Lives of the most eminent literary and scientific men of France, Vol. 1 (of 2)

Condé was opposed by Turenne, who now adhered to the court. These two great generals felt that they had a worthy match in each other. Before Condé's presence was generally known, Turenne recognised his influence in an attack that was made; and exclaimed, as he hurried to the spot, "The prince of Condé is arrived!"

Warfare was thus transferred to the immediate neighbourhood of the capital, and intrigues of all kinds varied the more soldierly manœuvres of the contending armies. It is impossible here to detail either the vicissitudes of minor combats, or the artifices of De Retz and the other leaders. Condé found himself forced at last to give way before Turenne. Finding the position he held at St. Cloud do longer tenable, he resolved to take up a new one at Charenton. For this purpose he was obliged to make nearly the circuit of Paris, then held by the duke of Orleans, who considered himself at the head of the Fronde, but who displayed on this, as on every other occasion, his timid and temporising character. As soon as Condé began his march, Turenne became acquainted with it, and pursued him. Condé advanced as far as the suburbs of Paris, and, for a moment, doubted whether he would not ask permission to pass through the city; but, afraid of being refused, he resolved to march on. Danger approaching nearer and gathering thicker, he determined to make a stand in the fauxbourg St. Antoine. Here, therefore, the battle commenced. The combat was hard contested and fierce: it was attended by various changes in the fortune of the day. At one time Condé had been enabled to advance, but he was again driven back to the gates of St. Antoine, where he was not only assailed in front, but had to sustain a tremendous fire carried on from the surrounding houses. Rochefoucauld was at his side: he, and his son, and other nobles dismounted, and sustained the whole attack, without the assistance of the infantry, who refused to aid them. The duke de Nemours received thirteen wounds, and Rochefoucauld was wounded by an arquebuse, just above the eyes, which, in an instant, deprived him of sight; and he was carried off the field by the duke of Beaufort and the prince of Marsillac. They were pursued; but Condé came to their succour, and gave them time to mount. The citizens were averse to opening the gates of the city to the prince's army, fearing that the troops of Turenne would enter with him: its safety, however, entirely depended on taking refuge in Paris. The duke of Orleans, vacillating and dastardly, heard of the peril of his friends, and of the loss they had sustained, and moved no finger to help them. His daughter, mademoiselle de Montpensier, showed a spirit superior to them all. She shamed her father into signing an order for the opening of the gates. She repaired to the Bastille, and turned its cannon on the royal army; and then, going herself to the gate St. Antoine, she not only persuaded the citizens to receive the prince and troops, but to sally out, skirmish with, and drive back their pursuers. Rochefoucauld, seeing the diversion made in their favour, desired to take advantage of it; and, though his eyes were starting from his head through the effects of his wound, he rode to the fauxbourg St. Germain, and exhorted the people to come to Condé's aid. Success crowned these efforts; and the prince, after displaying unexampled conduct and valour, entered Paris with flying colours.

This was the crisis of the war of the Fronde. His success and gallantry had raised Condé high in the affections of the Parisians; but popular favour is proverbially short lived, and, in a very short time, he became the object of hatred. De Retz never slept at the work of intrigue. The court, assisted by Turenne, rallied. A popular tumult ensued, more serious than any that had yet occurred; a massacre was the consequence, and the odium fell on Condé and his party. He lost his power even over his own soldiery, and the utmost license prevailed. Several of the leaders of the Fronde died also. The duke of Nemours fell in a duel with his brother-in-law, the duke of Beaufort: the dukes of Chavigni and Bouillon died of a typhus fever then raging in Paris. Scarcity, the consequence of the presence of the soldiery and the state of the surrounding country, became severely felt. Each party longed for repose. The court acted with discretion. Mazarin was sacrificed for the time; and the royal family returned to Paris, Condé having quitted it shortly before. He hastened to Holland, eager, like a true soldier, to place himself at the head of an army; but ill success pursued him: he was declared a rebel; and, from that hour, his star declined. After much treaty, much intrigue, and various acts of treachery, a peace was concluded between the court and the remnant of the Fronde, and the authority of the king, now declared major, was universally acknowledged.

1653.
Ætat.
40.

On the retreat of Condé from Paris, Rochefoucauld retired with his family to Danvilliers, where he spent a year in retirement; recovering from his wounds; and making up his mind to extricate himself from the web of intrigue in which he had immeshed himself. The Fronde was already at an end: it crumbled to pieces under the influence of fear and corruption. Rochefoucauld had already broken with the prince of Conti and the duchess de Longueville[27]: his last tie was to Condé. He received representations from his friends, and, doubtless, his own mind suggested the advantage of breaking this last link to an overthrown party. One of the bribes held out to him was the marriage of his son with mademoiselle de la Roche-Guyon, his cousin and an heiress. Desirous of acting honourably, he sent Gourville to Brussels, to disengage him from all ties with Condé. Gourville executed the task with his usual sagacity: he represented to the prince that the duke could no longer be of any service to him; and, having family reasons for wishing to return to France, he asked his consent and permission. The prince admitted his excuses, and freed him from every bond. Gourville then went to Paris, to negotiate the duke's return with cardinal Mazarin. After some difficulty he obtained an interview with the minister, who readily granted leave to the duke to return, and completed his work by gaining over Gourville himself.

Thus ended, as far as any trace remains to us, the active life of a man who hereafter reaped lessons of wisdom from the busy scenes through which he had passed. From various passages in Gourville's memoirs it is evident that he spent the years immediately succeeding to the war on his own estate of la Rochefoucauld. He was nearly ruined by the career he had gone through; and, finding his affairs almost hopelessly deranged, he asked Gourville, who had turned financier, to receive his rents and revenues, and to undertake the management of his estate, household, and debts, allowing him forty pistoles a month for dress and private expenses; which arrangement lasted till his death. Subsequently he lived almost entirely in Paris, where he made a part of what may emphatically be called the best society, of which he was the greatest ornament; and was respected and beloved by a circle of intimate and dear friends. He had always been one of the chief ornaments of the Hotel de Rambouillet. We cannot tell how far he deigned to adopt the jargon of the fair Précieuses; but, as the society assembled there was celebrated as the most intellectual and the most virtuous in Paris, it was an honour for a man to belong to it.

It is singular also to remark, that the most unaffected writers of the time of Louis XIV. had once figured as Alcovistes or Précieuses. Madame de la Fayette, who, in her works, adopted a simplicity of sentiment and expression that contrasts forcibly with the bombast of the school of Scuderi; madame de Sévigné, whose style is the most delightful and easy in the world; Rochefoucauld, who, first among moderns, concentrated his ideas, and, abjuring the diffuseness that still reigned in literature, aimed at expressing his thoughts in as few words as possible, had all been frequenters and favourites at the Hotel de Rambouillet. It would seem that intellectual indolence is the mind's greatest foe; and, once incited to think, persons of talent can easily afterwards renounce a bad school. Platonic gallantries, metaphorical conceits, and ridiculous phraseology, were not the only accomplishments prized by the Précieuses. Learning and wit flourished among them; and when Molière, with happy ridicule, had dissolved the charm that had steeped them in folly, these remained, and shone forth brightly in the persons already named, and others scarcely less celebrated—Ménage, Balzac, Voiture, Bourdaloue, &c.

To return to Rochefoucauld himself. His best and dearest friend was madame de la Fayette, the authoress of "La Princesse de Clèves," and other works that mark her excellent taste and distinguished talents. Madame de la Fayette was, in her youth, a pupil of Ménage and Rapin. She learned Latin under their tuition, and rose above her masters in the quickness of her comprehension. In general society she carefully concealed her acquirements. "She understood Latin," Segrais writes, "but she never allowed her knowledge to appear; so not to excite the jealousy of other women." She was intimately allied to all the clever men of the time, and respected and loved by them. She was a woman of a strong mind; witty and discerning, frank, kind-hearted, and true. Rochefoucauld owed much to her, while she had obligations to him. Their friendship was of mutual benefit. "He gave me intellect," she said, "and I reformed his heart."

This heart might well need reform and cure from all of evil it had communicated with during long years of intrigue and adventure. The easiness of his temper, his turn for gallantry, the mobile nature of his mind, rendered him susceptible to the contamination of the bad passions then so active around him. Ardent, ambitious, subtle,—we find him, in the time of the Fronde, busiest among the intriguers; eager in pursuit of his objects, yet readily turned aside; violent in his hatred, passionate in his attachments, yet easily detached from both, after the first fire had burnt out. His vacillation of conduct and feeling at that time caused it to be said, that he always made a quarrel in the morning, and the employment of his day was to make it up by evening. Cardinal de Retz, his great enemy, accuses him or thinking too ill of human nature.[28] Thrown among the fools, knaves, and demoralised women of the Fronde, we cannot wonder that he, seeing the extent of the evil of which human nature is capable, was unaware that these very passions, regulated by moral principle and religion, would animate men to virtue as well as to vice. He read this lesson subsequently in his own heart, when, turning from the libertine society with which he spent his youth, he became the friend of madame de la Fayette, madame de Sévigné, and the most distinguished persons of the reign of Louis XIV. Yet the taint could not quite be effaced. It left his heart, but it blotted his understanding. He could feel generous, noble, and pious sentiments; but having once experienced emotions the reverse of these, and having found them deep-rooted in others, he fancied that both virtue and vice, good and evil, sprang from the same causes, and were based on the same foundations. Added to this, we may observe that his best friends belonged to a court. True and just as was madame de la Fayette,—amiable and disinterested as madame de Sévigné,—brave as Turenne,—noble as Condé,—pious as Racine,—honest as Boileau,—devout and moral as madame de Maintenon might be, and were, the taint of a court was spread over all; the desire of being well with the sovereign, and making a monarch's favour the cynosure of hearts and the measure of merit. Rochefoucauld fancied that he could discern selfishness in all; yet, had he turned his eye inward with a clearer view, he had surely found that the impulses that caused his own heart to warm with friendship and virtue, were based on a power of forgetting self in extraneous objects; for he was a faithful, affectionate, and disinterested friend, a fond father, and an honourable man. He was brave also; though madame de Maintenon tells us that he was accustomed to say that he looked on personal bravery as folly. This speech lets us into much of the secret recesses of his mind. His philosophy was epicurean; and, wanting the stoic exaltation of sentiment, and worship of good for good's sake, he mistook the principles of the human mind, and saw no excellence in a forgetfulness of self, the capacity for which he was thus led to deny.[29] Madame de Maintenon adds, in her portrait, "M. de Rochefoucauld had an agreeable countenance, a dignified manner, much intellect, and little knowledge. He was intriguing, supple, foreseeing. I never knew a friend more constant, more frank, nor more prudent in his advice. He loved to reign: he was very brave. He preserved the vivacity of his mind till his death; and was always lively and agreeable, though naturally serious."

The latter part of his life was embittered by the gout, which seldom left him free from pain. The society of madame de la Fayette and other friends were his resource during the intervals of his attacks, and his comfort throughout. Madame de Sévigné makes frequent mention of him in her letters, and always in a way that marks approbation and respect. She often speaks of his fortitude in suffering bodily pain, and his sensibility when domestic misfortunes visited him severely. His courage never abandoned him, except when death deprived him of those he loved. One of his sons was killed and another wounded in the passage of the Rhine. "I have seen," writes madame de Sévigné, "his heart laid bare by this cruel disaster. He is the first among all the men I ever knew for courage, goodness, tenderness, and sense. I count his wit and agreeable qualities as nothing in comparison." It is from her letters that we gather an account of his death. Mention is made of him, as well and enjoying society, in the month of February. 1680.
Ætat.
67. On the 13th of March she writes, "M. de la Rochefoucauld has been and is seriously ill. He is better to-day; but there is every appearance of death: he has a high fever, an oppression, a suppressed gout. There has been question of the English doctor and other physicians: he has chosen his godfather; and frère Ange will kill him, if God has thus disposed. M. de Marsillac is expected: madame de la Fayette is deeply afflicted." On the 15th of the same month she writes, "I fear that this time we shall lose M. de la Rochefoucauld: his fever continues. He received the communion yesterday. He is in a state worthy of admiration. He is excellently disposed with regard to his conscience,—that is clear: for the rest, it is to him as if his neighbour were ill: he is neither moved nor troubled. He hears the cause of the physicians pleaded before him with an unembarrassed head, and almost without deigning to give his opinion. It reminded me of the verse,

He did not see madame de la Fayette yesterday, because she wept, and he was to take the sacrament: he sent at noon to inquire after her. Believe me that he has not made reflections all his life to no purpose. He has in this manner approached so near to the last moments that their actual presence has nothing new nor strange for him. M. de Marsillac arrived at midnight, the day before yesterday, overwhelmed with grief. He was long before he could command his countenance and manner. He entered at last, and found his father in his chair, little different from his usual appearance. As M. de Marsillac is his friend among his children, there must have been some internal emotion; but he manifested none, and forgot to speak to him of his illness. I am continually with madame de la Fayette, who could never have experienced the delights of friendship and affection were she less afflicted than she is." On the 17th of March the scene closed; and madame de Sévigné writes, "M. de la Rochefoucauld died this night. My head is so full of this misfortune, and of the extreme affliction of my poor friend, that I must write about it. On Saturday, yesterday, the remedies had done wonders; victory was proclaimed; his fever had diminished. In this state, yesterday, at six o'clock, he turned to death: fever recurred; and, in a word, gout treacherously strangled him: and, although he was still strong, and had not been weakened by losing blood, five or six hours sufficed to carry him off. At midnight he expired in the arms of M. de Condom (Bossuet). M. de Marsillac never quitted him for a moment: he is plunged in inexpressible affliction. Yet he will return to his former life; find the king and the court as they were; and his family will still be around him. But where will madame de la Fayette find such a friend, such society; a similar kindness, resource, and reliance, or equal consideration for herself and her son? She is infirm; she is always at home, and cannot run about town. M. de la Rochefoucauld was sedentary. This state rendered them necessary to each other and nothing could equal their mutual confidence, and the charm of their friendship." This grief, this friendship, is the most honourable monument a man can receive: who would not desire thus to be sepultured in the heart of one loved and valued? One might regret the pain felt; but, as madame de la Sévigné so beautifully observes, this pain is the proof of the truth and warmth of the affection that united them, and the pleasure they mutually imparted and received. In successive letters there are traces of the inconsolable affliction of madame de la Fayette. "She has fallen from the clouds: every moment she perceives the loss she has suffered;" and again, "Poor madame de la Fayette knows not what to do with herself. The loss of M. de la Rochefoucauld makes so terrible a void in her life that she feels more sensibly the value of so delightful an intimacy. Every one will be consoled at last, except her." A sadder testimonial of her affection is contained in a short passage, saying, "I saw madame de la Fayette. I found her in tears: a writing of M. de la Rochefoucauld had fallen into her hands which surprised and afflicted her." We are not told the subject of this paper, nor the cause of her affliction: was it some trace of past unkindness or secret injustice? These are the stings, this the poison, of death. There is no recall for a hasty word; no excuse, no pardon, no forgetfulness, for injustice or neglect;—the grave that has closed over the living form, and blocked up the future, causes the past to be indelible; and, as human weakness for ever errs, here it finds the punishment of its errors. While we love, let us ever remember that the loved one may die,—that we ourselves may die. Let all be true and open, let all he faithful and single-hearted, or the poison-harvest reaped after death may infect with pain and agony one's life of memory. We may say, in defence of Rochefoucauld, that Gourville, in his memoirs, alludes to a circumstance that annoyed him with regard to madame de la Fayette: he says that, taking advantage of Gourville's attachment to his former master, she and M. de Langlade plotted together to do him an ill turn, which would have turned greatly to the lady's advantage; and that, at the time of the duke's death, it was said that he was much hurt at having discovered this little intrigue. At the same time madame de la Fayette may have been innocent of the charge. Gourville disliked her, and might accuse her unjustly, and have deceived Rochefoucauld by representations which were false, though he believed in them himself.

We have entered thus fully into all the details known of Rochefoucauld's life, that we might understand better on what principles and feelings the "Maxims" were founded. We find a warm heart, an impetuous temper, joined to great ductility, some insincerity, and no imagination we find a penetrating understanding, joined to extreme subtlety, that might well overshoot itself in its aim;—strong attachments, which took the colour greatly of their object. Disease tamed his passions; but his mind was still free to observe, and to form opinions. The result was an Epicurean philosophy, which answered the cui bono by a perpetual reference to self—to pleasure and to pain; while he passed over the first principle of morals, which is, that it is not the pleasure we receive from good actions which actuates us, but love of good. This passion produces pleasure or pain in its result; but the latter is the effect forgotten till it arrives; the former the cause, the impelling motive, the true source, from which our virtues spring. Were we to praise a knife for being sharp, and a stander-by should say, "It deserves no praise. No wonder that it is sharp: it is made of the finest tempered steel, and infinite labour has been bestowed on the manufacture of it:" should we not reply, "Therefore we praise it: because the material is good, and has been rendered better by care, we consider it excellent." The passions and the affections, by their influence over the soul, produce pleasure or pain; but shall we not love and approve those who take pleasure in cultivating virtuous affections, and rejecting vicious ones? Thus considered, it may be said that the question is reduced to a mere war of words; but in practice it is not so. No person could habitually entertain the idea that he was selfish in all he did without weakening his love of good, and, at last, persuading himself to make self-interest, in a confined and evil sense, the aim of his actions; while if, on the contrary, we recognise and appreciate that faculty of the soul, that permits us to forget self in the object of our desire, we shall be more eagerly bent to entertain piety, virtue, and honour, as objects to be attained; satisfied that thus we render ourselves better beings, though, probably, not happier than those of meaner aspirations.

We turn to Rochefoucauld's maxims, and find ample field for explanation of our view in the observations that they suggest. We cannot turn to them without discussing inwardly their truth and falsehood. Some are true as truth: such as—

"There is in the human heart a perpetual generation of passions; so that the destruction of one is almost always the birth of another."

"We promise according to our hopes; we perform according to our fears."

"No one is either so happy or so unhappy as he imagines."

"Fortune turns every thing to the advantage of those whom she favours."

"There is but one true love; but there are a thousand copies."

"It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them."

"A fool has not stuff enough in him to be virtuous."

"Our minds are more indolent than our bodies."

"Jealousy is always born with love, but does not always die with it."

"It would seem that nature has concealed talents and capacities in the depths of our minds of which we have no knowledge: the passions alone can bring these into day, and give us more certain and perfect views than art can afford."

"We arrive quite new at the different ages of life; and often want experience in spite of the number of years we have lived."

"It is being truly virtuous to be willing to be always exposed to the view of the virtuous."

Some maxims are too subtle; and among such is to be ranked the celebrated one, "That we often find something in the misfortunes of our best friends that is not displeasing to us." Taking this in its most obvious sense it merely means, that no evil is so great but that some good accompanies it. Our own personal misfortunes even bring, at times, some sort of compensation, without which they would be intolerable. Regarded more narrowly, it appears that Rochefoucauld meant that we are ready to look upon the sorrows of our friends as something advantageous to ourselves. This, in a precise sense, is totally false, where there is question of real affection and true friendship. There is an emotion, however, of a singular description that does often arise in the heart on hearing bad news. The simple-minded Lavater, in his journal, was aware of this. He mentions that, on hearing that a friend had fallen into affliction, he felt an involuntary emotion of pleasure. Examination explains to us the real nature of this feeling. The human mind is adverse (we talk of the generality of instances, not of exceptions,) to repose: any thing that gives it hope of exercise, and puts it in motion, is pleasurable. The consciousness of existence is a pleasure; and any novelty of sensation that is not personally painful brings this. When Lavater heard that his friend was in affliction he was roused from the monotony of his daily life. Novelty had charms: he had to tell his wife to set out on a journey for the purpose of seeing and consoling his friend. All this made him conscious of existence, gave him the hope of being useful, caused his blood to flow more freely, and thus even imparted physical pleasure; and, indeed, I should be apt to reduce the essence of this emotion to mere physical sensation, occasioned by an accelerated pulsation, the result of excitement. It may be, and it is, right to record this sensation in any history of the human mind; but it ought to be appreciated at its true value as the mere operation of the lower part of our nature for the most part, and, added to that, pleasure in the expectation of being of use.

This sort of anatomy of mind, when we detect evil in the involuntary impulses of the soul, resembles the scruples felt by an over-pious person, who regards the satisfying hunger and receiving pleasure in eating a dry crust as sin. Dissecting things thus, it becomes difficult to say what is a misfortune. It is a misfortune to lose one's child; so natural and instinctive is the sorrow that ensues that, perhaps, no other can be purer. If a friend lose a child, if we loved that child also, the misfortune becomes our own, and our sympathy may be perfect. If the child promised ill, the pain we feel from our friend's grief may be mitigated by the sense that it is ill-founded, and even that we may derive benefit from the loss lamented: not being blinded by parental passion, we may rejoice in the alleviations foresight and reason present to us. To call this selfishness is to quarrel with the structure of human nature, which is based on personal identity and consciousness. Passion enables us to throw off even these, sometimes, and totally to amalgamate our interests with those of another. But this is, indeed, of rare occurrence.

We may remark, also, that even in those instances in which the mind does recognise benefit to arise from the misfortune of a friend, and feel involuntary self-gratulation, we regard this as a crime or a vice, and reject it as such, showing the power of disinterestedness over selfishness by dismissing and abhorring the feeling.

The Fronde was the soil in which the "Maxims" had root: better times softened their harshness, and inspired better and higher thoughts. But the younger life of Rochefoucauld was spent in a society demoralised to a degree unknown before—when self-interest was acknowledged as the principle of all; and the affections alone kept a "few green spots"—rare oases of beauty and virtue—amidst the blighted and barren waste of ambition and vice. Usually public revulsions give birth to heroism as well as crime; and war and massacre are elevated and redeemed by courage and self-devotion. But, in the time of the Fronde, there were no very great crimes, and no exalted actions: vice and folly, restless desire of power, and an eager, yet aimless, party spirit, animated society. Hence the mean opinion Rochefoucauld formed of human nature; and the very subtlety and penetration of his intellect occasioned him to err yet more widely in his conclusions. To adopt a maxim of his own, he erred, not by not reaching the mark, but going beyond it. Not that he went so far as his followers. Dry Scotch metaphysicians, men without souls, reduced to a system what he announced merely as of frequent occurrence. They tell us that self-interest is the mover of all our actions: Rochefoucauld only says "self-interest puts to use every sort of virtue and vice." But he does not say that every sort of virtue, or even vice, in all persons is impregnated with self-interest, though with many it is; and there are a multitude of his remarks which display a thorough appreciation of excellence. The maxims themselves are admirably expressed; the language is pure and elegant; the thoughts clearly conceived, and forcibly worded.

Besides the maxims, Rochefoucauld wrote memoirs of various periods of the regency of Anne of Austria and the wars of the Fronde. Bayle bestows great encomium on this work: "I am sure," he says, "there are few partisans of antiquity who will not set a higher value on the duke de la Rochefoucauld's memoirs than on Cæsar's commentaries."[30] To which remark the only reply must be, that Bayle was better able to dissect motives, appreciate actions, and reason on truth and falsehood, than to discover the merit of a literary work. "Rochefoucauld's memoirs are still read:" such is Voltaire's notice, while he bestows great praise on the maxims. The chief fault of the memoirs is the subject of them,—the wars of the Fronde,—a period of history distinguished by no men of exalted excellence; neither adorned by admirable actions nor conducing to any amelioration in the state of society: it was a war of knaves (not fools) for their own advancement, ending in their deserved defeat.

MOLIÈRE

1622-1673

Louis XIV. one day asked Boileau "Which writer of his reign he considered the most distinguished;" Boileau answered, unhesitatingly, "Molière." "You surprise me," said the king; "but of course you know best." Boileau displayed his discernment in this reply. The more we learn of Molière's career, and inquire into the peculiarities of his character, the more we are struck by the greatness of his genius and the admirable nature of the man. Of all French writers he is the least merely French. His dramas belong to all countries and ages; and, as if as a corollary to this observation, we find, also, an earnestness of feeling, and a deep tone of passion in his character, that raises him above our ordinary notions of Gallic frivolity.

Molière was of respectable parentage. For several generations his family had been traders in Paris, and were so well esteemed, that various members had held the places of judge and consul in the city of Paris; situations of sufficient importance, on some occasions, to cause those who filled them to be raised to the rank of nobles. His father, Jean Poquelin, was appointed tapestry or carpet-furnisher to the king: his mother, Marie Cressé[31], belonged to a family similarly situated; her father, also, was a manufacturer of carpets and tapestry. Jean Baptiste Poquelin (such was Molière's real name) was horn on the 15th January, 1622, in a house in Rue Saint Honoré, near the Rue de la Tonnellerie. He was the eldest of a numerous family of children, and destined to succeed his father in trade. The latter being afterwards appointed valet de chambre to the king, and the survivorship of the place being obtained for his son, his prospects in life were sufficiently prosperous. His mother died when he was only ten years of age, and thus a family of orphans were left on his father's hands.

Brought up to trade, Poquelin's education during childhood was restricted to reading and writing; and his boyish days were passed in the warehouse of his father. His heart, however, was set on other things. His paternal grandfather was very fond of play-going, and often took his grandson to the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, where Corneille's plays were being acted. From this old man the youth probably inherited his taste for the drama, and he owed it to him that his genius took so early the right bent. To him he was indebted for another great obligation. The boy's father reproached the grandfather for taking him so often to the play. "Do you wish to make an actor of him?" he exclaimed. "Yes, if it pleased God that he became as good a one as Bellerose[32]," the other replied. The prejudices of the age were violent against actors. We almost all take our peculiar prejudices from our parents, whom, in our nonage (unless, through unfortunate circumstances, they lose our respect), we naturally regard as the sources of truth. To this speech, to the admiration which the elder Poquelin felt for actors and acting, no doubt the boy owed his early and lasting emancipation from those puerile or worse prejudices against the theatre, which proved quicksands to swallow up the genius of Racine.

1637.
Ætat.
14.

The youth grew discontented as he grew older. The drama enlightened him as to the necessity of acquiring knowledge, and to the beauty of intellectual refinement: he became melancholy, and, questioned by his father, admitted his distaste for trade, and his earnest desire to receive a liberal education. Poquelin thought that his son's ruin must inevitably ensue: the grandfather was again the boy's ally; he gained his point, and was sent as an out-student to the college of Clermont, afterwards of Louis-le-Grand, which was under the direction of the jesuits, and one of the best in Paris. Amand de Bourbon, prince of Conti, brother of the grand Condé, was going through the classes at the same time. After passing through the ordinary routine at this school, the young Poquelin enjoyed a greater advantage than that of being a schoolfellow of a prince of the blood. L'Huilier, a man of large fortune, had a natural son, named Chapelle, whom he brought up with great care. Earnest for his welfare and good education, he engaged the celebrated Gassendi to be Iris private tutor, and placed another boy of promise, named Bernier, whose parents were poor, to study with him. There is something more helpful, more truly friendly and liberal, often in French men of letters than in ours; and it is one of the best traits in our neighbours' character. Gassendi perceived Poquelin's superior talents, and associated him in the lessons he gave to Chapelle and Bernier. He taught them the philosophy of Epicurus; he enlightened their minds by lessons of morals; and Molière derived from him those just and honourable principles from which he never deviated in after life.

Another pupil almost, as it were, forced himself into this little circle of students. Cyrano de Bergerac was a youth of great talents, but of a wild and turbulent disposition, and had been dismissed from the college of Beauvais for putting the master into a farce. He was a Gascon—lively, insinuating, and ambitious. Gassendi could not resist his efforts to get admitted as his pupil; and his quickness and excellent memory rendered him an apt scholar. Chapelle himself, the friend afterwards of Boileau and of all the literati of Paris, a writer of songs, full of grace, sprightliness, and ease, displayed talent, but at the same time gave tokens of that heedless, gay, and unstable character that followed him through life, and occasioned his father, instead of making him his heir as he intended, to leave him merely a slight annuity, over which he had no control. Bernier became afterwards a great eastern traveller.

1641.
Ætat.
19.

Immediately on leaving college Poquelin entered on his service of royal valet de chambre. Louis XIII. made a journey to Narbonne; and he attended instead of his father.[[33] This journey is only remarkable from the public events that were then taking place. Louis XIII. and cardinal de Richelieu had marched into Rousillon to complete the conquest of that province from the house of Austria—both monarch and minister were dying. The latter discovered the conspiracy of Cinq-Mars, the unfortunate favourite of the king, and had seized on him and his innocent friend De Thou—they were condemned to death; and conveyed from Tarrascon to Lyons in a boat, which was towed by the cardinal's barge in advance. Terror at the name of the cardinal, contempt for the king, and anxiety to watch the wasting illnesses of both, occupied the court: the passions of men were excited to their height; and the young and ardent youth, fresh from the schools of philosophy, witnessed a living drama, more highly wrought than any that a mimic stage could represent.

The cardinal had a magnificent spirit; he revived the arts, or rather nursed their birth in France. It has been mentioned in the life of Corneille, that he patronised the theatre; and even wrote pieces for it. The tragedy of the "Cid," while it electrified France, by what might be deemed a revelation of genius, gave dignity as well as a new impulse to the drama. Acting became a fashion, a rage; private theatricals were the general amusement, and knots of young men formed themselves into companies of actors.1643.
Ætat.
21. Poquelin, having renounced his father's trade, and having received a liberal education, entered, it is believed, on the study of the law; having been sent to Orleans for that purpose. 1645.
Ætat.
23. He returned to Paris, to commence his career of advocate; here he was led to associate with a few friends of the same rank, in getting up plays: by degrees he became wedded to the theatre; and when the private company resolved to become a public one, and to derive profit from their representations, he continued belong to it; and, according to the fashion of actors in those days assumed a new name—that of Molière. His father was displeased, and took every means to dissuade him from his new course; but the enthusiasm of Molière overcame all opposition. There is a story told, that one respectable friend, who was sent by his father to argue against the theatre, was seduced by the youth's arguments to adopt a taste for it, and led to turn comedian himself. His relations did not the less continue their opposition; they exiled him as it were from among them; and erased the most illustrious name in France for their genealogical tree. What would their tree be worth now did it not bear the name of Molière as its chief bloom, which more rare than the flower of the aloe, which blossoms once in a hundred years, has never had its match.

There were many admirable actors in Molière's time, chiefly however in comedy. There were the three, known in farce under the names of Gauthier Garguille, Turlupin, and Gros Guillaume, who in the end died tragically, through the effects of fear. Arlechino (Harlequin) and Scaramouche, both Italians, were however the favourites: the latter is said to have been Molière's master in the art of acting; and he never missed a representation at the Italian theatre when he could help it. The native comedy of the Italians gave him a taste for the true humour of comic situation and dialogue; and we owe to his well-founded predilection what we and the German cities (in contradistinction to the French, who judge always by rule and measure, and not by the amusement they receive, nor the genius displayed) prefer to his five act pieces. Nor was this the only source whence he derived instruction. The bustle and intrigue of the Spanish comedies had been introduced by Corneille in his translation of Lope de Vega's "Verdad Sospechosa." Corneille, however, made the character of the Liar, who is the hero, more prominent. Molière is said to have declared, that he owed his initiation into the true spirit of comedy from this play. He took the better part; rejecting the intrigue, disguises, and trap-doors, and discerning the great effect to be produced by a character happily and truly conceived, and then thrown into apposite situations.

There is much obscurity thrown over the earlier portion of Molière's life. We know the names of some of his company. There was Gros René, and his beautiful wife; there were the two Bejarts, brothers, whose excellent characters attached Molière to them, and Madeleine Bejart, their sister, a beautiful girl, the mistress of a gentleman of Modena—to whom Molière was also attached. Molière himself succeeded in the more farcical comic characters.

The disorders of the capital during the regency at the beginning of Louis XIV.'s reign, and the war of the Fronde, replunged France in barbarism; and torn by faction, the citizens of Paris had no leisure for the theatre.1646.
Ætat.
24. Molière and his troop quitted the city for the provinces, and among other places visited Bordeaux, where he was powerfully protected by the duc d'Epernon, governor of Guienne. It is said, that Molière wrote and brought out a tragedy, called "The Thebaid," in this town, which succeeded so ill, that he gave up the idea of composing tragic dramas, though his chief ambition was to succeed in that higher walk of his art. When we consider the impassioned and reflective disposition of Molière, we are not surprised at his desire to succeed in impersonating the nobler passions; we wonder rather how it was that he should have wholly failed in delineating such, while his greatest power resided in the talent for seizing and portraying the ridiculous.

After a tour in the provinces he returned to Paris. His former schoolfellow, the prince of Conti, renewed his acquaintance with him; and caused him and his company to bring out plays in his palace: and when this prince went to preside at the states of Languedoc, he invited them to visit him there.

1653.
Ætat.
31.

Finding Paris still too distracted by civil broils to encourage the theatre, Molière and his company left it for Lyons. Here he brought out his first piece, "L'Etourdi," which met with great and deserved success. We have an English translation, under the name of "Sir Martin Marplot," originally written by the celebrated duke of Newcastle, and adapted for the stage by Dryden; the French play, however, is greatly superior. In that the lover, Lelie, is only a giddy coxcomb, full of conceit and gaiety of heart. Sir Martin is a heavy plodding fool; and the mistakes we sympathise with, even while we laugh, when originating in mere youthful levity, excite our contempt when occasioned by dull obesity. Thus in the English play, the master appears too stupid to deserve his lady at last—and she is transferred to the servant; a catastrophe which must shock our manners; and we are far more ready to rejoice in the original, when the valet at last presents Celie, with her father's consent, to his master, asking him whether he could find a way even then to destroy his hopes.

The "Dépit Amoureux" followed, which is highly amusing. Although Molière improved afterwards, these first essays are nevertheless worthy his genius.

The company to which he belonged possessed great merit, both in public and private. We cannot expect to find strictness of moral conduct in French comedians, in an age when the manners of the whole country was corrupt, and civil war loosened still more the bonds of society, and produced a state characterised as being "a singular mixture of libertinism and sedition, rife with wars at once sanguinary and frivolous; when the magistrates girded on the sword, and bishops assumed a uniform; when the heroines of the court followed at once the camp and church processions, and factious wits made impromptus on rebellion, and composed madrigals on the field of battle." The war of the Fronde produced a state of license and intrigue: and of course it must be expected that such should be found in a company of strolling actors; to detail the loves of Molière at this time would excite little interest, except inasmuch as it would seem that he brought an affectionate heart and generous spirit, to ennoble what in a less elevated character would have been mere intrigue. Madeleine Bejart was a woman of talent as well as beauty; her brothers were men of good principles and conduct. The sort of liberal, friendly, and frank-hearted spirit that characterised the circle of friends, is well described in the autobiography of a singular specimen of the manners of those times. D'Assouçy was a sort of troubadour; a good musician, and an agreeable poet, who travelled from town to town, lute in hand, and followed by two pages, who took parts in his songs; gaining his bread, and squandering what he gained without forethought. At Lyons, he fell in with Molière, and the brothers Bejart. He continues: "The stage has charms, and I could not easily quit these delightful friends. I remained three months at Lyons, amidst plays and feasts, though I had better not have staid three days, for I met with various disasters in the midst of my amusements (he was stripped of all his money in a gambling-house.) Having heard that I should find a soprano voice at Avignon, whom I could engage to join me, I embarked on the Rhone with Molière, and arrived at Avignon with forty pistoles in my pocket, the relics of my wreck." He then goes on to state how he was stripped of this sum among gamblers and jews; and adds, "But a man is never poor while he has friends; and having Molière and all the family of Bejart as allies, I found myself, despite fortune and jews, richer and happier than ever; for these generous people were not satisfied by assisting me as friends, they treated me as a relation. When they were invited to the States, I accompanied them to Pezenas, and I cannot tell the kindness I received from all. They say that the fondest brother tires of a brother in a month; but these, more generous than all the brothers in the world, invited me to their table during the whole winter; and, though I was really their guest, I felt myself at home. I never saw so much kindness, frankness, or goodness, as among these people, worthy of being the princes whom they personated on the stage."

At Pezenas, to which place they were invited by the prince of Conti, Molière's company found a warm welcome and generous pay from the prince himself. Molière got up, for the prince's amusement, not only the two regular plays which he had written, but other farcical interludes, which became afterwards the groundwork of his best comedies. Among these were the "Le Docteur Pedant;[34]" "Gorgibus dans le Sac" (the forerunner of "La Fourberies de Scapin"); "Le grand Benet de Fils," who afterwards flourished as "Le Médecin malgré Lui;" "Le grand Benet de fils," who appears to have blossomed hereafter into Thomas Diafoirus, in the "Malade Imaginaire." There were also "Le Docteur Amoureux," "Le Maître d'École," and "La Jalousie de Barbouillé." All these farces perished. Boileau, notwithstanding his love for classical correctness, lamented their loss; as he said, there was always something spirited and animating in the slightest of Molière's works.

These theatrical amusements delighted the prince of Conti; and their author became such a favourite, that he offered him the place of his secretary, which Molière declined. We are told that the prince, with all his kindness of intention, was of such a tyrannical temper, that his late secretary had died in consequence of ill treatment, having been knocked down by the prince with the fire-tongs, and killed by the blow. We do not wonder, therefore, at Molière's refusing the glittering bait. And in addition to the independence of his spirit, he loved his art, and no doubt felt the workings of that genius which hereafter gave such splendid tokens of its existence, and which is ever obnoxious to the trammels of servitude.

He continued for some time in Languedoc and Provence, and formed a friendship at Avignon with Mignard, which lasted to the end of their lives, and to which we owe the spirited portrait of Molière, which represents to the life the eager, impassioned, earnest and honest physiognomy of this great man. As Paris became tranquil Molière turned his eyes thitherward, desirous of establishing his company in the metropolis. He went first to Grenoble and then to Rouen, where, after some negotiation and delay, and several journeys to Paris, he obtained the protection of monsieur, the king's brother; was presented by him to the king and queen-mother, and finally obtained permission to establish himself in the capital.

The rival theatre was at the Hôtel de Bourgogne; here Corneille's tragedies were represented by the best tragic actors of the time.[34] The first appearance of Molière's company before Louis XIV. and his mother, Anne of Austria, took place at the Louvre. "Nicomede" was the play selected; success attended the attempt, and the actresses in particular met with great applause. Yet even then Molière felt that his company could not compete with its rival in tragedy: when the curtain fell, therefore, he stepped forward, and, after thanking the audience for their kind reception, asked the king's leave to represent a little divertisement which had acquired a reputation in the provinces: the king assented; and the performers went on, to act "Le Docteur Amoureux" one those farces, several of which he had brought out in Languedoc, conceived in the Italian taste, full of buffoonery and bustle. The king was amused, and the piece succeeded; and hence arose the fashion of adding a short farce after a long serious play. The success also secured the establishment of his company; they acted at first at the Theatre du Petit Bourbon, and afterwards, when that theatre was taken down to give place to the new building of the colonnade of the Louvre, the king gave him that of the Palais Royal, and his company assumed the name of Comédiens de Monsieur.

Parisian society opened a new field for Molière's talents; subjects for ridicule multiplied around him. The follies which appeared most ludicrous were so nursed and fostered by the high-born and wealthy, that he almost feared to attack them. But they were too tempting. In addition to the amusement to be derived from exhibiting in its true colours an affectation the most laughable, he was urged by the hope of vanquishing by the arms of wit, a system of folly, which had taken deep root even with some of the cleverest men in France;—we allude to the coterie of the Hôtel de Rambouillet; and to the farce of the "Précieuses Ridicules," which entered the very sanctum, and caused irremediable disorder and flight to all the darling follies of the clique.

The society of the Hôtel de Rambouillet had a language and conduct all its own; these were embodied in the endless novels of mademoiselle Scuderi. Gallantry and love were the watchwords, and metaphysical disquisitions were the labours of the set. But these were not allowed to subsist in homely phrase or a natural manner. The euphuism of our Elizabethian coxcombs was tame and tropeless in comparison with the high flights of the heroes and heroines of the Hôtel de Rambouillet. All was done by rule; all adapted to a system. The lover had a regular map laid out, and he entered on his amorous journey, knowing exactly the stoppages he must make, and the course he must pass through on his way to the city of Tenderness, towards which he was bound. There was the village of Billets galans; the hamlet of Billets doux; the castle of Petits Soins; and the villa of Jolis Vers. After possessing himself of these, he still had to fear being forced to embark on the sea of Dislike, or the lake of Indifference; but if, on the contrary, he pushed off on the river of Inclination, he floated happily down to his bourne. Their language was a jargon, which, as Sir Walter Scott observes, in his "Essay on Molière," resembled a highlander's horse, hard to catch, and not worth catching. They gave enigmatic names to the commonest things, which to call by their proper appellations, was, as Molière terms it, du dernier bourgeois. When an "innocent accomplice of a falsehood" was mentioned, a Précieuse (they themselves adopted and gloried in this name; Molière only added ridicules, to turn the blow a little aside from the centre of the target at which he aimed) could, without a blush, understand that a night-cap was the subject of conversation; water with them was too vulgar unless dignified as celestial humidity; a thief could be mentioned when designated as an inconvenient hero; and a lover won his mistress's applause when he complained of her disdainful smile, as "a sauce of pride."

Purity of feeling however was the soul of the system. Authors and poets were admitted as admirers, but they never got beyond the villa of Jolis Vers. When Voiture, who had glorified Julie d'Angennes his life-long, ventured to kiss her hand, he was thrown from the fortifications of the castle of Petit Soins, and soused into the lake of Indifference: even her noble admirer, the duke Montauzier, was forced to paddle on the river of Inclination, for fourteen years[35], before he was admitted to the city of Tenderness, and allowed to make her his wife. Their style of life was as eccentric as their talk. The lady rose in the morning, dressed herself with elegance, and then went to bed. The French bed, placed in an alcove, had a passage round it, called the ruelle; to be at the top of the ruelle was the post of honour; and Voiture, under the title of Alcovist, long held this envied post, beside the pillow of his adored Julie, while he never was allowed to touch her little finger. The folly had its accompanying good. The respect which the women exacted, and the virtue they preserved, exalted them, and in spite of their high-flown sentiments, and metaphysical conceits, wits did not disdain to "put a soul into the body of" nonsense. Rochefoucauld, Menage, madame de Sévigné, madame Des Houillères, Balzac, Vaugelas, and others, frequented the Hôtel de Rambouillet, and lent the aid of their talents to dignify their galimathias.

But it was too much for the honest comic poet to bear. He perceived the whole of society infected—nobles and prelates, ladies and poets, marquisses and lacqueys, all wandered about the Pays de Tendre, lost in a very labyrinth of inextricable nonsense. They assumed fictitious names[36], they promulgated fictitious sentiments; they admired each other, according as they best succeeded in being as unnatural as possible. Molière stripped the scene and personages of their gilding in a moment. His fair Précieuses were the daughters of a bourgeois named Gorgibus, who quitted their homely names of Cathos and Madelon, for Aminte and Polixene, dismissed their admirers for proposing to marry them, scolded their father for not possessing le bel air des choses, and are taken in by two valets whom they believe to be nobles, who easily imitate the foppery and sentimentalism, which these young ladies so much admire.[37]

1659.
Ætat.
37.

The success of the piece was complete—from that moment the Hôtel de Rambouillet talked sense. Menage says: "I was at the first representation of the "Précieuses Ridicules" of Molière, at the Petit Bourbon, mademoiselle de Rambouillet, madame de Grignan, M. Chapelain, and others, the select society of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, were there. The piece was acted with general applause; and for my own part I was so delighted that I saw at once the effect that it would produce. Leaving the theatre, I took M. Chapelain by the hand, and said We have been used to approve all the follies so well and wittily satirised in this piece; but believe me, as St. Remy said to king Clovis—'We must burn what we have adored, and adore what we have burnt.' It happened as I predicted, and we gave up this bombastic nonsense from the time of the first representation." A better victory could not have been gained by comic poet: to it may be said to have been added another. While the Précieuses yielded to the blow, unsophisticated minds enjoyed the wit: in the midst of the piece, an old man cried out suddenly from the pit, "Courage, Molière, this is true comedy!" The author himself felt that he had been inspired by the spirit of comic drama. That this consisted in a true picture of the follies of society, idealised and grouped by the fancy, but in every part in accordance with nature. He became aware, that he had but to examine the impression made on himself, and to embody the conceptions they suggested to his mind. As he went on writing, he in each new piece made great and manifest improvement. "Sganarelle" was his next effort: it is, perhaps, not in his best taste; it is like a tale of the Italian novelists—that the husband's misfortune had existence in his fancy only is the author's best excuse.

1661.
Ætat.
39.

Success ought to have taught Molière to abide by comedy, and to become aware that a quick sense of the ridiculous, and a happy art in the scenic representation of it, was the bent of his genius. But a desire to succeed in a more elevated and tragic style still pursued him. He brought out "Don Garcie de Navarre," a very poor play, unsuccessful in its début, and afterwards so despised by the author as not to be comprised in his edition of his works. He quickly dissipated this cloud, however, by bringing out "L'École des Maris," one of his best comedies.

The splendours of the reign of Louis XIV. were now beginning to shine out in all their brilliancy. The first attempt, however, at a fête—superior in magnificence, originality, and beauty to any thing the world had yet seen—was made, not by the king himself. In an evil hour for himself, Fouquet, the minister of finances, got leave to entertain royalty at his villa, or rather palace of Vaux. Blinded by prosperity, this unfortunate man thought to delight the king by the splendor of his entertainment; he awoke indeed a desire to do the like in Louis's mind, but he gave the final blow to his own fortunes, already undermined. Fouquet had admired mademoiselle de la Vallière; he had expressed his admiration, and sought return with the insolence of command rather than the solicitations of tenderness: he was rejected with disdain. His mortification made him suspect another more successful lover: he discovered the hidden and mutual passion of the king and the beautiful girl; and, with the most unworthy meanness, he threatened her with divulging the secret; and added the insolence of an epigram on her personal appearance. La Vallière informed her royal lover of the discovery which Fouquet had made—and his fall was resolved on.

The minister had lavished wealth, taste, and talent on his fête. Le Brun painted the scenes; Le Nôtre arranged the architectural decorations; La Fontaine wrote verses for the occasion; Molière not only repeated his "École des Maris," but brought out a new species of entertainment: a ballet was prepared, of the most magnificent description; but, as the principal dancers had to vary their characters and dresses in the different scenes, that the stage might not be left empty and the audience get weary with waiting, he composed a light sketch, called "Les Fâcheux" (our unclassical word bore is the only translation), in which a lover, who has an assignation with his mistress, is perpetually interrupted by a series of intruders, who each call his attention to some subject that fills their minds, and is at once indifferent and annoying to him. A novel sort of amusement added therefore charms to luxury and feasting; but the very perfection of the scene awoke angry feelings in Louis's mind: he saw a portrait of La Vallière in the minister's cabinet, and was roused to jealous rage: disdaining to express this feeling, he pretended another cause of displeasure, saying that Fouquet must have been guilty of peculation, to afford so vast an expenditure. He would have caused him to be arrested on the instant, had not his mother stopped him, by exclaiming, "What, in the midst of an entertainment which he gives you!"

Louis accordingly delayed his revenge. A glittering veil was drawn over the reality. With courtly ease he concealed his resentment by smiles; and, while meditating the ruin of the master and giver of the feast, entered with an apparently unembarrassed mind on the enjoyment of the scene. He was particularly pleased with "Les Fâcheux;" but, while he was expressing his approbation to Molière, he saw in the crowd Grand Veneur, or great huntsman to the king, a Nimrod devoted to the chase; and he said, pointing to him, "You have omitted one bore." On this Molière went to work; he called on M. de Soyecourt, slily engaged him in one of his too ready narrations of a chase; and, on the following evening, the lover had added to his other bores a courtier, who insists on relating the history of a long hunting-match in which he was engaged. English followers of the field find ample scope for ridicule in this scene, which in their eyes contrasts the rules of French sport most ludicrously with their more manly mode of running down the game. Another more praiseworthy effort to please and flatter the king in this piece was the introducing an allusion to Louis's efforts to abolish the practice of duelling.

The success of Molière and his talent naturally led to his favor among the great. The great Condé delighted in his society; and with the delicacy of a noble mind told him, that, as he feared to trespass on his time inopportunely if he sent for him; he begged Molière when at leisure to bestow an hour on him to send him word, and he would gladly receive him. Molière obeyed; and the great Condé at such times dismissed his other visitors to receive the poet, with whom he said he never conversed without learning something new. Unfortunately this example was not followed by all. Many little-minded persons regarded with disdain a man stigmatised with the name of actor, while others presumed insolently on their rank. The king generously took his part on these occasions. The anecdotes indeed which displays Louis's sympathy for Molière are among the most agreeable that we have of that monarch, and are far more deserving of record than the puerilities which Racine has commemorated. When brutally assaulted by a duke, the king reproved the noble severely. Madame Campan tells a story still more to this monarch's honour. Molière continued to exercise his functions of royal valet de chambre, but was the butt of many impertinences on account of his being an actor. Louis heard that the other officers of his chamber refused to eat with him, which caused Molière to abstain from sitting at their table. The king, resolved to put an end to these insults, said one morning, "I am told you have short commons here, Molière, and that the officers of my chamber think you unworthy of sharing their meals. You are probably hungry, I always get up with a good appetite; sit at that table where they have placed my en cas de nuit" (refreshment, prepared for the king in case he should be hungry in the night, and called an en cas.) The king cut up a fowl; made Molière sit down, gave him a wing, and took one himself, just at the moment when the doors were thrown open, and the most distinguished persons court entered, "You see me," said the king, "employed in giving Molière his breakfast, as my people do not find him good enough company for themselves." From this time Molière did not need to put himself forward, he received invitations on all sides. Not less delicate was the attention paid him by the poet Bellocq. It was one of the functions of Molière's place, to make the king's bed; the other valets drew back, averse to sharing the task with an actor; Bellocq stept forward, saying, "Permit me, M. Molière, to assist you in making the king's bed."