII. Mademoiselle gives us the picture in default of more serious proof of her observation. Hunting was the King's chief pleasure.

In 1638, during the luminous springtime, he was seen in the forests gay, at times actually happy—thanks to two great blue eyes. When he followed his dogs he took his niece and other young people with him that he might have an excuse for taking Mlle. de Hautefort.

We were all dressed in colours [recounts Mademoiselle]. We were on fine, ambling horses, richly caparisoned, and to guarantee us against the sun each of us had a hat trimmed with a quantity of plumes. They always turned the hunt so that it should pass fine and handsome houses where grand collations could be found, and, coming home, the King placed himself in my coach, between Mme. de Hautefort and me. When he was in good humour he conversed very agreeably to us of everything. At that time he suffered us to speak freely enough of the Cardinal de Richelieu, and the proof that it did not displease him was that he spoke thus himself.

Immediately after the hunting party returned they went to the Queen. I took pleasure in serving at her supper, and her maids carried the dishes (viands). There was a regular programme. Three times a week we had music, they of the King's chamber sang, and the most of the airs sung by them were composed by the King. He wrote the words, even; and the subject was never anything but Mme. de Hautefort. The King was in humour so gallant that at the collations that he gave us in the country he did not sit at table at all; and he served us nearly everything himself, though his civility had only one object. He ate after us, and did not seem to feel more complaisance for Mme. de Hautefort than for the others, so afraid was he that some one should perceive his gallantry.

Despite these precautions, the Court and the city, Paris, and the province were informed of the least incidents of an affair of such importance. The only person whom the King's passion left indifferent was the Queen. Anne of Austria had never been jealous. She did not consider Louis XIII. worth the pains of jealousy,—and now jealousy would have been out of place. Anne, after twenty-three years of marriage, was enceinte. The people who had loaded her with outrages while she was bowed by shame now knelt at her feet, sincere in their respectful demonstrations of devotion for the wife of the King who might one day become Queen-mother, or even Regent of France. It was like one of the fairy plays in a theatre. Nature had waved her wand, and the disgraced victim of enchantment had arisen "clothed on with majesty." It was an edifying and delightful transformation. After all her shame, the novelty of being cared for and treated gently was so great and so agreeable that when she saw her royal spouse sighing before the virtuous and malignant de Hautefort—"whose chains" were said to be heavy and hard to bear—she looked upon it very lightly. Anne of Austria smiled at the benumbed attitudes of the King, at his awkward ardour, and equally awkward prudery. The Queen learned with amusement that when among her companions, the young girls of the Court, Mlle. de Hautefort mocked the King, and boasted that he "dared not approach her, though he maintained her," and that she was "bored to death by his talk of dogs, and birds, and the hunt." Friends repeated these criticisms. Louis XIII. heard of them and took offence "at the ingrate," and the Court went into mourning. "If there should be some serious quarrel between them," wrote Mademoiselle, "all the comedies and the entertainments will be over. At that time, when the King came to the Queen's apartments, he did not speak to anybody, and nobody dared to speak to him. He sat in a corner, and very often he yawned and went to sleep. It was a species of melancholy which chilled the whole world, and during this grief he passed the most of the time writing what he had said to Mme. de Hautefort, and what she had answered. It is so true that after he died they found great bundles of papers recounting all his differences with his mistresses—to the praise of whom it must be said, and to his praise also, that he had never loved any women who were not very virtuous."

Mademoiselle never seemed to realise the political importance of the King's favourites. That subject, like all else serious, escaped her. She writes:

"I listened to all that they told me—all that I was old enough to hear."

We need not hope to learn from her what Richelieu thought of the King's chaste affection; why, though he had encouraged it, he was angered by it; why he looked with disfavour upon Mlle. de Lafayette, and manipulated her affairs so well that he introduced her into the cell of a convent, and ordered the King to take medicine whenever he suspected that Louis aspired to contemplate her through the grating of her prison; if Mademoiselle had ever known such things "they had never presented themselves to her memory." Nor will it do us any good to search her memoirs for reasons making it clear why Louis XIII., who worked incessantly against Richelieu, and "did not love him," sacrificed, for the Cardinal's pleasure, all his friends and near relations. Throughout all the reverses of 1635 and 1636, when France was trembling under the trampling feet of the invader, when the enemy's skirmishers lay at the gates of Pontoise, the King was faithful to the dictator, whose policy had drawn ruin on the nation. Mademoiselle had never known these things. They had been far below her horizons. The ungrateful years had buffeted her as they passed. She had been pretty and sprightly in early childhood. At the age of eleven she was a buxom girl, with swollen cheeks, thick lips, and a stupid mien,—in a word: a frankly ill-favoured creature, too absorbed in the preoccupations of animal life (the need to skip and jump, to be seen and heard) to listen, to observe, or to reflect. The Queen's condition gave her one more occasion to manifest the lengths to which she had carried her innocence, though she had lived in a world where innocence was not regarded as the most important item in an outfit. She rejoiced that there was to be a Dauphin. Evidently she did not know that his advent would strip her father of his rights as heir-presumptive to the throne. In her own words, she "rejoiced without the least reflection." Anne of Austria was touched by a simpleness of heart to which her life had not accustomed her. "You shall be my daughter-in-law!" she cried repeatedly to her young niece. For she could not bear the thought that the child's later reflections might awake regret.

Mademoiselle embraced the idea only too ardently, and to it she owed one of the bitterest hours of her existence.

The child who was to be Louis XIV. was born at the ChÂteau of Saint Germain, 5th September, 1638. Mademoiselle made him her toy. She writes: "The birth of Monsieur the Dauphin gave me a new occupation. I went to see him every day and I called him my little husband. The King was diverted by this and he thought that I did well." She had counted without her godfather the Cardinal, who was more of a Croquemitaine, and more of a spoil-sport than he had ever been. He considered her childish talk very indecorous. Mademoiselle pursues:

Cardinal de Richelieu, who does not like me to accustom myself to being there, nor to have them accustomed to seeing me there, had me given orders to return to Paris. The Queen and Mme. de Hautefort did all that was possible to keep me. They could not obtain their wish,—which I regretted. It was all tears and cries when I left there. Their Majesties gave many proofs of friendship, especially the Queen, who made me aware of a particular tenderness on that occasion. After this displeasure I had still another to endure. They made me pass through Rueil to see the Cardinal, who usually lived there when the King was at Saint Germain. He took it so to heart that I had called the little Dauphin my little husband that he gave me a great reprimand: he said that I was too large to use such terms; that I had been ill-behaved to do so. He spoke so seriously—just as if I had been a person of judgment—that, without answering him, I began to weep. To pacify me he gave me collation, but I did not pass it over. I came away from there very angry at all he had said to me.

Richelieu meant that his orders should be obeyed. Mademoiselle adds: "When I was in Paris I only went to Court once in two months; and when I did go there I only dined with the Queen and then returned to Paris to sleep." It must be said that if the Cardinal had submitted to it for a night or two, she might have found it difficult to sleep at the chÂteau. At that time our kings had strange and very inconvenient arrangements for receiving guests; their household appointments had brought them to such a pass that they had suppressed their guest-chamber. When the royal family went to Saint Germain there was a regular house-moving; they carried all their furniture with them, and nothing was left in the Louvre,—not even enough for the King to sleep on when business called him to the capital. Henry IV., a monarch who did not stand on ceremony, invited himself to the house of some lord or of some rich bourgeois, where he put himself at his ease, receiving the Parliament, and also his fair friends, and bidding adieu to his hosts only when he was ready to go home. He took leave of them in his own time and at his own hour.

The timid Louis XIII. had never dared to do such things; he had never thought of having two beds: one in the city, the other in the country.

When the Court came back to Paris they brought all their furniture; not a mattress was left in the palace at Saint Germain. This singular custom had evolved another, which appears to us to have lacked hospitality. When the King of France invited distinguished guests, he never furnished their rooms. He offered them the four walls, and let them arrange themselves as best they could. From as far back as people could remember, they had seen the great arrive at the chÂteau closely followed by their beds, their curtains, and even their cooks and their stew-pans. This was the case with Monsieur and his daughter; and so it was with Mazarin, in the following reign. Mademoiselle was not ignorant of the peculiar methods of the royal housekeeping. She knew that the King's friends could not be made comfortable for the night, on the spur of the moment, and she rested very well in Versailles, and thought of nothing but her amusements.

The people saw a gratuitous malevolence in her exile from Court; but the Fronde proved the justice of the Cardinal's action. La Grande Mademoiselle made civil war to constrain Mazarin to marry her to Louis XIV., who was eleven years her junior. Her godfather had guessed well: the idea of being Queen had germinated rapidly in the little head in which the influence of AstrÉe—still active despite its age—was busily forming romantic visions far in advance of its generation. D'UrfÉ died in 1620; to his glory be it said that we are obliged to go back to him and to his work when we would explain the moral state of the later days.

II

Few books in any country or in any time have equalled the fortune of AstrÉe,[28] a pastoral romance in ten volumes, in which the different effects of honest friendship are deduced from the lives of shepherds and others, under a long title in the style of the century. HonorÉ d'UrfÉ's work immediately became the "code of polite society" and of all who aspired to appear polite. Everything was À l'AstrÉe—fashions, sentiments, language, the games of society, and the conversation of love. The infatuation extended to classes of society who read but little. In a comedy familiar to the lesser bourgeoisie,[29] some one reproached marriageable girls for permitting themselves to be captured by the insipid flattery of the first coxcomb who addresses them thus:

Success had crossed the frontiers of France. People in foreign lands found material for their instruction in AstrÉe. The work was a novel with a key; a story with a meaning. "Celadon" was the author; "AstrÉe" was his wife (the beautiful Diane de Chateaumorand, with whom he had not been happy). The Court of le grand Enric was the Court of Henry IV. "GalatÉe" was the Queen (Marguerite) and so on. "All the stories in AstrÉe were founded on truth," wrote Patru, who had gathered his information from the lips of d'UrfÉ. But "the author has romanced everything—if I dare use the word." The charm found in the scandalous reality of the scenes and in the truth of the characters crowned the work's success; the book was translated in most languages, and devoured with the same avidity by all countries. In Germany there was an AcadÉmie des Vrais Amants copied from the "Academy" of Lignon. In Poland, in the last half of the century, John Sobieski, who was not by any means one of the be-musked knights of the carpet, played at AstrÉe and Celadon, with Marie d'Arquien. "To grass with the matrimonial love which turns to friendship at the end of three months! ... Celadon am I, now as in the past; the ardent lover of those first glad days!"[30] he wrote after marriage.

When the people's infatuation had passed, the book still remained the standard of all delicate minds, and it continued to wield its literary influence.

Through two centuries [said MontÉgut] AstrÉe lost nothing of its renown. The most diverse and the most opposite minds alike loved the book; Pellisson and Huet the Bishop of Avranches were enthusiastic admirers of its qualities. La Fontaine and Mme. de SÉvignÉ delighted in it. Racine, in his own silent and discreet way, read it with fond pleasure and profit, but did not say so.

Marivaux had read it and drawn even more benefit from it than Racine.... Last of all, Jean Jacques Rousseau admired it so much that he avowed that he had re-read it once a year the greater part of his life. Now as Jean Jacques exerted a dominant influence upon the destinies of our modern imaginative literature, it follows that the success of AstrÉe has been indirectly prolonged even to our own day. Madame George Sand, for example, derived some little benefit from d'UrfÉ, though she was not too well aware of it.

MontÉgut had forgotten the AbbÉ PrÉvost; but M. BrunetiÈre repairs the omission, and adds: "One may say that AstrÉe's success shaped the channel for the chief current of our modern literature."

Its social influence was equal to its influence upon literature. And yet, to-day, not one of all the books that had their time of glory and of popularity is more neglected. No one reads AstrÉe now, and no one can read it; with the best will in the world, the most indulgent must throw the book down, bored by its dulness. It has become impossible to endure the five thousand pages of the amorous dissertations of the shepherds of Lignon. At the best such a debauch of subtlety would be only tolerable, even had it emanated from a writer of genius. And d'UrfÉ had no genius; he had nothing but talent.

D'UrfÉ was a little gentleman of Forez, whom his epoch (he was born in 1568) had permitted to examine the society of the Valois. We know that no social body was ever more corrupt; nevertheless those who saw it were dazzled by it; and because they had looked upon it they were considered—in the time of Louis XIII.—exquisitely elegant and polite; they were regarded as the survivors of a superior civilisation.

The ladies of the Court of Anne of Austria were proud of their power to attract the notice of the elderly noblemen "thanks to whom," in the words of a contemporary writer, "remnants of the polite manners brought by Catherine de MÉdicis from Italy were still seen in France." The homage of the antique gentlemen was insistent, of a kind which refuses to be repelled. Even the Queen accepted it. Anne of Austria, whose habitually correct attitude was notable, felt that she was constrained to receive the attentions of the old Duc de Bellegarde, though the Duke's character and customs were notorious. Duc de Bellegarde had been one of the deplorable favourites of Henri III.

Anne of Austria was hypercritical in regard to forms of conversation; her own language was fastidiously delicate; she exacted minute attention to the superficial details of civility; yet the notorious de Bellegarde sat at ease before the Court, displaying all the peculiar gallantry of his epoch, "and," said the Queen's friend, Mme. de Motteville, "it was the more noticeable and the fame of it was the more scandalous because the Queen did not hesitate to accept from him incense whose smoke might well blacken her reputation. The Queen permitted the Duke to treat her as he had treated the women of his own day, a day when gallantry and women reigned."

The civil wars swept away the splendid but rotten world, but the prestige of the Valois still asserted its power.

In 1646, a posthumous romantic tale appeared in Paris, entitled Orasie. It was generally attributed to the pen of Mlle. de Senterre, a maid-of-honour of the Court of Catherine de MÉdicis. "This book," said the editorial preface, "is a true history, full of very choice events; there is nothing fictitious in it but the names given to its heroes and its heroines. Orasie is a mirror reflecting the most magnificent and the most pompous of kingly Courts, the Court where reigned the truest civility and the purest politeness, where false gallantry, like base action, was unknown."

The Court thus eulogised had been the centre of delicate mannerism and the incubating cell of the refinement of vice. Though the civil wars had annihilated the splendid rottenness of the Court, the memory of the delicacy of the Valois survived. When peace was declared, when men had leisure to look about them, they were confronted by the rude Court of Henry IV. They felt the need of a re-establishment of polite society, but where could they find the elements of such society? Foreign influences had enervated the national imagination, Spanish literature with its romances of cruel chivalry, its pastorals, and its theatrical dramas had imbued the Romanticism of France with its poison, and symptoms of moral debility were generally evident. A period of fermentation and expectancy follows war. When the civil wars were over, the men of France sat waiting; their need was pressing, but they could form no idea of its nature. At such a time the eager watchmen on the towers acclaim the bearer of tidings, be they tidings of good or of evil.

HonorÉ d'UrfÉ's chief merit lay in the fact that he was the man of the hour, he came when he was most needed, holding the mirror up to nature, and clearly reflecting the common feeling. If I may use the term, he presented his countrymen with an intelligent mirror reflecting their confused and agitated aspirations. Nature and occasion had fitted him for his work: he had all the accessories and all the requirements of his art; best of all, he had the imperious vocation which is the first and the essential qualification of authorship, without which no man should have the hardihood to lay hold upon an inkstand. D'UrfÉ knew that war demoralises a people; he comprehended the situation of his country; he had been a member of the League, and one of the last to surrender. He knew that the spirit of love was hovering over France, waiting to find a resting-place. FranÇois de Sales and d'UrfÉ were friends, and in such close communion of thought that, to quote the words of MontÉgut, "there was not a simple analogy, there was almost an identity of inspiration and of talent between AstrÉe and the Introduction À la vie dÉvote."

D'UrfÉ had only to remember the Æstheticism which surrounded his expanding youth to comprehend the general weariness caused by the lack of intellectual symmetry and by the rusticity of the manners of the new reign. He was a serious and thoughtful man; he had devoted long months, even years, to meditation and to study before he had touched his pen, and by repeated revisions he had ranged in his book the greater part of the thoughts and the aspirations of his epoch. In a word, the obscure provincial writer who had never entered the Louvre had composed a quasi-universal work resuming all the intellectual and sentimental life of an epoch. AstrÉe was a powerful achievement; but one, or at most but two, such books can be produced in a century.[31] D'UrfÉ's laborious efforts attained a double result. While he extricated and brought into the light the ideal for which he had searched years together, he excited his contemporaries to strive to be natural and real, and the first French novel, AstrÉe, was our first romance with a thesis. The subject is commonplace: lovers whose theme is love, and a lovers' quarrel; in the last volume of the book, love triumphs, the quarrel is forgotten, and the lovers marry.

In the beginning of the work, the shepherdess AstrÉe, beside herself with causeless jealousy, overwhelms the shepherd Celadon with reproaches and Celadon, tired of life, throws himself into the Lignon. Standing upon the bank of the river, he apostrophises a ring and the riband left in his hand when his shepherdess escaped his grasp:

"Bear witness, O dear cord! that rather than break one knot of my affections I will renounce my life, and then, when I am dead, and my cruel love beholds thee in my hand, thou shalt speak for me, thou shalt say that no one could be loved as I loved her.... Nor lover wronged like me!" Then he appeals to the ring. "And thou, emblem of eternal, faithful love, be glad to be with me in death, the only token left me of her love!"

Hardly has he spoken when, turning his face toward AstrÉe, he springs with folded arms into the water. The nymphs save him, and his romantic adventures serve as the wire carrying the action of the romance.

But the system is inadequate to its strain. Dead cars bring about a constantly recurring block, and more than an hundred personages of more or less importance stop the way by their gallant intrigues. The romance mirrors the passing loves and the fevered and passionate life of the be-ribanded people who hung up their small arms in their panoplies, twisted their lances into pruning-hooks, and replaced the pitiless art of war by the political arts of peace. HonorÉ d'UrfÉ's heroes appear to be more jealously careful of their fine sentiments than of the sword-thrusts lavishly distributed by the lords and gentlemen of their days. They are much more zealous in their search for elegant expressions than in bestirring themselves to serious action. The perfumed students of phraseology have changed since the night of Saint Bartholomew, when more than one of them fought side by side with Henry de Guise; but it is not difficult to recognise the precursors of the Fronde in the druids, shepherds, and chevaliers of AstrÉe, and so thought d'UrfÉ's first readers.

With extreme pleasure they contemplated themselves in the noble puppets seen in the romance, basking in the sun of peace. Away with care! They had nothing worse to fight than lovers' casuistries, and they lay in the shadows of the trees, enjoying the riches of a country redeemed by their own blood. With them were their ladies; lover and lass were disguised as shepherd and shepherdess, or as mythological god and goddess. Idle and elegant as they were, the happy lovers had been tortured by wounds, racked by pride, stung by the fire of battle; to sleep for ever had been the vision of many a bivouac, and now war was over, and to lie in a day-dream fanned by the summer winds and watched by the eye of woman,—this was the evolution of the hope of death! This was the restorative desired by the provincial nobles when they stood firm as rocks in ranks thinned and broken by thirty years of civil and religious war. Such a rest the jaded knights had hoped for when they accepted their one alternative, and, by their recognition of Henry IV., acknowledged submission to a principal superior to private interest and personal ambition.

The high nobility had soon tired of order and obedience. Never was it more turbulent or more undisciplined than under Louis XIII. and in the minority of Louis XIV., but it must be noted as one of the signs of the times that it no longer carried its jaunty ease of conscience into its plots and its mutinies. Curious proofs of this fact are still in existence; the revolting princes and lords stoutly denied that they had taken arms against the King. If they had openly made war, and so palpably that they could not deny it, they invariably asserted with affirmations that they had done it "to render themselves useful to the King's service." Gaston d'OrlÉans gave the same reason for his conduct when he deserted France for a foreign country. All averred that they had been impelled to act by a determination to force the King to accept deliverance from humiliating tyranny, or from pernicious influences. During the Fronde, when men changed parties as freely as they changed their gloves, the rebels protested their fidelity to the King, and they did it because the idea of infidelity was abhorrent to them.

No one in France would have admitted that it could be possible to hold personal interests or personal caprice above the interests of the State, and in the opinion of the French cavalier this would have been reason enough for any action; but there was a more practical reason; the descendants of the great barons were beginning to doubt their power to maintain the assertion of their so-called rights. By suggesting subjects for the meditations of all the people of France who could read or write AstrÉe had contributed a novelty in scruples. In our day such a book as AstrÉe would excite no interest; the reiteration of the "torrents of tenderness" to which it owed its sentimental influence would make it a doubtful investment for any publisher, and even the thoughtful reader would find its best pages difficult reading; but when all is said and done, it remains, and it shall remain, the book which best divines our perpetually recurring and eternal necessities.

It treats of but one passion, love, and yet it gives the most subtle study in existence. In it all the ways of loving are minutely analysed in interminable conversations. All the reasons why man should love are given, with all the reasons why he should not love. All the joys found by the lover in his sufferings are set forth, with all the sufferings that his joys reserve for him. All the reasons for fidelity and all the reasons for inconstancy are openly dissected. A complete list is given of all the intellectual sensations of love (and of some sensations which are not intellectual). In short, AstrÉe is a diagnosis of the spiritual, mental, and moral condition of the love-sick. It contains all the "cases of conscience" which may or might arise, under the same or different circumstances, in the lives of people who live to love, and who, thus loving, see but one reason for existence—people who severally or individually, each in his own way and according to his own light, exercise this faculty to love,—still loving and loving even then, now, and always.

D'UrfÉ's conception was of the antique type. He regarded love as a fatality against which it were vain to struggle. Toward the middle of the book the sorrowful Celadon, crushed by the wrath of AstrÉe, is hidden in a cavern where he "sustains life by eating grasses." The druid Adamas knows that Celadon is perishing by inches, and he essays to bring the lover to reason. Celadon answers him:

"If, as you say, God gave me full possession of power over myself, why does He ask me to give an account of myself?—for just as He gave me into my own hands and just as He gave me to myself, so have I given myself to her to whom I am consigned for ever. First of all! If He would have account of Celadon, let Him apply to her of whom I am! Enough for me if I offend not her nor violate my sacred gift to her. God willed my life, for by my destiny I love; and God knows it, and has always known it, for since I first began to have a will I gave myself to her, and still am hers. In brief, I should not have been blest by love as I have been in all these years had God not willed it.[32] If He has willed it would it be just to punish me because I still remain as He ordained that I should be? No! for I have not power to change my fate. So be it, if my parents and my friends condemn me! They all should be content and glad, when for my acts, I give my reason; that I love her."

"But," answered Adamas, "do you count on living long in such away?"

"Election," answered Celadon, "depends not on him who has neither will nor understanding."

La Grande Mademoiselle and most of her contemporaries escaped AstrÉe's influence in this respect; they did not admit that man has "neither will nor understanding" where his passions are concerned; or that his feelings depend on "destiny." Corneille, who had confronted the question, set forth the principle that the heart should defer to the will. "The love of an honest man," he wrote in 1634,[33]—"The love of an honest man should always be voluntary. One ought never to love to the point where he cannot help loving, and if he carries love so far, he is the slave of a tyranny whose yoke he should shake off."

In her youth Mademoiselle de Montpensier was one of the truest of the CornÉliennes of her generation; she practised what others were contented to restrict to preaching. Love's tyranny appeared to her a shameful thing, and she was so convinced that it rested with the lover whether he should be a slave or free himself "by shaking off the yoke," that even the most honest attacks of moral faintness were, in her eyes, occasions for judgment without mercy. One day—she tells it herself—she turned a young femme de chambre out of her service simply "because the girl had married for love." The shame then attendant upon love increased in proportion to the "condition" of the slaves of the questionable passion. The lower orders were insignificant, and their loves and their antipathies, like their sufferings, were beneath the consideration of reason, but when men were of a certain rank, sentiment was debarred from the conditions of marriage. Mademoiselle followed all the precepts of high quality, and throughout the first half of her life her line of action lay parallel with the noble principles introduced by Corneille. Jansenism, which, like Corneille, raised the veil of life for many of the humbler human hearts, made no impression upon "tall Mademoiselle." Lauzun was needed to break her pride.

Concerning moral questions, public sentiment was calm; the only serious difference raised by d'UrfÉ's work during a period of half a century was the conflict of opinions[34] on human liberty; on all other subjects, notably the things of taste, d'UrfÉ was in harmony with public feeling; at times AstrÉe exceeded public feeling, but it seldom conflicted with it. The sentiments of the book were far in advance of the epoch.

But the nature with which d'UrfÉ communed and which he loved was the nature viewed by Louis XIII., and fashioned according to the royal taste, improved, repaired, decorated with artificial ornaments, and confined within circumscribed landscapes composed of complicated horticultural figures; a composite nature in which verdure was nothing but a feature. The fashion of landscape-gardening—an invention of the Renaissance—had arrived in France from Italy. In the land of its birth very amusing specimens of the picturesque were maintained by intelligent property-owners.

"There are fountains," [said M. Eugene Muntz,][35] "groves, verdant bowers, trellises, vine-wreathed arbours, flowers cherished for their beauty, and plants cultivated for their medicinal properties; and under ground there are caves and grottoes. There are bird-houses, hydraulic organs, single statues, groups of statues, obelisks, vases, pavilions, covered walks, and bathhouses; everything is brought together within a limited space to charm the eye and to favour the imagination."

The landscape-gardening of France offered the same spectacle, and the cultivated parks bore close resemblance to the shops of the venders of bric-À-brac. "In those rare gardens," said an enthusiastic historian, "he who promenades may pass from one surprise to another, losing himself at every step in all sorts of labyrinths." ("Dedalus" was the name in use, for in those days much was borrowed from mythology and from other ancient sources.) The labyrinths were complicated by ingenious devices intended to deceive the vision. Æstheticism of style demanded such delusions. The most renowned landscape-gardens were the royal parks, on which money had been freely lavished to perfect and to elaborate nature. Among the "rarities" in the gardens of the Gondis and at Saint Cloud, were fountains whose waters played invisible instruments. At the Duke de Bellegarde's (rue de Grenelle Saint HonorÉ) the most marvellous thing in the garden was an illuminated grotto of arcades, ornamented with grotesques and with marine columns, and covered with a vaulting encrusted with shells and with a quantity of rock-work; and more than that, so full of water-spouts, canals, water-jets, and invisible faucets[36] that even the King had no greater number on his terraces at Saint Germain—nor had Cardinal de Richelieu a greater number in his gardens at Rueil, though the first artificial cascades ever seen in France[2] had been built in his garden.[37] At the ChÂteau of Usson, the home of Queen Marguerite, who appears in AstrÉe under the name of GalatÉe, the garden was provided with all the rarities the place would hold. Nothing that artifice could add to it had been forgotten. The woods were embellished with divers grottoes so well counterfeiting nature that the eye often deceived the judgment.[38] The most remarkable grotto was

the cave of old Mandragora, a place so full of witcheries that surprise followed surprise, and hour by hour, something continually occurred to delight the vision. The vaulting of the entrance was sustained by two sculptured figures very industriously arrayed with minute stones of divers colours; the hair, the eyebrows, and the beards of the statues, and the two sculptured horns of the god Pan were composed of sea shells so neatly and so properly set in that the cement could not be seen. The outer coping of the door was formed like a rustic arch, and garlands of shells, fastened at the four corners, ended close to the heads of the two statues. The inside of the arch tapered to a rocky point, which, in several places, seemed to drip saltpetre. The retaining walls of the arch were set back in niches to form fountains, and all of the fountains depicted some of the various effects of the power of love. In the grotto arose a tomb-like monument ornamented with images representing divers objects, all formed of coloured marble, and trimmed with pictures; wherever such an effect was possible, the trees were pruned to take the appearance of some other object or objects.

Thus the laborious and unrestrained intervention of man evoked a factitious type of nature as far from precious as the false PrÉcieuses. By the unreserved admiration of its florid descriptions AstrÉe had consecrated the artificial mode. Nature demanded LenÔtre to strip her gardens of their ridiculous decorations, and to redeem them by simplicity, but when LenÔtre accomplished the work of regeneration the public taste was wounded; the people had become accustomed to the sight of parks decorated like the stage of the theatre, and the simplicity of nature shocked them. La Grande Mademoiselle considered Chenonceaux incomplete; she complained that it "looked unfinished"; her artificially nourished taste missed something, because the owners of Chenonceaux had respected the work of God, and left their park just as they had received it from the hand of its Creator; she wondered why Provence was called beautiful—to her it seemed "ugly enough." She lived at the gate of the Pyrenees thirty days and never entered the country, yet she delighted in the pretentious trinkets with which the landscape-gardeners of the Italian school decorated French woods and gardens. HonorÉ d'UrfÉ was responsible for her ignorance. Many of d'UrfÉ's tastes[39] were noble, and AstrÉe was a work of excellent purpose—almost a great work; but it lacked the one thing demanded by true art,—love of nature in its simplicity.

D'UrfÉ's artificial taste was more regrettable because his successors, they who continued his work, accentuated his faults, as, generally speaking, the disciples of all innovators accentuate the faults of their masters. Few among the PrÉcieuses knew how to sift the chaff from the wheat when the time came to take or to leave the varied gifts of their inheritance. The true PrÉcieuses precipitated the revolution of which d'UrfÉ had been the prophet; they alone consummated the moral transformation which, according to his light, he had prepared.

During the changing years of half a century the PrÉcieuses "kept the school" of manners and fine language, laying on the ferule whenever they found pupils as recalcitrant as the damsel whose story I am attempting to relate. They did not try—far from it!—to train the public taste, to correct it, or to guide it aright; they urged France into the tortuous by-paths of false ethics and superficial art; but, taken all in all, their influence was good. La Grande Mademoiselle, the abrupt cavalier-maiden, proved its virtue. To the HÔtel de Rambouillet she owed it that she did not end as she began—a dragoon in petticoats, and she recognised the fact, and was grateful for the benefits that she had received.

It has been asked: Was the Society of the PrÉcieuses a result of the influence of AstrÉe? With the exception noted, it is probable that d'UrfÉ made no attempt to form new intellectual or sentimental currents; he confined himself to the observation of the thoughts and the feelings at work in the depths of human souls within his own view; he was a close student of character, his book was a study, and his influence reformed opinions and manners; but as the Society of the PrÉcieuses was in process of incubation before AstrÉe appeared, it must have taken shape had d'UrfÉ never written his book. The world of fashion had long deemed it witty to ridicule the PrÉcieuses; from too much handling, jests upon that subject had lost their effervescence, and in time it was considered more original to find virtue in the delicate mannerisms of the refined ladies than to adhere to the old fashion of mocking them. Their exaggerations were numerous and pronounced, but their civility was in pleasant contrast with the abrupt indelicacies of the BÉarnais; and even now, looking back to them across the separating centuries, we can find few causes for reproach. They subjected their literature to the yoke of the Spanish and Italian schools, but they could hardly have done less at a time when the Court was Italian, and when Spanish influences were entering by all the frontiers. Aside from their submission to foreign influences, the PrÉcieuses were sturdy champions of the right, and unless we are prepared to falsify more than thirty years of our history of morals, and of literature, we must admit that they rendered us services which cannot be forgotten or misunderstood.

They were women of the world, important after the fashion of their day, and by the power of their worldly influence they freed literature from the pedantry with which Ronsard—and Montaigne, also, to a certain extent—had entangled it. They forced the writers to brush the dust from their bookshelves; they imposed upon them some of the exigencies of their own sex, and by the bare fact of their influence literature which had been almost wholly erudite acquired a quality assimilating it to the usages of the world, and an air of decency and of civility which it had always lacked. The PrÉcieuses compelled men to grant them the respect due to all women under civilisation, and to count them as members of the body politic; they exacted concessions to their modesty; they purified language; they obliged "all honest men" to select their topics of conversation; they habituated people to discern the delicate shades of thought and to dissect ideas and find the hidden meanings of words; they made demands for concessions to the rights of precocity, and, as a result, propriety of verbal expression and closely attentive analyses entered conversation hand in hand. Many and eminent were the services rendered unto France by the amiable band of worldly reformers; theirs was a mighty enterprise; we cannot measure the transformation wrought by the influence of women in the indecent manners of that day unless we make a minute examination of the subject. Before the advent of the PrÉcieuses, exterior elegance and a graceful bearing had been a cloak covering the words and the conduct of barbarians. Proofs of this fact abound in the records of that day. La Grande Mademoiselle was of the second generation of the PrÉcieuses; her wit, her love of wit, and her intellect, gave her rank in the LivrÉ d'Or[40]; but the habits of youth are difficult to overcome, and when she first visited the HÔtel de Rambouillet she used the words and the gestures of a pandour, her squared shoulders and out-thrust chest bore evidences of the natural investiture of the Cossack. Speaking of that epoch, her most impartial critic tells us that she "voiced a thousand imprecations."[41] In one of her attacks of indignation she threatened the MarÉchal de l'HÔpital: "I will tear your beard out with my own hands!" she cried fiercely, and the marshal took fright and ran away. Several ladies of Mademoiselle's society were known to possess brisk and heavy hands, and feet of the same alert and virile character. Their people and their lovers knew something of their "manuals and pedals," and bore visible tokens of the efficacy of those phenomenal members on their own persons,—and in all the colours of the rainbow. Madame de Vervins, who assisted with La Grande Mademoiselle at the fÊtes given in honour of Mademoiselle de Hautefort, "basted her lackeys and other servants at will," and she did it with no slack hand. One of the subjects on whom she plied her dexterity died under the operation, and the people of Paris avenged his death by sacking her palace.[42] Following is the record:

But if the ladies were not lambs, the gentlemen were not sheep. They were no laggards in war. When they turned the flank of the enemy they did not mince matters, and upon occasion they drew the first blood. Once upon a time, at a dance, Comte de BrÉgis, having received a slap from his partner, turned upon her and pulled her hair down in the midst of the banquet. At a supper, in the presence of a great and joyous company, the Marquis de la Case snatched a leg of mutton from a trencher and buffeted his neighbour in her face, smearing her with gravy. As she was a lady of an even temper, she laughed heartily,[43] and the incident was closed. Malherbe confessed to Madame de Rambouillet that he had "cuffed the ears of the Viscountess d'Auchy until she had cried for aid." As he was a jealous man, his action was not without cause, and in that day to flog a woman was a thing that any gentleman felt free to do.

The regenerating PrÉcieuses had not arrived too soon. Ignoble jests and obscenities too foul to recount were accepted as conversation by both sexes. The father of the great CondÉ, who was president of a "social" club whose rules compelled members to imitate every movement made by their leader, ate, and forced his fellow members (including the ladies) to eat—I dare not say what; do not try to guess—you could never do it!

The modest and timid Louis XIII. could—when he set about it—give his Court very unappetising examples. In a book of Edification, bearing date 1658, we read that "the late King, seeing a young woman among the crowds admitted to his palace so that they might see the King eat, said nothing, and gave no immediate evidence that he had seen her; but, as he raised his glass for the last sup, before rising from the table, he filled his mouth with wine, and having held it thus sanctuaried for an instant, launched it forth into the uncovered chest of the watchful lady," who had been too eager to witness the mastications of royalty.

Aristocratic traditions exacted that the nobles should flog their inferiors, and the nobles conformed to the traditional exactions freely. Men and women were flogged for "failures" of the least importance, and knowing those antique customs as we do, we may be permitted to wonder that we have so few records of the music of that eventful day.

Richelieu "drubbed his people," he drubbed his officers, he drubbed (so it was said) his ministers. The celebrated Duke d'Épernon, the last of the great Seigniors after Saint Simon, was "as mild-mannered a man as ever cut a throat or scuttled a ship"; one day when he was discussing some official question with his Eminence, the Archbishop of Bordeaux, he gave the exalted prelate "three clips of his fist full in the archiepiscopal face and breast, supplementing them by several cuts of the end of his cane in the pit of the stomach." We are not told how the priest received his medicine, but history records that "this done, Monsieur the Duke bore witness to his Lordship (the Archbishop) that had it not been for the respect due to his character, he (the Duke) should have tipped him over on the pavement." One day when the feelings of the MarÉchal de Mauny were outraged because a farmer had kept the de Mauny servitors waiting for their butter and eggs, he (the MarÉchal) rushed from his palace like a madman, fell upon the first peasants who crossed his path, and with sword-thrusts and with pistol-shots wounded two of the "aggressors" mortally. This last event occurred in Burgundy; it was merely an incident. In Anjou, Comte de Montsoreau maintained a private money-coining establishment in the wood near, or on, his property, halted the travellers on the highways, obliged them to pay their ransom, and, at the head of a band of twenty men, all being brigands of his own species, swept over the country, pillaging in all directions. The daily occurring duels accustomed men to look lightly upon death, and contempt for human life prevailed. When the Chevalier d'Andrieux was thirty years old, he had killed seventy-two men. In such cases edicts were worthless; the national need demanded a radical change of morals. Nine years after the death of Louis XIII., MarÉchal de Grammont said in one of his letters: "Since the beginning of the Regency, according to the estimate made, nine hundred and forty gentlemen have been killed in duels." That was an official estimate, and it did not include the deaths which, though they were attributed to other causes, were the direct and immediate results of honourable encounters; the dead thus enumerated having been killed on the spot.[44]

At that time the duel was not attended by ceremonies; it was a hand-to-hand encounter between barbarians. The contestants fought with any weapons that came to hand, and in the way most convenient to their needs. All means were considered proper for the killing of men, though it was generally conceded that for killing well the different means were, or might be made, more or less courteous. This being the case, the duel was in more or less good or bad taste, according to the means used in its execution, and according to the regularity, or the lack of regularity, employed in their use.

In 1612, Balagny and Puymorin alighted from their horses and drew swords in the rue des Petits Champs. While they were fighting, a valet took a pitchfork and planted it in Balagny from the back. Balagny died of the wound inflicted by the valet, and Puymorin also died; he had been wounded when the valet interfered. Still another lackey killed Villepreau in the duel between BeauprÉ and Villepreau. That duel also was fought in the street (rue Saint HonorÉ.) When young Louvigny[45] fought with d'Hocquincourt, he said: "Let us take our swords!" As the other bent to comply with the suggestion, Louvigny gave a great sword-thrust, which, running his adversary through and through, put him to death. Tallemant des Reaux qualified the act as "appalling," but it bore no consequences for Louvigny.

MarÉchal de Marillac (who was beheaded in 1632) killed his adversary before the latter had time to draw his sword. We should have called it an assassination, but our forefathers saw no harm in such duelling. They reserved their criticisms for the timidly peaceable who objected to a fight.

The salon, with its ultra-refinement and its delicacy, followed close upon the heels of these remnants of barbarity. The salon gave form to the civility which forbade a man to pierce the fleshy part of the back of an adversary with a pitchfork. Polite courtesy also restrained gentlemen from forcing ladies to swallow all uncleanness under the pretence of indulging in a merry jest. As good manners make for morality, let us thank the PrÉcieuses for the reform they accomplished when they moulded men for courteous intercourse with their fellow-men; and to Madame de Rambouillet, among others, let thanks be given, for she made the achievement possible by opening the way and beginning at the beginning. Womanly tact, a decorous keeping of her house, love of order and of beauty inspired her with the thought that the arrangements made in the old hotels of Paris for the people of ancient days were not fitted for the use of the enlightened age of the PrÉcieuses. There were no salons in the old hotels; the salon was unknown; therefore there was no room in which to frame the society then in formation. Tallemant tells us that the only houses known at that time were built with a hall upon one side, a room upon the other side, and a staircase in the middle. The salle was a parade-room, a place to pass through, a corridor where no one lingered. People received visitors in the room in which they happened to be when the visitors arrived; at different times they happened to be in different rooms. Very naturally at eating-time they were in rooms where they could sit at meat. There were no rooms devoted to the daily meals. The table on which viands were served was placed in any room large enough to contain the number of persons who were to be entertained. If there were few guests, the table was placed in a small room; when the guests were numerous, they were seated in a large room, or the table, ready served, was carried into any room large enough to hold the company. It was all a matter of chance. Banquets were given in the corridor, in the salle, in the ante-room, or in the sleeping-room,[46] because literary intuition was undeveloped. Madame de Rambouillet was the first to realise that the spirit of conversation is too rare and too delicate a plant to thrive under unfavourable conditions, and that in order to establish conversational groups, a place must be provided in which they who favour conversation may talk at ease. Every one recognises that fact now, and every one ought to recognise it. No one—man or woman—is justified in ignoring the influences of the localities that he or she frequents. It should be generally known that sympathies will not group, that the current of thought will not flow freely when a table is unfavourably placed for the seating of society expected to converse.

Three hundred years ago the creator of the first French salon discovered this fact, and her discovery marked a date in the history of our social life.

Mme. de Rambouillet owned a dilapidated mansion standing between the Tuileries and the courtyard of the Louvre, near the site of the now existing Pavillon de Rohan.[47] She had determined to rebuild the house, and no one could draw a plan suited to her ideas. Her mind was incessantly busy with her architectural scheme, and one evening when she had been sitting alone deep in meditation she cried out! "Quick! A pencil! paper! I have found a way to build my house."[48] She drew her plan at once, and the arrangement was so superior to all known architectural designs that houses were built according to "the plans of Mme. de Rambouillet all over France." Tallemant says:

They learned from Mme. de Rambouillet how to place stairways at the sides of houses so that they might form great suites of rooms[49] and they also learned from her how to raise floors and to make high and broad windows, placed one opposite another so that the air might circulate with freedom; this is all so true that when the Queen-mother ordered the rebuilding of the Luxembourg she sent the architects to glean ideas from the HÔtel de Rambouillet.

Until that time the interiors of houses had been painted red or tan colour. Mme. de Rambouillet was the first to adopt another colour and her innovation gave the "Blue Room" its name. The famous Blue Room in which the seventeenth century acquired the even and correct tone of conversation was disposed with a skilful and scientific tact which has survived the rack of three hundred years of changes, and to-day it stands as the perfect type of a temple fully adequate to the exigencies of intellectual intercourse.

In it all spaces were measured and the seats were systematically counted and distributed to the best advantage; there were eighteen seats; neither more nor less. Screens shut off certain portions of the room and facilitated the formation of intimately confidential groups; flowers perfumed the air; objects of art caressed the vision, and, taken all together, so perceptible a spirit of the sanctuary enshrining thought was present that the habituÉs of the Salon de Rambouillet always spoke of it as "the Temple." Even La Grande Mademoiselle, the irrepressible, felt the subtle influences of that calm retreat of the mind, and when she entered the Blue Room she repressed her Cossack gestures and choked back her imprecations. She knew that she could not evade the restraining influence of the hushed tranquillity which pervaded "the Temple," and she drooped her sparkling eyes, and accepted her discipline with the universally prevalent docility. In her own words, Mme. de Rambouillet was "adorable."

I think [wrote Mademoiselle in 1659], that I can see her now in that shadowy recess,—which the sun never entered, though the place was never left in darkness,—surrounded by great crystal vases full of beautiful spring flowers which were made to bloom at all seasons in the gardens near her temple, so that she might look upon the things that she loved. Around her were the pictures of her friends, and the looks that she gave them called down blessings on the absent. There were many books on the tables in her grotto and, as one may imagine, they treated of nothing common. Only two, or at most three persons were permitted to enter that place at the same time, because confusion displeased her and noise was adverse to the goddess whose voice was loud only in wrath. Our goddess was never angry. She was gentleness itself.

According to the inscription on a stone preserved in the MusÉe Cluny the HÔtel de Rambouillet was rebuilt in 1618. The mistress of the house consumed ten industriously filled years constituting, installing, and habituating the intellectual groups of her salon; but when she had perfected her arrangements she maintained them in their splendour until the Fronde put an end to all intellectual effort.

When the HÔtel de Rambouillet was in its apogee La Grande Mademoiselle was in the flush of early youth. She was born in 1627. Mme. de SÉvignÉ was Mademoiselle's elder by one year.

When we consider the social and intellectual condition of the times we must regard many features of the enterprise of "fair ArthÉnice" as wonderful, but its most characteristic feature was the opportunity and the advancement it accorded to men of letters. Whatever "literary" men were elsewhere, they were received as the equals of the nobility in the Salon de Rambouillet. Such a sight had never been seen! Superior minds had always been regarded leniently. They had had their periods of usefulness, when the quality had been forced to recognise their existence, but the possessors of those minds had been treated—well, to speak clearly, they had been treated as they had expected to be treated; for how could the poor fellows have hoped for anything better when they knew that they passed two thirds of their time with spines humbly curved and with palms outstretched soliciting equivocal complaisancies, or inviting Écus, or struggling to secure a seat at the lower end of dinner tables by means of heartrending dedications?

Alack! how many Sarrazins and Costars there were to one Balzac, or to one d'UrfÉ! how numerous were the natural parasites, piteous leeches! whose wit went begging for a discarded bone! How many were condemned by their vocation to die of hunger;—and there was no help for them! Had their talent been ten times greater than it was it would have been equally impossible for them to introduce dignity into their existence. There were no journals, no reviews where an author could present his stuff or his stories for inspection; no one had ever heard of authors' rights; and however successful a play, the end of the dramatist was the same; he was allowed no literary property. How then could he live if not by crooked ways and doubtful means? If a certain amount of respect, not to say honour, were due to his profession, by what means could he acquire his share of it? Any yeoman—the first country squire—could, when so it pleased him, have a play stricken from the roll; if so it pleased him could have the rod laid over the author's back, amidst the plaudits of the contingent which we should call the claque. Was it any wonder that authors were pedants to the marrow of their bones when pedantry was the only paying thing in their profession? Writers who chanted their own praises did good unto themselves and enjoyed the reputation of the erudite. They were regarded as professors of mentality, they reflected credit upon the men who lodged and nourished them. For that reason,—and very logically,—when a man knew that he was being lodged and nourished for the sake of his bel esprit if there was any manhood in him he entered heart and soul into his pretensions; and sleeping or waking, night or day, from head to foot, and without one hour of respite, played the part of "man of letters"; he mouthed his words, went about with brows knit, talked from his chest, and, in short, did everything to prove to the world that he was wise beyond his generation; his every effort was bent to manifest his ability; and his manners, his costumes, and his looks, all proved him to be a student of books. And when this was proven his master—the man who lodged and nourished him—was able to get his full money's worth and to stand up before the world revealed in the character of benefactor and protector of Belles Lettres. In our day things wear a different aspect. The author has reached his pinnacle, and in some cases it may even be possible that his merits are exaggerated.

Knowing this, it is difficult for us to appreciate the conditions existing when the Salon of the HÔtel de Rambouillet was opened. We know that there is nothing essentially admirable in putting black marks on white paper, and we know that a good shoemaker is a more useful citizen than can be made of an inferior writer, and knowing these facts, and others of the same sort, we can hardly realise that only three hundred years ago there were honest boys who entered upon the career of Letters when they might have earned a living selling tallow.

The HÔtel de Rambouillet regulated the scale of social values and diminished the distance between the position accorded to science, intellect, and genius and the position accorded to birth. For the first time within the memory of Frenchmen Men of Letters tasted the sweets of consideration; their eloquence was not forced back, nor was it drawn out by the imperious demands of hunger; authors were placed on a footing with their fellow-men; they were still expected to discourse, but as their wit was the result of normal conditions, it acquired the quality of order and the flavour of nature. In the Blue Room the weary writers were allowed to rest. They were not called upon to give proofs of their intellect; they were led gently forward, placed at a distance that made them appear genial, persuaded to discard their dogmatism, and by inferences and subtle influences taught to be indulgent and to distribute their wisdom with the philosophical civility which was then called "the spirit of the Court,"—and the term was a just one; a great gulf lay between the incisive rushing expression of the thought of CondÉ, the pupil of Mme. de Rambouillet, and the laboured facitiÆ of Voiture and the Academician, Jacques Esprit, although Voiture and Esprit were far in advance of their predecessors. Under the beneficent treatment of the HÔtel de Rambouillet the Men of Letters gradually lost their stilted and pedagogic airs. The fair reformers of "the circle" found many a barrier in their path; the gratitude of the pedants was not exhilarating, the leopards' spots long retained their colour,—Trissotin proved that,—but by force of repeated "dippings" the dye was eventually compelled to take and the stains that it left upon the fingers of "fair ArthÉnice" were not disfiguring.

A glance at Racine or at Boileau shows us the long road traversed after the Salon de Rambouillet instituted the recognition of merit regardless of rank and fortune. Love of intellectual pleasures, courage, and ambitious determination had ordered a march resumed after forced halts; and at last, when the ardent innovators reached the port from which they were to launch their endeavour, recognition of merit had become a custom, and the first phase of democratic evolution was an accomplished fact. Our own day shows further progress; the same evolution in its untrammelled freedom tends to cast suspicion upon personal merit because it unhinges the idea of equality.

"All Paris" of that day filed through the portals of the HÔtel de Rambouillet and passed in review before the Blue Room. Malherbe was one of the most faithful attendants of the Salon whose Laureate he remained until he died (1628). Yet according to Tallemant and to many others he was boorish and uncivil. He was abrupt in conversation, but he wrote excellent poetry and never said a word that did not reach its mark. When he visited the Salon he was very amiable; and his grey beard made him a creditable dean for the circle of literary companions. He wrote pretty verses in honour of ArthÉnice, he was diverting and instructive—in a word, he made himself necessary to the Salon. But he was too old to change either his character or his appearance, and his attempts to conform to the fashions of the hour made him ridiculous. He was "a toothless gallant, always spitting."

He had been in the pay of M. de Bellegarde, from whom he had received a salary of one thousand livres, table and lodging, and board and lodging for one lackey and one horse. He drew an income from a pension of five hundred Écus granted by Marie de MÉdicis; he was in possession of numerous gratuities, perquisites, and "other species of gifts" which he had secretly begged by the sweat of his brow. Huet, Archbishop of Avranche, wrote: "Malherbe is trying his best to increase his fortunes, and his poetry, noble though it be, is not always nobly employed." M. d'Yveteaux said that Malherbe "demanded alms sonnet in hand." The greedy poet had one rival at the HÔtel de Rambouillet; a very brilliant Italian addicted to flattery, whom all the ladies loved. Women were infatuated by him, as they are always infatuated by any foreign author—be he good or bad! Marini—in Paris they called him "Marin"—conversed in long sentences joined by antitheses. In his hours of relaxation when his thoughts were supposed to be in literary undress, he called the rose "the eye of the springtide."[50] At the time of which I now speak he was labouring upon a poem of forty-five thousand verses, entitled Adonis. Every word written or uttered by him was calculated to produce its effect. "The Circle," to the disgust of Malherbe, lay at the feet of the Italian pedant, swooning with ecstasy. "Marin's" influence over the first Salon of France was deplorable, and a contemporary chronicler recorded his progress with evident dejection[51]; "In time he relieved the country of his presence; but he had remained in it long enough to deposit in fruitful soil the germs of his factitious preciosity."

Chapelain was of other metal. He began active life as a teacher. M. de Longueville, who was the first to appreciate his merits, granted him his first pension (two thousand livres). Chapelain was fond of his work, a natural writer, industrious, and frugal. He went into retirement, lived upon his little pension, and brought forth La Pucelle. De Longueville was delighted by the zeal and the talent of his protÉgÉ and he added one thousand livres to his pension. Richelieu also granted Chapelain a pension (one thousand livres) and when Mazarin came to power he supplemented the gift of his predecessor by a pension of five hundred Écus.

It was not a common thing for authors to make favourable arrangements with a publisher, but Chapelain had made excellent terms for that epoch. La Pucelle had sold for three thousand livres. He (Chapelain) was in easy circumstances, but his unique appearance excited unique criticisms. He was described as "one of the shabbiest, dirtiest, most shambling, and rumpled of gallows-birds, and one of the most affectedly literary characters from head to heels who ever set foot in the Blue Room." It was said he was "a complete caricature of his idea." Though Mme. de Rambouillet was accustomed to the aspect of Men of Letters, she was struck dumb when Chapelain first appeared. As his mind was not visible, she saw nothing but an ugly little man in a pigeon-breast satin habit of antique date, covered with different kinds of ill-assorted gimp. His boots were not matched (each being eccentric in its own peculiar way). On his head was an old wig and over the wig hovered a faded hat. Mme. de Rambouillet regained her self-command and decided to close her eyes to his exterior. His conversation pleased her, and before he had left her presence he had impressed her favourably. In truth Chapelain merited respect and friendship. He was full of delicacy of feeling, extremely erudite, and impassioned in his love for things of the mind. His keen, refined, critical instinct had made him an authority on all subjects. His correspondence covered all the literary and learned centres of Europe, and he was consulted as an oracle by the savants of all countries. He was interested in everything. His mind was singularly broad, modest, frank, and open to conviction; and while his nature was essentially French, his mental curiosity, with its innumerable outstretching and receptive channels, made him a representative of cosmopolitan enlightenment.

Chapelain was one of the pillars of the Salon,—or, to speak better, he was the pendentive of the Salon's literary architecture. After a time repeated frequentation of the Salon amended his "exterior" to some extent. He changed his fanciful attire for the plain black costumes worn by Vadius and by Trissotin, but his transformation was accomplished invisibly, and during the transition period he did not cease to be shabby and of a suspiciously neglected aspect, even for one hour. "I believe," said Tallemant, "that Chapelain has never had anything absolutely new."

MÉnage, another pillar of the Salon de Rambouillet, was one of the rare literary exceptions to the rule of the solid provincial bourgeoisie. He was the rara avis of his country, and not only a pedant but the pedant par excellence, the finished type of the "litterateur" who "sucks ink and bursts with pride at his achievement." He was always spreading his feathers and bristling like a turkeycock if he was not appreciated according to his estimate of himself. From him descended some of the "literary types" still in existence, who cross-question a man in regard to what he knows of their literary "work." No matter what people were talking about, MÉnage would interrupt them with his patronising smile and "Do you remember what I said upon that subject?" he would ask. Naturally no one remembered anything that he had written, and when they confessed that they had forgotten he would cry out all sorts of piquancies and coarseness. Every one knew what he was. MoliÈre used him as a model for Vadius, and the likeness was striking. He was dreaded, and people loved literature to madness and accepted all its excrescences before they consented to endure his presence. "I have seen him," said Tallemant, "in Mme. de Rambouillet's alcove cleaning the insides of his teeth with a very dirty handkerchief, and that was what he was doing during the whole visit." He considered his fine manners irresistible. He pursued Mme. de Rambouillet, bombarding her incessantly with declarations. A pernicious vanity was one of his chief failings. It was his habit to give people to understand that he was on intimate terms with women like Mme. de Lafayette and Mme. de SÉvignÉ; but Mme. de SÉvignÉ did not permit him to carry his boasts to Paradise. One day after she had heard of his reports she invited him to accompany her alone in her carriage. She told him that she was "not afraid that any one would gossip over it." MÉnage, whose feelings were outraged by her contempt, burst into a flood of reproaches. "Get into my carriage at once!" she answered. "If you anger me I will visit you in your own house!"[52]

People tolerated MÉnage because he was extraordinarily wise, and because his sense of justice impelled him to admirably generous deeds. The Ministers, Mazarin and Colbert, always sent to him for the names of the people who were worthy of recompence, and MÉnage frequently nominated the men who had most offended him. Justice was his passion. Under the vulgar motley of the pedant lay many excellent qualities, among them intense devotion to friends. Throughout his life he rendered innumerable services and was kind and helpful to many people. MÉnage had a certain amount of money, nevertheless he gave himself into the hands of Retz, and Retz lodged and nourished him as he lodged and nourished his own lackey. MÉnage lived with Retz, berating him as he berated every one; and Retz cared for him, endured his fits of anger, and listened to his scoldings ten years. MÉnage "drew handsome pecuniary benefits from some other source," saved money, set out for himself, and founded a branch Blue Room in his own house. His receptions, which were held weekly on Wednesday, were in high esteem. The people who had free access to good society considered it an honour to be named as his guests.

Quite another story was "little Voiture," a delicate pigmy who had "passed forty years of his life at death's door." He was an invalid even in early youth. When very young he wrote to Mme. de Rambouillet from Nancy:

Since I have not had the honour of seeing you, madame, I have endured ills which cannot be described. As I traversed Epernay I visited Marechal Strozzi for your sake, and his tomb appeared so magnificent, and the place so calculated to give repose, that as I was in such condition and so fit for burial, I longed to be laid beside him; but as they found that there was still some warmth in me, they made difficulties about acceding to my wishes. Then I resolved to have my body carried as far as Nancy, where, at last, madame, it has arrived, so meagre and so wasted, that I do assure you that there will be very little for them to lay in the ground.

Ten years later he drew the following sketch of himself:

"My head is handsome enough; I have many grey hairs. My eyes are soft, but a little distraught.... My expression is stupid, but to counterbalance this discrepancy, I am the best boy in the world."[53]

Voiture was called "the dwarf king." He was a charming conversationalist; he was a precursor of the Parisian of the eighteenth century, of whom his winged wit and foaming gayety made him a fair antetype; he was "the life and the soul" of the HÔtel de Rambouillet, and when the ponderous minds had left the Salon, after he had helped the naturally gay ladies to lift the helmet of Minerva from their heads—and the weights from their heels—he taught them the light laughter which sits so well on "airy nothings." But he had his defects, defects so grave that the critics said: "If Voiture were of our condition it would be impossible to endure him!" He was a dangerous little gossip, constantly taking liberties and forcing people to recall him to his place. Though he was a child in size, he was a man of mature years, and the parents and guardians of young girls were forced to watch him, though it is probable that his intentions were innocent enough. One day, when he was on a visit, he attempted to press his lips to the arm of one of the daughters of the house. That time he "caught it on his fingers"; he begged pardon for his sin; but he did not correct his faults; vanity forbade him to do that, and vanity made him very jealous and hot tempered. Mlle. de ScudÉry (who was not censorious) called him "untrustworthy." His literature was like his person and his character. Everything that he wrote was delicate, coquettish, and very graceful, but often puerile. His literary taste was not keen; when the Circle sat wrapt in admiration just after Corneille had read them Polyeucte, Voiture hurried to the author's side and told him that he "would better go home and lock that drama up in his bureau drawer."

Toward the end of his life Voiture dyed both hair and beard, and his manner was just what it had been in his youth; he could not realise that he was not a boy; it was said that he was "tiresome, because he did not know how to grow old."

His irritable disposition made him a trying companion, but to his last day he was the "spoiled child" of Madame de Rambouillet and all the society of the Salon; he was gay, simple, boyish, and natural, and the Circle loved him "because he had none of the affected gravity and the importance of the other men of letters, and because his manners were not precise." More than thirty years after his death Mme. de SÉvignÉ recalled "his free wit and his charming ways" with delight. ("So much the worse," she said, "for them who do not understand such things!"[54])

Voiture might have lived independently and dispensed with the favours and the benefits which he solicited. His father was a very successful business man (he dealt in wines), but in those days it was customary for literary men to depend upon other men, and "little Voiture," thinking that it was a part of his glory to take his share of the general cake, profited by his social relations, and stretched his hands out in all directions, receiving such pensions, benefits, and "offices" as were bestowed upon all prominent men of letters. His income was large, and as he was nourished and cared for by Madame de Rambouillet, he had few expenses.

Valentin Conrart, the first perpetual Secretary of the AcadÉmie FranÇaise, was the most useful, if not the most brilliant member of the Salon; he was the common sense of the Blue Room: the wise and discreet friend to whom the most delicate secrets were fearlessly confided, the unfailing referee to whom the members of the Circle applied for decisions of all kinds, from the question of a debated signification to the pronunciation of a word; naturally he was somewhat pedagogical; incessant correction of the works of others had impressed him with the instincts and the manners of a teacher; to the younger members of the Circle he was a most awe-inspiring wiseacre. Conrart bore the mark of a deep-seated consciousness of Protestantism, and whether he was speaking, walking, or engaged in his active duties it was evident that he was absorbed in reflections concerning his religious origin; people who had seen him when he was asleep affirmed that he wore an alert air of cogitation when wrapt in slumber, and when he was rhyming his little verses to Alphise or to Lycoris his aspect was the same. His attitude was logical: he knew that he was a Protestant; he knew that that fact was a thing that no man could be expected to forget. In 1647 he wrote to a fellow coreligionist[55]: "As the world regards it, what a disadvantage it is to be a Huguenot!" The AcadÉmie FranÇaise emanated from social meetings held in Conrart's house and the serious association could not have had a more suitable cradle.

It is a pleasure to think of that easy and independent home, where guests were met with outstretched hands, where wisdom was dispensed without thought of recompense. Conrart was generous and just, a loyal and indulgent friend who did good for the love of goodness. The wife of Conrart was an excellent and worthy creature, who received dukes and peers and the ladies of the Court as simply as she received the friends of her youth; she was not a respecter of persons and she saw no reason for embarrassment when the Marquise de Rambouillet wished to dine with her. She took pride in "pastelles," cordials, and other household delicacies, which she made and offered to her husband's friends with her own hands.

Vaugelas was timid and innocent; misfortune was his habit; he had always been unfortunate, and no one expected him to be anything else. He was very poor; he had been stripped of everything (even to the pension given him by the King) as punishment for following Gaston d'OrlÉans. Everything that he did turned against him. One day when he was in great need Mme. de Carignan told him that she would hire him as tutor; she had two sons whom she aspired to educate according to the methods of the HÔtel de Rambouillet. Naturally the impecunious Vaugelas thanked God for his rescue. When his pupils were presented to him he found that one of them was deaf and dumb, the other was a phenomenal stutterer, barely able to articulate his name. Vaugelas had been so uniformly unfortunate that his woes had created a nervous tension in the minds of the Circle, and every new report of his afflictions called forth an outburst of hysterical laughter from his sympathisers. The HÔtel de Rambouillet knew his intrinsic value. Fair ArthÉnice and her company essayed to bring him forward, and failed; he was bashful, an inveterate listener, obstinately silent; in the Salon he sat with head drooping and with lips half open, eagerly listening to catch the delicately turned phrases of the quality, or to surprise some noble error; a grammatical lapsus stung his keen perceptions, and he was frequently seen writhing as if in agony, no one knew why. In a word he was worthless in a salon,—and the same must be said of Corneille. Corneille felt that he was not brilliant, and he never attended the Salon unless he had written something new; he read his plays to "the Circle" before he offered them to the publishers. Men of genius are not always creditable adjuncts to a salon; Corneille was known in the fine world as "that fellow Corneille." As far as his capacity for furnishing the amount of amusement which all men individually owe it to their fellows to provide is concerned, it is enough to say that he was one of the churchwardens in his parochial district; this fact, like the accident of birth, may pass as a circumstance extenuating his involuntary evil. Speaking of the Salon la BruyÈre wrote: "Corneille, another one who is seen there, is simple, timid, and—when he talks—a bore; he mistakes one word for another, and considers his plays good or bad in proportion to the money he gains by them. He does not know how to recite poetry, and he cannot read his own writing."

In a club of pretty women ten Corneilles would not have been worth one Antoine Godeau. Godeau was as diminutive in his verse as in his person; but he was a fiery fellow and a dashing gallant, always in love. When he was studying philosophy the German students in his boarding-house so attached themselves to his lively ways that they could not live away from him. The gravest of the bookworms thought that they could study better in his presence, and his chambers presented the appearance of a class-room. He sat enthroned at his table, and the Germans sat cross-legged around him blowing clouds from their china pipes and roaring with laughter at his sallies. He sang, he rhymed, he drank; he was always cracking his funny jokes. He was born to love, and as he was naturally frivolous, his dulcineas were staked out all over the country awaiting his good pleasure. Presented to the Circle of the HÔtel de Rambouillet when he was very young, he paled the star of "little Voiture." When Voiture was at a distance from Paris Mlle. de Rambouillet wrote to him: "There is a man here now who is a head shorter than you are, and who is, I swear to you, a thousand times more gallant!"

Godeau was a conqueror; he had "entrapped all the successes." Every one was amazed when it was discovered that he was a bishop, and they had barely recovered from their amazement when it was learned that he was not only a bishop but a good bishop. He had other titles to distinction (of one kind or another), "and withal he still remained" (as Sainte Beuve said) "the foppish spark of all that world." The only passport required by the HÔtel de Rambouillet was intellect. The Circle caressed Sarrazin, despite his baseness, his knavery, his ignoble marriages, and his ridiculous appearance, because he was capable of a pleasant repartee when in general conversation. George de ScudÉry, a "species of captain," was protected by the Circle because he was an author. ScudÉry was intolerable! his brain cells were clogged by vanity, he was humming from morning till night with his head high in the clouds, beating his ancestors about the ears of any one who would listen to him, and prating of his "glory," his tragic comedies, and his epic poem Alaric. He was on tiptoe with delight because he had eclipsed Corneille. The HÔtel de Rambouillet smiled upon Colletet, the clever drunkard who had taken his three servants to wife, one after the other, and who had not talent enough to counterbalance his gipsy squalor. But all passed who could hold a pen. Many a scruple and many a qualm clamoured in vain for recognition when the fair creator of the Circle organised the Salon. Nothing can be created—not even a salon—without some sacrifice, and Mme. de Rambouillet laid a firm hand upon her predilections and made literary merit the only title to membership in the Salon. Every one knew the way to the HÔtel de Rambouillet. Every one but Balzac was seen there. Balzac lived in a distant department (la Charente), so it is probable that he knew Mme. de Rambouillet only by letter, though he is named as an attendant of the Salon. Had the Salon existed in this day it is possible that our moderns, who demand a finer mortar, would have left the coarser pebbles in the screen, but Mme. de Rambouillet closed her eyes, put forth her hand, and as blindly as Justice drew authors out of their obscure corners and placed them on a footing with the fine flower of the Court and the choice spirits of the city, with all that was gay or witty, with all who were possessed of curiosity concerning the things of the mind. She forced the frivolous to habituate themselves to serious things, she compelled the pedants to toss their caps to the thistles, to cast aside their pretensions and their long-drawn-out phrases, and to stand forth as men. No one carried the accoutrements of his authorship into the Blue Room, no one was permitted to play the part of "pedant pedantising"; all was light, rapid, ephemeral; the atmosphere was fine and clear, and to add to the tranquil aspect of the scene, several very youthful ladies (the young daughters of Mme. de Rambouillet and "la pucelle Priande" among others) were permitted to pass like butterflies among the thoughtful groups; their presence completed the illusion of pastoral festivity. Before that time young girls had never mingled freely with their elders.

As mixed as the gatherings were, and as radical as was the social revolution of the Salon, the presence of innocent youth imposed the tone of careful propriety. I am not counting "La Belle Paulet" as an innocent young girl, though she too was of the Salon. Paulet was called "the lioness" because of the ardent blonde colour of her hair; she was young enough, and amiable even to excess, but she had had too much experience. She was "a bit of driftwood," one of several of her kind whom Mme. de Rambouillet had fished from the vortex, dried, catechised, absolved, and restored to regular conduct and consideration. Neither do I class "the worthy ScudÉry" among young girls. She could not have been called "young" at any age. She was (to quote one of her contemporaries) "a tall, black, meagre person, with a very long face, prolix in discourse, with a tone of voice like a schoolmaster, which is not at all agreeable." Although Tallemant drew this picture, its lines are not exaggerated. It is impossible to regard Mlle. de ScudÉry as a young girl. When I say that there were young girls in the Salon, I have in mind the daughters of the house, from whom emanated excess of delicacy, precocity, and decadence, Julie d'Angennes, for whom was created "the garland of Julie," who became Mme. Montausier, AngÉlique de Rambouillet,—the first of de Grignan's three wives,—and Mlle. de Bourbon, who married de Longueville, and at a later day was known as the heroine of the HÔtel-de-Ville. We must not imagine that a reception at the HÔtel de Rambouillet was a convocation like a seance at the Institute of France. At such an assembly a de SÉvignÉ, a Paulet, a Lafayette would have been out of place, nor would they have consented to sit like students in class discussing whether it were better to say avoine and sarge (the pronunciation given by the Court) or aveine and serge (the pronunciation used by the grain-handlers in the hay-market). Neither would it have been worth while to collect such spirits had the sole object been a discussion of the last new book, or the last new play; but literary and grammatical questions were rocks in the seas on which the brilliant explorer of the Blue Room had set sail and on the rocks she had planted her buoys. She navigated sagaciously, taking the sun, sounding and shaping her course to avoid danger. "Assaults of eloquence," however important, were cut short before they resembled the lessons of the schoolroom. Before the innovation of the Salon, the critics had dealt out discipline with heavy hands. We are confounded by the solemnity with which Conrart informed Balzac of a "tournament" between Voiture and Chapelain on the subject of one of Ariosto's comedies, when "decisions" were rendered with all the precision of legal sentences by "the hermit of Angoumois."[56] So manifest a waste of energy proved that it was time for the world's people to interfere, to restrain the savants from taking to heart things which were not worth their pains.

The authors produced their plays or their poems and carried their manuscripts to the HÔtel de Rambouillet, where they read them in the presence of the company, and the Circle listened, approved, criticised, and exchanged opinions. All of Corneille's masterpieces cleared that port in disguise; their creator presenting them as the works of a strange author. When he read Polyeucte the Salon supposed that the drama was the work of a person unknown to them; all listened intently and criticised freely. No one suspected the real author, and when the last word was read, Voiture made haste to warn Corneille that he "would better lock up the play." When the Circle first heard the Cid they acclaimed it, and declared that it was the work of genius. Richelieu objected to it, and the Salon defended it against him. Books and plays were not the only subjects of discussion; in the Blue Room letters from the absent were read to the company, verses were improvised and declaimed, plays were enacted, and delicately refined expressions were sought with which to clothe the sentiment and the passion of love. Great progress was made in the exercise of wit, and at times the Circle, excited by the clash of mind with mind, exhibited the effervescent joy of children at play when fun runs riot in the last moment of recess, before the bell rings to recall them to the schoolroom. At such a time the members of the Circle were marshalled back to order and set down before the savants to contemplate the "ologies." Such was the first period of the reign of the PrÉcieuses, a period whose history La BruyÈre gathered from the recitals of the old men of that day.

Voiture and Sarrazin were born for their century, and they appeared just at the time when they might have been expected; had they come forward with less precipitation they would have been too late; it is probable that had they come in our day they would have been just what they were at their own epoch. When they came upon the stage the light, sparkling conversations, the "circles" of meditative and critical groups convened to argue the literary and Æsthetic questions of the day, had vanished, with the finely marked differences, the spiritual jests, the coquettish meanings hidden amidst the overshadowing gravity of serious discussion.

The Circle no longer formed little parties admitting only the men who had proved their title to intellect; but the fame of the first Salon de Rambouillet—or, to speak better, the fame of the ideal Salon of the world—still clung to its successor. As children listen to tales told by their grandfathers, the delicate mind of Voiture listened to the story of those first days; Sarrazin the Gross might scoff, but Voiture gloried in the thought that it had all been true; the lights, the music, the merry jests, the spring flowers growing in the autumn, the flashing lances of the spirit, the gay letters from the absent.... And well might he glory! there had, in truth, been one supreme moment in the literary life of France, a moment as rapid, as fleeting as a smile, lost even as it came, never to appear again until long after the pigmy body which enshrined the winged soul that loved to dream of it had turned to dust.

The memory of that first Salon was still so vivid that Saint Simon wrote: "The HÔtel de Rambouillet was the trysting-place of all then existent of knowledge and of wit; it was a redoubtable tribunal, where the world and the Court were brought to judgment."

But the followers of ArthÉnice did not shrink from mundane pleasures. In the gracious presence of their hostess the young people danced from love of action, laughed from love of laughter, and, dressed to represent the heroes and the heroines of AstrÉe, or to represent the tradesmen of Paris, went into the country on picnics, and enacted plays for the amusement of their guests, playing all the pranks of collegians in vacation. One day when they were all at the ChÂteau de Rambouillet the Comte de Guiche ate a great many mushrooms. In the night one of the gay party stole into his room and "took in" all the seams in his garments. In the morning it was impossible for de Guiche to dress; everything was too narrow to be buttoned; in vain he tugged at the edges of his garments,—nothing would come together; the Comte was racked by anxiety. "Can it be," he asked anxiously, "because I ate too many mushrooms? Can it be possible that I am bloated?" His friends answered that it might well be possible. "You know," said they, "that you ate till you were fit to burst." De Guiche hurried to his mirror, and when he saw his apparently swollen body and the gaps in his clothing, he trembled, and declared that he was dying; as he was livid and about to swoon, his friends, thinking that the jest had gone far enough, undeceived him. Mme. de Rambouillet was very fond of inventing surprises for her friends, but her jests were of a more gallant character. One day while they were at the ChÂteau de Rambouillet she proposed to the Bishop de Lisieux, who was one of her guests, to walk into the fields adjoining the chÂteau, where there was, as she said, a circle of natural rocks set among great trees. The Bishop accepted her invitation, and history tells us that "when he was so near the rocks that he could distinguish them through the trees, he perceived in various places, as if scattered about—[I hardly know how to tell it]—objects fairly white and glistening! As he advanced it seemed to him that he could discern figures of women in the guise of nymphs. The Marquise insisted that she could not see anything but trees and rocks, but on advancing to the spot they found—Mlle. de Rambouillet and the other young ladies of the house arrayed, and very effectively, as nymphs; they were seated upon the rocks, where they made the most agreeable of pictures." The good fellow was so charmed with the pleasantry that thereafter he never saw "fair ArthÉnice" without speaking of "the Rocks of Rambouillet."[57] The Bishop de Lisieux was an excellent priest; decorum did not oppose such surprises, even when the one surprised was a bishop. One day when the ladies were disguised to represent shepherdesses, de Richelieu's brother, the Archbishop of Lyons, appeared among them in the dress of a shepherd.

One of the most agreeable of Voiture's letters (addressed to a cardinal)[58] contains an account of a trip that he had made into the country with the Demoiselles de Rambouillet and de Bourbon, chaperoned by "Madame the Princess," mother of the great CondÉ; Mlle. Paulet (the bit of driftwood) and several others were of the party.

We departed from Paris about six o'clock in the evening, [wrote Voiture], to go to La Barre,[59] where Mme. de Vigean was to give collation to Madame the Princess.... We arrived at La Barre and entered an audience-room in which there was nothing but a carpet of roses and of orange blossoms for us to walk upon. After having admired this magnificence, Madame the Princess wished to visit the promenade halls while we were waiting for supper. The sun was setting in a cloud of gold and azure, and there was only enough of it left to give a soft and misty light. The wind had gone down, it was cool and pleasant, and it seemed to us that earth and heaven had met to favour Mme. de Vigean's wish to feast the most beautiful Princess in the world.

Having passed a large parterre, and great gardens, all full of orange trees, we arrived at a wood which the sunlight had not entered in more than an hundred years, until it entered there (in the person of Madame). At the foot of an avenue so long that we could not fathom its vista with our eyes until we had reached the end of it, we found a fountain which threw out more water than was ever thrown by all the fountains of Tivoli put together. Around the fountain were ranged twenty-four violinists with their violins, and their music was hardly able to cover the music of the fountain. When we drew near them we discovered a niche in the palisado, and in the niche was a Diana eleven or twelve years old, more beautiful than any goddess of the forests of Greece or of Thessaly. She bore her arrows in her eyes, and all the rays of the halo of her brother surrounded her. In another niche was one of Diana's nymphs, beautiful and sweet enough to attend Diana. They who doubt fables said that the two visions were only Mlle. de Bourbon and la Pucelle Priande; and, to tell the truth, there was some ground for their belief, for even we who have always put faith in fables, we who knew that we were looking upon a supernatural vision, recognised a close resemblance. Every one was standing motionless and speechless, with admiration for all the objects so astonishing both to ear and to eye, when suddenly the goddess sprang from her niche and with grace that cannot be described, began a dance around the fountain which lasted some time, and in which every one joined.

(Here Voiture, who was under obligations to his correspondent, Cardinal de La Valette, represents himself as having wept because the Cardinal was not there. According to Voiture's account he communicated his grief to all the company.)

... And I should have wept, and, in fact, we all should have mourned too long, had not the violins quickly played a saraband so gay that every one sprang up and danced as joyously as if there had been no mourning; and thus, jumping, dancing, whirling, pirouetting, and capering, we arrived at the house, where we found a table dressed as delicately as if the faËries had served it. And now, Monseigneur, I come to a part of the adventure which cannot be described! Truly, there are no colours nor any figures of rhetoric to represent the six kinds of luscious soups, all different, which were first placed before us before anything else was served. And among other things were twelve different kinds of meats, under the most unimaginable disguises, such as no one had ever heard of, and of which not one of us has learned the name to this day! As we were leaving the table the music of the violins called us quickly up the stairs, and when we reached the upper floor we found an audience-room turned into a ball-room, so well lighted that it seemed to us that the sun, which had entirely disappeared from earth, had gone around in some unknown way and climbed up there to shine upon us and to make it as bright as any daylight ever seen. There the dance began anew, and even more perfectly than when we had danced around the fountain; and more magnificent than all else, Monseigneur, is this, that I danced there! Mlle. de Bourbon said that, truth to tell, I danced badly, but that doubtless I should make an excellent swordsman, because, at the end of every cadence, I straightened as if to fall back on guard.

The fÊte ended in a display of fireworks, after which the company "took the road" for Paris by the light of twenty flambeaux, singing with all the strength of their lungs. When they reached the village of La Villette they caught up with the violinists, who had started for the city as soon as the dance was ended and before the party left the chÂteau. One of the gayest of the company insisted that the violinists should play, and that they should dance right there in the street of the village. It was between two and three o'clock in the morning and Voiture was tired out; he "blessed Heaven" when it was discovered that the violins had been left at La Barre.

At last [Voiture wrote to the Cardinal] we reached Paris.... Impenetrable darkness wrapped the city, silence and solitude lay on every hand, the streets were deserted, and we saw no people, but now and then small animals, frightened by the glaring flames of our torches, fled before us, and we saw them hiding on the shadowy corners.

We learn from this letter how the companions of the HÔtel de Rambouillet passed their evenings.

In Paris and in the distant provinces there were many imitations of the Salon; the germs of the enterprise had taken root all over France with literary results, which became the subject of serious study. The political consequences of the literary and social innovations claimed less attention. The domestication of the nobility originated in the Salon. When delicacy of manner was introduced as obligatory, the nobleman was in full possession of the rights of power; he could hunt and torture animals and inferior men, he could make war upon his neighbours, he could live in egotistical isolation, enjoying the luxuries bestowed by his seigniory, while the lower orders died of hunger at his door, because his rank was manifested by his freedom from rules which bound classes below his quality. The diversions introduced at the Salon de Rambouillet exacted sacrifice of self to the convenience of others. In the abstract this was an excellent thing, but its reaction was felt by the aristocracy; from restraining their selfishness the gallant courtiers passed on to the self-renunciation of the ancient Crusaders, and when Louis XIV. saw fit (for his own reasons) to turn his nobles into peaceful courtiers and grand barons of the ante-chamber, he found that his work had all been done; it was not possible to convert his warriors into courtiers, for he had no warriors; all the warriors had turned to knights of the carpet; their swords were wreathed with roses, and the ringing notes which had called men to arms had changed to the sighing murmurs of Durandarte; every man sat in a perfumed bower busily employed in making "sonnets to his mistress's eyebrows." Louis XIV. fumed because his Court resembled a salon; the incomparable ArthÉnice had given the restless cavaliers a taste for fine conversation and innocent pleasures, and by doing so she had minced the King's spoonmeat too fine; the absolute monarch could only modify a transformation accomplished independent of his will.

LOUIS XIII., KING OF FRANCE AND OF NAVARRE

FROM AN OLD PRINT