Chapter III: Part 3

"Rodogune," which succeeded, is (with the lamentable defect of the unlucky unity of time and place) more like a Spanish or an English play than any other of Corneille's, except the "Cid." The very intricacy and faults of the plot, founded, as it is, on some old forgotten tale, give it the same wild romantic interest. Corneille, indeed, says he took the story from Appian and other historical sources; but, as the tale existed, perhaps he saw that first, and then consulted the ancient authorities. Voltaire, in his remarks, scarcely knows what to say to it. It succeeded brilliantly, kept possession of the stage, and always ranks as one of Corneille's best tragedies. He is forced, therefore, to acknowledge its merit, although the fault in the conduct and story struck him forcibly. He repeats, perpetually, "The pit was pleased; so we must allow this play to have merit, though there is so much in it to shock an enlightened critic." Corneille himself favoured this tragedy with particular regard. "I have often been asked at court," he says, "which of my poems I preferred; and I found all those who questioned me so partial either to 'Cinna or the 'Cid,' that I never dared declare all the tenderness I felt for this one, to which I would willingly have given my suffrage, had I not feared to fail in some degree in the respect I owed to those who inclined the other way. My preference is, perhaps, the result of one of those blind partialities which fathers sometimes feel for one child rather than another: perhaps some self-love mingles with it, since this tragedy seems to me more entirely my own than any of its predecessors, on account of its surprising incidents, which are all my own invention, and which had never before been witnessed on the stage; and, finally, perhaps a little real merit renders this partiality not entirely unjust." Fontenelle mentions, as another cause for it, the labour he bestowed; since he spent a year in meditating the subject. There might be another reason, to which neither Corneille nor his biographer allude--that this play occasioned him a triumph over a rival. Gilbert brought out a tragedy on the same subject a few months before: as it is acknowledged that Corneille's was written first, he, perhaps, heard of the subject, and took the details from the novel in question. However that may be, Gilbert's play was never acted a second time; yet it met with powerful patrons in its fall, and was published, with a flourishing dedication to the king's brother; but nothing could preserve it from oblivion. The German critics are particularly severe on "Rodogune," and with some justice: there is want of nature in the situations and sentiments; we are attached to none of the characters; and the heroine herself is utterly insignificant.

Corneille had now reached the acme of his fame. Other plays succeeded, which did not deserve the name of tragedies, but ought, as Voltaire remarks, to be entitled heroic comedies.[16] These pieces were of unequal merit; having here and there traces of the great master's hand, but defective as wholes. Usually, he introduces one character of power and interest that elevates them, and which, when filled by a good actor, rendered them successful; but they were not hailed with the enthusiasm that attended his earlier plays. The great Condé looked cold on "Don Sancho," and it was heard of no more; while the fastidious taste of the French revolted from the subject of "Theodore." Worse overthrow was in store. "Pertharite," founded on a Lombard story, failed altogether; and its ill fortune, he tells us, so disgusted him as to induce him to retreat entirely from the theatre. He turned his thoughts to other works. He wrote his "Essays on the Theatre," which contain much acute and admirable criticism; though, like all French writers on that subject, he misses the real subject of discussion. He translated, also, the "Imitation of Jesus Christ" into French--being persuaded to this design by the jesuits. He fails, as our poets are apt to fail, when they versify the psalms; the dignified simplicity of the original being lost in the frippery of modern rhyme.

It had been happy for Corneille had he adhered to his resolves to write no more for the theatre. But M. Fouquet, the celebrated and unfortunate minister of finances to Louis XIV., caused him to break it. Fouquet begged him to dramatise one of three subjects which he mentioned. Corneille chose Œdipus, "Its success," he writes, "compensated to me for the failure of the other; since the king was sufficiently pleased to cause me to receive solid testimonials of his satisfaction; and I took his liberality as a tacit order to consecrate to the amusement of his majesty all the invention and power which age and former labours had spared." This was a melancholy resolve--his subsequent plays were not worthy of their predecessors. They contain fine scenes and eloquent passages; but a hard dry spirit crept over him, which caused him to mistake exaggerated sentiments for nobleness of soul. The plots, also, were bad; the conduct enfeebled by uninteresting episodes, or by the worse expedient of giving the hero himself some under amatory interest that lowered him entirely. Voltaire remarks, "Corneille's genius was still in force. He ought to have been severe on himself, or to have had severe friends. A man capable of writing fine scenes might have written a good play. It was a great misfortune that no one told him that he chose his subjects badly." It is sad to be obliged to make excuses for genius. No doubt Corneille failed in invention as he grew older. His former power of boldness and felicity of expression often shed rays of light upon his feebler works; but he could no longer conceive a whole, whose parts should be harmonious, whose entire effect should be sublime.

The bounty of the king in bestowing a pension on him, it is probable, was one cause of his establishing himself in Paris, and his brother's recent success as a dramatist a yet more urgent one. Hitherto Corneille had resided at Rouen, visiting the capital only at intervals, when he brought out any new play. In 1642 he had been elected member of the French academy; but that circumstance caused no change in his mode of life. He was not formed to shine at court, nor in the gay Parisian circles. Simple, almost rustic, in his manners and appearance, his genius was not discernible to the casual observer. "The first time I saw him," says a writer of the day, "I took him for a merchant of Rouen--his exterior gave no token of his talents, and he was slow, and even dull, in conversation." Corneille certainly neglected the refinements of society too much; or, rather, nature, who had been so liberal to him in rich gifts, had withheld minor ones. When his familiar friends, who desired to see him perfect, spoke to him of his defects, he replied with a smile, "I am not the less Pierre Corneille." La Bruyère bears the same testimony: "Simple and timid; tiresome in conversation--he uses one word for another--he knows not how to recite his own verses."[17]

In truth, Corneille's merit did not, as with many Frenchmen, lie on the surface. Conscious of his own desert, ambitious of glory, proud, yet shy, he shrunk from society where all excellence is despised that does not sparkle and amuse. We are inclined to believe from these considerations that his migration to Paris is attributable rather to his brother than to himself.

Thomas Corneille was twenty years the junior. The brothers had married two sisters of the name of De Lampériere, between whom existed the same difference of age. The family was united by all the bonds of affection and virtue. Their property, even, was in common; and it was not until after Corneille's death that the inheritance of their wives was divided, and that each sister received her share. The brothers were fondly attached, and lived under the same roof. We are told that Thomas wrote verses with much greater facility than Pierre, and he well might, considering what his verses are; and, when Pierre wanted a rhyme, he opened a trap door communicating with his brother's room, and asked him to give one. Nor was Pierre less attached to his sister, to whom he was accustomed to read his pieces when written. She had good taste and an enlightened judgment, and was worthy of her relationship to the poet.

Thomas Corneille had lately met with success in the same career as his brother. His play of "Timocrates" was acted for six months together; and the king went to the unfashionable theatre of the Marais, at which it was brought out, for the purpose of seeing it. Nothing could be more dissimilar than the productions of the brothers. Thomas Corneille had merit, and one or two of his plays ("Le Comte d'Essex" in particular) kept possession of the stage: he had, however, knack instead of genius. He could contrive interesting situations to amuse the audience; but his verses are tame, his dialogue trivial, his conceptions altogether mediocre. Still, in its day, success is success, and, under its influence, the younger Corneille aspired to the delights of a brilliant career in the capital.

[Sidenote: 1662. Ætat. 56.]

The establishment of the family in Paris is ascertained by a procuration or power of attorney given by the brothers, empowering a cousin to manage their affairs at Rouen. Corneille seemed to feel the change as a new spur to exertion; but, unfortunately, invention no longer waited on industry, as of old. Considering it his duty to write for the stage, he brought out piece after piece, in which he mistook involved intrigue for interest, crime on stilts for heroism, and declamation for passion. His tragedies fell coldly on the public ear; and, as he could not understand why this should he, he always alleges some trivial circumstance as the cause of his ill success; for, having laboured as sedulously as in his early plays, he was insensible to the fact, that arid though pompous dialogues were substituted for sublime eloquence. Boileau's epigram on these unfortunate testimonies of decayed genius is well known:--when the wits of Paris repeated after him:

"J'ai vu l'Agésilas;
Hélas!
Mais après Attila,
Hola!"

Corneille might well regret that he had not persevered in the silence to which he condemned himself when Pertharite failed.

A young rival also sprung up--a rival whose graceful diction, whose impassioned tenderness, and elegant correctness, are the delight of French critics to this day. Yet, though Voltaire and others have set Racine far above Corneille, and though Saint Evremond wrote at the time that the advanced age of Corneille no longer alarmed him, since the French drama would not die with him, the younger poet's superiority was by no means universally acknowledged in his own time. Corneille had a party who still adhered to their early favourite, and called Racine's elegance feebleness, compared with the rough sublimity of the father of the art. "Racine writes agreeably," says madame de Sévigné, in a letter to her daughter; "but there is nothing absolutely beautiful, nothing sublime--none of those tirades of Corneille which thrill. We must never compare him with Racine; but be aware of the difference. We must excuse Corneille's bad verses in favour of those divine and sublime beauties which fill us with transport--these are traits of genius which are quite inimitable. Despréaux says even more than me,--in a word, this is good taste; let us preserve it." If, therefore, Corneille had ceased to write, if he had let his nobler tragedies remain as trophies of past victory, and not aimed at new, he might have held a proud position, guarded by numerous partisans, who exalted him far above his rival. But he continued to write, and he was unsuccessful--thus it became a living struggle, in which he had the worst. He did not like to appear envious: he felt what he said, and he said justly, that Racine's Greek or Mahometan heroes were but Frenchmen with ancient or Turkish names; but he was aware that this remark might be considered invidious. Yet he could not conceal his opinion, nor the offence he took, when Racine transplanted a verse from the Cid into his comedy of The "Plaideurs"--

"Ses rides sur son front ont gravés ses exploits."

"It ill becomes a young man," he said, "to make game of other people's verses." It was still worse when he was seduced into what the French have named a duel with Racine. Henrietta, daughter of our Charles I., wife of the brother of Louis XIV., was a principal patroness of men of genius;--her talents, her taste, her accomplishments; the generosity and kindness of her disposition, made her respected and loved. Louis and she had been attached to one another; their mutual position forced them to subdue the passion; but their triumph over it was not achieved without struggles, which, no doubt, appeared romantic and even tragical to the poor princess. She wished this combat to be immortalised; and, finding in the loves and separation of Titus and Berenice a similarity with her own fate, she deputed the marquis de Dangeau to engage Corneille and Racine, unknown to one another, each to write a tragedy on this subject--not a very promising one at best--and still more difficult on the French stage, where the catastrophe alone forms the piece. But Racine conquered these difficulties;--tenderness and truth of passion interested in place of incident--the audience wept--and criticism was mute. Corneille floundered miserably: love with him is always an adjunct and an episode, but not the whole subject: it helps as a motive--it is never the end. He fancied that his young rival was angry with him for competing with him; and he gave signs of a querulousness which he had no right to feel[18]; but there is something so _naïve_ in his self praises, and such ingenuousness in his repinings, that we look on them as traits portraying the simplicity and singleness of his character, rather than as marks of vanity or invidiousness.

After "Berenice," he wrote two other plays, "Pulcherie" and "Surena," and then, happily, gave up composition. Though he saw the pieces of his young rival hailed with delight, he had the gratification of knowing that his own _chef-d'œuvres_ were often acted with applause, that the best critics regarded them with enthusiasm, and that his position was firmly established as the father of French tragedy. He lived to a considerable age; and his mind became enfeebled during the last year of his life. He died on the 1st September, 1584, in the seventy-ninth year of his age.

There is a harmony between the works of Corneille and his character, which his contemporaries, who appreciated only the brilliant, mistook, but which strikes forcibly. He was proud and reserved. Though his dedications are phrased according to the adulatory ceremonial of the day, his conduct was always dignified and independent. He seldom appeared at court, where his lofty, though simple, character found nothing to attract. He was, besides, careless of the gifts of fortune: he detested the cares of property, shrinking, with terror, from such details. Serious, and even melancholy, trifles had no charms for him: dramatic composition absorbed his whole thoughts; his studies tended to improvement in that vocation only. Strait-forward and simple in manner,--his person, though tall, was heavy--his face was strongly marked and expressive--his eyes full of fire,--there was something in the whole man that bespoke strength, not grace--yet a strength full of dignity.

His fortunes were low. The trifling pension allowed him by Cardinal Richelieu expired with that minister. Many years afterwards, Louis XIV. granted him a pension of 2000 francs as the first dramatic poet of the world. He was wholly indifferent to gain; the actors paid him what they pleased for his pieces; he never called them to account. He lived frugally, but had little to live on. A few days before his death his family were in considerable straits for want of money, and the king, hearing of this, sent him 200 louis.

In these traits, recorded chiefly by his brother and his nephew, Fontenelle, we see the genuine traces of a poet. Of a man whose heart is set on the ideal, and whose mind is occupied by conceptions engendered within itself--to whom the outward world is of slight account, except as it influences his imagination or excites his affections. The political struggles and civil wars, in which his youth was spent, gave a sort of republican loftiness to his mind, energy without fierceness, somewhat at variance with the French character.

Once, on entering a theatre at Paris, after a longer retreat than usual in his native town, the actors stopped short: the great Condé, the prince of Conti, together with the whole audience, rose: the acclamation was general and long continued. Such flattering testimonials embarrassed a man modest by nature, and unused to make a show of himself; but they evince the generous spirit of his country. Marks of veneration followed his death.

His character commanded and met with respect. He had long been the eldest member of the academy: on his death his brother was elected to succeed him. Racine contended for the honour of receiving the new academician; on which occasion it was the custom to make a speech in praise of the late member whose place the new one took. Racine's eulogy on Corneille met with great applause, and he recited it a second time before the king. He spoke with enthusiasm of his merits, and, in particular, of "a certain strength, a certain elevation, which transports, and renders his very defects, if he had any, more venerable than the excellence of others." This testimony was honourable to Racine, who had, indeed, so heartfelt an appreciation of his best passages, that, although he interdicted dramas and poetry from his children, he caused them to learn, and taught them to admire, various scenes in Corneille. Many years after Voltaire discovered a descendant of the great poet[19]: he spread the discovery abroad; he invited the young lady to Ferney as to her home; and published for her benefit his two volumes of commentary on her great ancestor's works. This commentary has been found fault with for the degree of blame it contains. Voltaire says himself, he wrote it chiefly to instruct future dramatic poets, and he was sincere in his views, even if he were mistaken. It is chiefly remarkable for the extent of its verbal criticism, and his earnest endeavour to banish all familiar expressions from tragic dialogue, thus rendering French tragedies more factitious than ever. It is strange to remark the different genius of various languages. We endeavour perpetually to bring back ours to the familiar and antique Saxon. We regard our translation of the Bible as a precious treasure, even in this light, being a source to which all good writers resort for true unadulterated English. It has been remarked that the sublimest passages of our greatest poets are written in _short words_, that is, in Anglo-Saxon, or pure English. While Voltaire, on the contrary, tried to substitute words unused in conversation, strangers to the real living expression of passion, and which give a factitious and false air, peculiar to the French buskin, and alien to true elevation of language.

So much has been said of Corneille's tragedies in the preceding pages that we need scarcely revert to them. He originated the French theatre. It was yet in the block when he took up his artist-tools. We grieve at the mistakes he made--mistakes, as to the structure of the drama, confirmed by subsequent writers, which mark classic French tragedy as an artificial and contracted offspring of a school, instead of being the free and genuine child of nature and genius. Corneille's originality, however, often bursts through these trammels: he has more truth and simplicity than any of his successors, and, as well as being the father of the French drama, we may name him the most vigorous and sublime poet that France has produced.

[Footnote 12:
"J'ai brûlé fort longtemps d'une amour assez grande,
Et que jusqu'au tombeau je dois bien estimer,
Puisque ce fut par-là que j'appris à rimer.
Mon bonheur commença quand mon ame fut prise.
Je gagnai de la gloire en perdant ma franchise.
Charmé de deux beaux yeux, mon vers charma la cour;
Et ce que j'ai de nom je le dois à l'amour.
J'adorai donc Phylis, et la secrète estime
Que ce divin esprit faisait de notre rime.
Me fit devenir poète aussitôt qu'amoureux:
Elle eut mes premiers vers, elle eut mes premiers feux,
Et bien que maintenant cette belle inhumaine
Traite mon souvenir avec un peu de haine,
Je me trouve toujours en état de l'aimer;
Je me sens tout ému quand je l'entends nommer;
Et par le doux effet d'une prompte tendresse,
Mon cœur, sans mon aveu, reconnaît sa maîtresse.
Après beaucoup de vœux et de soumissions,
Un malheur rompt le cours de nos affections;
Mais tout mon amour en elle consommée,
Je ne vois rien d'aimable après l'avoir aimée;
Aussi n'aimé-je plus, et nul objet vainqueur
N'a possédé depuis ma veine ni mon cœur."]

CORNEILLE.--Poésies Diverses.]

[Footnote 13: See Voltaire's preface to his Commentary on the Cid, and also the admirable account of Guillen de Castro, by Lord Holland.]

[Footnote 14: Voltaire says that he gives the cardinal credit for good faith in this remark, since he saw and felt the defects of the "Cid." Voltaire was himself accused of envy on account of the mass of criticism he accumulated on Corneille, and was glad to show toleration for that which he desired to be tolerated. Both, probably, were sincere in their blame. The question is, how far covert envy (unacknowledged even to themselves) opened their eyes to defects, which otherwise had passed unnoticed.]

[Footnote 15: Fontenelle.]

[Footnote 16: It is curious enough that such pieces often replace the higher tragedy with great effect in days when poetry is at a low ebb, and an audience desires rather to be amused than deeply moved. Such at this time are the delightful dramas of Sheridan Knowles, such the charming "Lady of Lyons," which portray the serious romance of real life, and impart the interest of situation and character, without pretending to the sublime terrors or pathos of heroic tragedy.]

[Footnote 17: Corneille gives much the same account of himself in some verses written in his youth, and which he calls a slight picture of himself:--

"En matière d'amour je suis fort inégal;
J'en écris assez bien, et le fais assez mal;
J'ai la plume féconde, et la bouche sterile:
Bon galant au théâtre, et fort mauvais en ville;
Et l'on peut rarement m'écouter sans ennui;
Que quand je me produis par la bouche d'autrui."]

[Footnote 18: See his "Excuse à Arioste." In another place he says,--

"Si mes quinze lustres
Font encore quelque peine aux modernes illustres;
S'il en est de fâcheux jusqu'à se chagriner,
Je n'aurai pas longtemps à les importuner."]

[Footnote 19: Corneille had three sons: two entered the army; the third became an ecclesiastic; one fell at the battle of Grave, in 1677; they all died without posterity. He had one daughter, from whom descended the family of Guenebaud.]

ROCHEFOUCAULD

1613-1680

Grimm, in his correspondence, records, that it was a saying of d'Alembert, that, in life, "Ce n'est qu'heur et malheur," that it was all luck or ill luck. The same thing may be said of many books; and, perhaps, of none more than that which has given literary celebrity to François, duke de la Rochefoucauld. The experience of a long life, spent for the most part in the very nucleus of the intrigues of party and the artifices of a court, reduced into sententious maxims, affords food for curiosity, while it flatters our idleness. The most indolent person may read a maxim, and ponder on its truth, and be led to meditate, without any violent exertion of mind. In addition, knowledge of the world, as it is called, always interests. Voltaire says of the "Maxims," "Though there is but one truth in this collection, which is that self-love is the motive of all, yet this thought is presented under such various aspects that it is always impressive. If we considered the pervading opinion of the book theoretically, we might be inclined to parody this remark, and say, "though there is but one multiformed falsehood in this collection,"--but we defer our consideration of the principles of this work till we have given an account of its author, who was no obscure man, meditating the lessons of wisdom in solitude, but the leader of a party, a soldier, a man of gallantry and of fashion; one such as is only produced, in its perfection, in a society highly cultivated; yet the foundations of his character were thrown in times of ignorance and turbulence."

The family of La Rochefoucauld is one of the noblest in France: it ranks equal with that of the sovereign, and enjoyed almost monarchical power when residing on its own possessions; while its influence might give preponderance to the party it espoused, and even shake the throne. François, the eldest son of the duke then in possession, was born at his paternal castle of Rochefoucauld, in Angoumois, in 1613, two years subsequent to the assassination of Henry IV. He grew up, therefore, during the reign of Louis XIII., and first came to court during the height of cardinal de Richelieu's power. His education had been neglected. Madame de Maintenon said of him, in after times, that "his physiognomy was prepossessing, his demeanour dignified; that he had great talent, and little knowledge." We have no details of his early life at court. He was the friend of the duchess de Chevreuse, favourite of the queen, Anne of Austria; and, when this lady was banished, the family of la Rochefoucauld fell into disgrace, and retired to the shelter of their estates.

But a few years before the nobles of France possessed greater power than the king himself. The short reign and wise administration of Henry IV. and Sully had infused a somewhat better spirit into the body politic of the kingdom than that which for forty years had torn the country with civil war; but the happy effects of that prosperous period were obliterated on the accession of Louis XIII. After a series of struggles, however, Richelieu became prime minister; and with unflinching courage, and resolute and merciless policy, he proceeded to crush the nobility, and to raise the monarchical power (invested, it may be said, in his own person,) into absolute rule. The nobles in those days did not plot to supplant each other in the favour of their royal master, nor to gain some place near the royal person; they aimed at supremacy over the king himself: reluctantly, and not without struggles that cost the lives and fortunes of many of the chief among them, did the nobles yield to the despotism of Richelieu. The mother of their sovereign was banished; his brother disgraced; his queen enslaved; the prisons filled with victims; the provinces with exiles; the blood of many flowed: the cardinal reigned secure, and the power of the contending nobles was reduced to feudal command in their own domains.

At length Richelieu died; and, for a moment, his vanquished enemies fancied that their turn was come for acquiring dominion. The state prisons were thrown open; the exiles hastened to return. The friends of the family of la Rochefoucauld wrote to advise them to appear at court. The reigning duke and his sons immediately followed this counsel.[20] [Sidenote: 1642. Ætat. 29.] His eldest son was called prince de Marsillac: his name and person were well known as the friend of the duchess of Chevreuse, and as a favourite of Anne of Austria. He has left us an account of that period, in which he details the high hopes of his party and subsequent disappointment.

"The persecution I had suffered," he writes[21], "during the power of the cardinal de Richelieu, having finished with his life, I thought it right to return to court. The ill health of the king, and the disinclination that he manifested to confide his children and kingdom to the queen, made me hope that I might soon find important occasions for serving her, and of giving her, in the present state of things, the same marks of attachment which she had received from me on all occasions when her interests, and those of madame de Chevreuse, were in opposition to those of cardinal de Richelieu. I arrived at court; and found it as submissive to his will after his death as during his life. His relations and his creatures continued to enjoy all the advantages they had gained through him; and by a turn of fortune, of which there are few examples, the king, who hated him, and desired his fall, was obliged, not only to conceal his sentiments, but even to authorise the disposition made by the cardinal in his will of the principal employments and most important places in his kingdom. He chose cardinal Mazarin to succeed him in the government. Nevertheless, as the health of the king was deplorable, there was a likelihood that every thing would soon change, and that, the queen or monsieur (the duke of Orleans, brother to Louis XIII.) acquiring the regency, they would revenge on the followers of Richelieu the outrages they had received from himself."

Affairs, however, took a very different turn. Mazarin and others, the creatures of and successors to Richelieu, were less arrogant, less ambitious, and less resolute than their master. They were willing to acquire power by allying themselves to the adverse party. Mazarin, in particular, felt that, on the death of Louis XIII., he should not possess influence enough to cope with the persons who, by rank, were destined to the regency; and he perceived, at once, that it was his best policy to become the friend, instead of the rival, of the queen and the duke of Orleans. Anne of Austria saw safety in encouraging him in this conduct. Mazarin grew into a favourite, and supplanted those who had stood by her during her years of adversity. Thus, while the surface of things appeared the same, the spirit was changed. Rochefoucauld saw that the queen entertained new views and new partialities, and was supported by the same party by which she had been hitherto oppressed. As her friend, he perceived the advantages she gained by this line of conduct, and, by prudent concessions, retained her regard. When the king died, and she became regent, Mazarin had made himself necessary to her, for it was by his policy that the other members of the council of the regency were reduced to insignificance; so that the queen, entirely attached to him, anticipated with something of aversion the reappearance of madame de Chevreuse, who, on the death of Louis XIII., hastened 1643 to return to Paris. [Sidenote: 1643. Ætat. 30.] The prince of Marsillac perceived her apprehensions, and asked her permission to meet madame de Chevreuse on her way, which the queen readily granted, hoping that the prince would dispose her former friend to seek the friendship of Mazarin. This was, indeed, Marsillac's purpose: he gave the fallen favourite the best advice that prudence could suggest, and the duchess promised to follow it. In this she failed. She fancied that she could supplant the cardinal in the queen's favour; she acted with arrogance; and her imprudence insured her ruin.

_Le bon temps de la régence_ followed. For five years France enjoyed external and internal prosperity. The former was insured by the battle of Rocroi, and other successes, obtained by the prince of Condé and Turenne, against the power of Spain. The latter was more fallacious. The intrigues, cabals, and dissensions of the court were carried on with virulence. Manners became every day more and more corrupt--the gulf between Mazarin and his antagonists wider. We have little trace of Marsillac's conduct during this interval. He followed the campaigns, and served gallantly in several actions. He was present at the siege of Mardike, in which he was wounded in the shoulder, which obliged him to return to Paris. He bought the governorship of Poitou, and took up his residence there. He visited Paris, but want of money prevented his remaining. His secretary, Gourville, lets us into a view of the corruption of the times, when he details how he enriched his master by only obtaining from Emery, the comptroller of the finances, a man of low extraction, whose extortion, luxuriousness, and debauchery disgusted the nation, a passport for a thousand tons of wheat, to be brought from Poitou to the capital; and the profit he gained by this transaction enabled the prince, to his infinite joy, to remain in Paris.

There can be little doubt that, at this time, he had immersed himself in political intrigue. Madame de Chevreuse was again banished; but affairs had taken another and more important aspect than mere intrigues and disputes among courtiers for royal favour. The extravagance of the court, and corruption of the times, had thrown the finances into disorder; and every means most subversive of the prosperity of the people, and of justice, was resorted to by Emery to supply the royal treasury. The consequence was universal discontent. Parliament resisted the court by its decrees; the populace of Paris supported parliament; and a regular system of resistance to the regent and her minister was formed. This opposition received the name of the Fronde: the persons who formed it were called Frondeurs. These were bent, the duke de la Rochefoucauld tells us, in his memoirs, on arresting the course of the calamities at hand; having the same object, though urged by a different motive, as those who were instigated by hatred of the cardinal. [Sidenote: 1648. Ætat. 35.] At first the remonstrances of parliament, and the opposition of the court, was a war of words only; but when the court, enraged at any opposition to its will, proceeded to arrest three principal members of parliament, the people of Paris rose in a body; the day of the barricades ensued, the members were set free, and the court forced to yield.

But the tumults did not end here: the celebrated De Retz, then coadjutor to the archbishop of Paris, who saw his towering ambition crushed by the distrust of the court, resolved to make himself feared; and, instead of permitting the spirit of sedition in the capital to subside, he excited it to its utmost. It became necessary for him, in the system of opposition that ensued, to secure some prince of the blood at the head of his party. His eyes turned towards the great Condé; but he continued faithful to the queen: the coadjutor was, therefore, forced to centre his hopes in this prince's younger brother, the prince of Conti. Rochefoucauld gives an account, in his memoirs, of the winning over of this prince. "The prince of Conti," he writes, "was ill satisfied at not possessing a place in the council, and even more at the neglect with which the prince of Condé treated him; and as he was entirely influenced by his sister, the duchess de Longueville, who was piqued at the indifference her elder brother displayed towards her, he abandoned himself without reserve to his resentment. This princess, who had a great share afterwards in these affairs, possessed all the advantages of talent and beauty to so great a degree, joined to so many charms, that it appeared as if nature had taken pleasure in forming a perfect and finished work in her: but these qualities lost a part of their brilliancy through a defect which was never before seen in a person of this merit; which was that, far from giving the law to those who had a particular adoration for her, she transfused herself so entirely into their sentiments that she entirely forgot her own. At this time the prince de Marsillac had a share in her heart; and, as he joined his ambition to his love, he inspired her with a taste for politics, to which she had a natural aversion, and took advantage of her wish to revenge herself on the prince of Condé by opposing Conti to him. De Retz was fortunate in his project, through the sentiments entertained by the brother and sister, who allied themselves to the Frondeurs by a treaty, into which the duke de Longueville was drawn by his hopes of succeeding, through the help of parliament, in his ill-founded pretensions of being treated like a prince of the blood."[22]

The state of tumult and street warfare into which Paris was plunged by these intrigues at last determined the queen to the most desperate measures: she resolved to escape from the capital, with the young king, the cardinal, and the whole court, and then to blockade it. In this plan she succeeded, through her admirable presence of mind and fearlessness. The court retreated to St. Germain. Here they were unprovided even with necessaries. They lived in disfurnished apartments, they slept on straw, and were exposed to a thousand hardships. The prince of Conti, and Marsillac, and the duke de Longueville followed the court. De Retz was confounded by their retreat; and sent the marquis de Noirmoutier to learn the cause of their secession, and, if possible, to bring them back. The motive of these princes in apparently deserting their party was, it would seem, to further their own private interests.[23] Marsillac left his secretary, Gourville, behind, to negotiate with the leading members of parliament for the electing the prince of Conti generalissimo of the Parisian troops. When this transaction was arranged, the princes determined on their return to the capital. It was a matter of danger and difficulty to escape from St. Germain. When the method of so doing was arranged, Marsillac held a long conversation with Gourville, telling him what account he was to carry to Paris, in case he should be made prisoner, in which case he felt sure that he should be decapitated. Gourville, however, begged him to write his last instructions, as he was resolved to share his fortunes to the last. Their attempt, however, was attended with success: the adventurers made good their entrance into Paris; and, after some opposition, gained their point, principally through the appearance of the beautiful duchesses de Bouillon and Longueville, who presented themselves before the people of Paris with their children, and excited a commotion in their favour. The prince of Conti was elected generalissimo.

Meanwhile Condé blockaded the metropolis; and the volunteers of Paris, composed of its citizens, poured out to resist the blockade. The warfare was of the most ridiculous kind: the people of Paris made a jest of their own soldiery, which excelled only in the talent of running away. These troops went to the field by thousands, dressed out in feathers and ribands: they fled if they encountered but 200 of the royal troops: when they returned, flying, they were received with laughter and shouts of ridicule. Couplets and epigrams were multiplied and showered upon them and their leaders; the populace were diverted, while the most frightful licence prevailed; blasphemy was added to licentiousness, and the bands of society were loosened, its core poisoned. At length the middling classes, most active at first in the work of sedition and lawlessness, got tired of the wickedness they saw exhibited round them, and of the dangers to which they were perpetually exposed. Blood was spilt, and they scarcely knew for what they fought: each side began to sigh for peace. De Retz failed in gaining the assistance of Turenne, for, corrupted by an emissary of Mazarin, the army of Turenne deserted him. The same arts were used to gain over the partisans of De Retz. The prince de Marsillac was suffering from a severe wound. He had headed a squadron sent out with other troops for the purpose of escorting some convoys of provisions. The party was attacked, and fled on the instant, with the exception of the party led by Marsillac, (who, de Retz observes, had more valour than experience) that kept the ground till the prince had a horse killed under him, and was seriously wounded himself, when he returned to Paris. This circumstance led him, probably, to listen more readily to the representations of Mazarin's emissaries. [Sidenote: 1649. Ætat. 36.] He became an entire convert to the desire for peace, and by degrees, though with difficulty, the prince of Conti and the duchess de Longueville were brought to acquiesce in its necessity.

A sort of unsettled tranquillity was thus restored. After a time the court returned to Paris: but the peace was hollow, and the bad passions of men fermented still. The capital, with the exception of not being under arms, was in a state of perpetual and disgraceful tumult. The war of the Fronde has been named a tragic farce; for it was carried on as much by mutual insults and epigrams as by the sword. Never did mankind display so total a disregard for decency and moral law: churchmen acknowledged their mistresses openly; wives made no secret of favouring their lovers; and infamy became too common to render any one conspicuous. As the nobility of the Fronde were the most dissolute, so, by degrees, did it lose favour with the people. Each noble sought his own interests: each changed side as his hopes changed. The Fronde lost many of its chief partisans. The prince of Condé became reconciled to the prince of Conti; and he, and the duke and duchess de Longueville, and the prince Marsillac, now duke de la Rochefoucauld, through the recent death of his father, fell off from the Fronde, at the same time that they continued to oppose and insult the queen and Mazarin. Meanwhile De Retz was eager to renew a warfare which raised him to the rank of leader. He was still intriguing--still, as it were, covertly in arms,--continuing to exercise unbounded influence over the people of Paris, and to carry on intrigues with the discontented nobles. The court, meanwhile, thoroughly frightened by the late events, was bent on weakening its enemies by any means, however treacherous and violent. [Sidenote: 1650. Ætat. 37.] While, therefore, the false security of peace prevented their being on their guard, suddenly one day the prince of Condé, his brother, and brother-in-law, were arrested, and sent to Vincennes; and the queen sent to the duchess de Longueville, requiring her immediate attendance. Rochefoucauld had seen reason to suspect this piece of treachery, and had wished to warn the princes; but the person he intrusted with the commission failed to execute it. When the duke de Vrillière brought the order to the duchess requiring her attendance, Rochefoucauld persuaded her, instead of obeying, to quit Paris on the instant, and hasten to Normandy, to raise her friends in Rouen and Havre de Grace, in favour of her husband and brothers. Rochefoucauld accompanied her; but the duchess having failed in her attempt, and being pressed by the enemy, was forced to embark, and take refuge in Holland, while Rochefoucauld repaired to his government at Poitou. All was now prepared for war. Turenne, at Stenay, was in revolt. The dukes of Bouillon and la Rochefoucauld collected troops in Guienne. Rochefoucauld was the first in arms, though he had no resource, except his credit and friends, in collecting troops. He made the ceremony of the interment of his father the pretext for assembling the nobility and tenants of his province, and thus raised 2000 horse and 600 foot.[24] His first attempt was to succour Saumur, besieged by the king's troops. But Mazarin had not been idle: he had engaged what Frederick the Great called his _yellow hussars_ in his favour, and, by bribery and corruption, possessed himself of the town. After this Bordeaux became the seat of war. Bouillon and Rochefoucauld having entrenched themselves in that city, and the royal troops attacking it. Ill defended by fortifications, it soon capitulated, but obtained favourable terms. Bouillon and Rochefoucauld were allowed to retire. Mazarin exerted all his powers of persuasion to gain them, but they continued faithful to the princes. Rochefoucauld retreated once again to his government of Poitou, discontented at having received no compensation for his house of Verteuil, which the king's party had razed.

Soon after the divisions in France took somewhat a new face. De Retz gained over the duke of Orleans, and united himself to the party of the princes. The Fronde, thus reinforced, turned all its force against Mazarin. He was forced to fly, and the princes were liberated. It is not here that a detail of the strange events of the war of the Fronde can be given. They are introduced only because Rochefoucauld took a prominent part. Changes were perpetually taking place in the state of parties; and a sort of confusion reigns throughout, arising from the want of any noble or disinterested object in any of the partisans, that at once confuses and wearies the mind. To detail the conduct of a nobility emancipated from all legal as well as all moral and religious restraint,--bent only on the acquisition of power,--influenced by hatred and selfishness,--is no interesting task. It may be instructive; for we see what an aristocracy may become, when it throws off the control of a court, whose interest it is to enforce order,--and of the people, who spontaneously love and admire virtue,--and at once tramples on religion and law. The nobles of the Fronde had lost the dignity and grandeur of feudal power; they aimed at no amelioration for the state of the kingdom; they neither loved freedom nor power in any way permanently advantageous, even to their own order. Turbulent, dissolute, and unprincipled, they acted the parts of emancipated slaves, not of freemen asserting their rights. We seek for some trace of better things in Rochefoucauld's own views and actions, but do not find it. He avows ambition; that and his love for the duchess de Longueville are all the motives that are discernible in his own account of his conduct. When, however, we find madame de Maintenon, who was an excellent and an impartial judge, praise him, in the sequel, as a faithful, true, and prudent friend, we are willing to throw the blame from him on those from whom he divided. Madame de Longueville was certainly guilty of inconstancy; and we are told how entirely she was influenced by the person to whom she attached herself. She drew the prince of Conti after her. Meanwhile, the party in opposition to Mazarin became divided into the new and old Fronde. No one could tell to which De Retz would adhere long. He, for the moment, headed the old, the prince of Condé the new. Rochefoucauld hated De Retz, we are told, with a hatred seldom felt, except by rival men of talent.[25] He now, therefore, sided with Condé, and endeavoured to alienate him entirely from the coadjutor, and to draw over his brother and sister to the same side. He entered zealously into the plan of breaking off a marriage proposed between the prince of Conti and mademoiselle de Chevreuse, who was known to be the mistress of De Retz, which event widened the separation between the parties. This led to more violent scenes than ever. Condé was forced to retreat, and only appeared strongly guarded; and the queen took advantage of this show of violence to accuse him of high treason to parliament. This occasioned the most tumultuous scenes. The two parties met in the Palace of Justice; both Condé and De Retz surrounded by followers eager to draw their swords on each other,--none more eager than Rochefoucauld, whom De Retz detested, and (if we believe the duke's own account) had several times sought to have assassinated. On this occasion Rochefoucauld was on the alert to revenge himself. Molé, the intrepid and courageous president, alone, by his resolution and firmness, prevented bloodshed. He implored the prince and the coadjutor to withdraw their troops from the palace: they assented. De Retz left the hall to command his followers to retire. Rochefoucauld was sent by Condé on a similar mission to his partisans. This was a more difficult task than they had apprehended: both parties were on the point of coming to blows; and the coadjutor hastened to return to the great chamber, when an extraordinary scene, related by the duke in his memoirs, ensued. He had returned before the coadjutor, and De Retz, pushing the door open, got half in, when Rochefoucauld pressed against it on the other side, and held his enemy's body in the doorway, half in and half out of the chamber. "This opportunity might have tempted the duke de la Rochefoucauld," writes the duke himself. "After all that had passed, both public and private reasons led him to desire to destroy his most mortal enemy; as, besides the facility thus offered of revenging himself, while he avenged the prince for the shame and disgrace he had endured, he saw also that the life of the coadjutor ought to answer for the disorder he occasioned. But, on the other side, he considered that no combat had been begun; that no one came against him to defend the coadjutor; that he had not the same pretext for attacking him as if blows had already been interchanged--the followers of the prince, also, who were near the duke, did not reflect on the extent of the service they might have rendered their master in this conjuncture;--in fine, the duke would not commit an action that seemed cruel, and the rest were irresolute and unprepared; and thus time was given to liberate the coadjutor from the greatest danger in which he had ever found himself."[26] Rochefoucauld adds the description of another incident, not less characteristic of the times, that happened subsequently. After this scene in the Palace of Justice, the coadjutor avoided going there or meeting Condé; but, one day, the prince was in his carriage with Rochefoucauld, followed by an immense crowd of people, when they met the coadjutor, in his pontifical robes, leading a procession of relics and images of saints. The prince stopped, out of respect to the church, and the coadjutor went on till he came opposite to the prince, whom he saluted respectfully, giving both him and his companion his benediction. They received it with marks of reverence; while the people around, excited by the rencontre, uttered a thousand imprecations against De Retz, and would have torn him to pieces, had not the prince caused his followers to interfere to his rescue. In all this we see nothing of the high bearing of a man of birth, nor the gallantry and generosity of a soldier. That Rochefoucauld did not murder De Retz scarcely redeems him, since we find that he entertained the thought, and almost repented not having put it in execution. In the heat of this quarrel the coadjutor had named him coward: ("I lied," De Retz writes in his memoirs, "for he was assuredly very brave;") giving him, at the same time, his nickname, _Franchise_, which he got in ridicule of his assumption of the appearance of frankness as a cloak to double-dealing and real astuteness of disposition. We are willing, however, to suppose that he practised this sort of astuteness only with his enemies, and that he continued frank and true to his friends. He had now become the firm partisan and friend of Condé. This prince, a soldier in heart and profession, grew impatient of the miserable tumults and brawls of Paris, and resolved to assert his authority in arms. He retreated to the south of France, and raised Guienne, Poitou, and Anjou against the court. He was surrounded by the prince of Conti, the duchess de Longueville, Rochefoucauld, Nemours, and many others of his boldest and most powerful adherents. He was received in Bordeaux with joy and acclamations: ten thousand men were levied; and Spain eagerly lent her succour to support him in his rebellion. This was, for France, the most disastrous period of its civil dissensions. All the blessings of civilisation were lost; commerce, the arts, and the sciences were, as it were, obliterated from the face of society; the industrious classes were reduced to misery and want; the peasantry had degenerated into bandits; lawlessness and demoralisation were spread through the whole country. The total disregard for honour and virtue that characterised the higher classes became ferocity and dishonesty in the lower.