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 THE 
 
 SCHOOL FOR HUSBANDS: 
 
 OE, 
 
 MOLIERE'S LIFE AND TIMES. 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY BULWER LYTTON., 
 
 IN THREE VOLS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHARLES J. SKEET, PUBLISHER, 
 
 21. KING WILLIAM STREET, 
 
 CHABIKG CBOSS. 
 1852.
 
 8^3 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 ^-JHOMAS CARLYLE, Esq., 
 
 THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED 
 
 WITH A SINCERE ESTEEM FOB HIS CHAKACTER, 
 _3 AND ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS, 
 
 ^ BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 
 
 r 
 
 <. 
 ^
 
 " Aille devant ou aprez ime utile sentence, un beau 
 
 traict, est tousiours de saison. Les belles matieres siesent 
 bien, en quelque place, qu'on les seme : moy, qui ai plus de 
 soing, du poids, et utilite des discours que de leur ordre et 
 suitte, ne doites pas craindre de loger icy, im peu a Tescart, 
 una tres belle histotre. Quand elles sont si riches de leur 
 propre beauts, et se pensent seneles trop soubstenir, ie me 
 contente du bout d'un poll pour les joindre a mon propos. 
 
 *' Montaigne." 
 
 "Dans la vie de I'inteUigence et de I'art, c'etait un ange. 
 Dans la vie commune, et pratique, c'etait un enfant. 
 
 "Chakles Nodeee."
 
 PREFACE.* 
 
 Suetonius tells us, that when the youthful 
 Nero was brought the first death-warrant to sign, 
 his heart was lacerated by the deepest, and most 
 sincere, emotions of pity and regret, and that, in 
 appending his signature to it, the future tyrant 
 exclaimed, with genuine remorse, — 
 
 " QUAM VELLEM NE SCIRE LITTERAS !" 
 
 And, in like manner, I am never compelled by 
 dire necessity to launch a book, and, by so doing, 
 
 * It is perhaps needless, though but just, to say that, as I 
 publish this book on my o\m account, my publisher is not only 
 irresponsible for this preface, but, with the usual horror that all 
 Englishmen have at a woman's wincing, no matter what her 
 outrages may be, did all he could and more than he had a right 
 to do, to try and persuade me not to publish it ; but as my case 
 is an unparalleled one, people cannot be surprised that I should 
 have been goaded into defending myself in a manner somewhat 
 exceptional. 
 
 A
 
 11 PREFACE. 
 
 sign another schedule of my own death-warrant, 
 that I do not also exclaim, — " How I wish that I 
 was ignorant of letters, that I might be preserved 
 from such an action !" for, for any one, — but 
 more especially a woman, — to have to be the tar- 
 get of such dastardly and paid for abuse, as I am 
 always subjected to from a certain clique of the 
 press, is really too revolting ; but nevertheless, no- 
 thing gives such lion-like, and undaunted courage, as 
 a thorough knowledge of the utter worthlessness of 
 one's assassins, and a proportionate contempt for 
 them. In giving a brief resume of the literary perse- 
 cution I have been subjected to since my return to 
 this country, I am well aware of the additional 
 missiles I shall draw down upon my devoted head,* 
 
 * And what makes these projectiles the more terrible is, that 
 that most docile of donkeys, the Public, never presumes to judge 
 for itself ; but in its respective detachments, always goes by what 
 *^ my paper" or "my review" says ; so that were " The Times" 
 some fine foggy morning to make the wonderful discovery, that 
 Jeremy Taylor was an atheistical writer, or the " Post " to in- 
 vent, that Miss Edgeworth's socialism had demoralised the last 
 two generations, and Daniel de Foe's slip-slop had con-upted the 
 purity of the English language ; instead of examining these au- 
 thors^ the gentle public woiild echo the baseless fictions, till they
 
 PREFACE. Ill 
 
 as in this land of cant, one of the most orthodox 
 cants is, that a woman, — or, as the national 
 phrase goes, — a ^^ female T should let the wheels 
 of Juggernaut crush her to death without ever 
 uttering a murmur ; but however great, and elastic, 
 woman's powers of endurance are (and have need 
 to be), there is a point of tension, beyond which 
 they cannot extend ; and as Louis the Fourteenth 
 truly said, — " If people want respect, they must 
 pay it;" now, in my individual case, not only 
 have the laws of God been violated to injure me, 
 but the laws of nature have been subverted to 
 outrage me ; and consequently, at the end of 
 twenty years of the most cowardly persecution, 
 including the grossest libels, and the blackest 
 lies, 1 am perfectly callous to what Eng- 
 lish society^ as it is at present constituted, may 
 think of a woman's daring to wince under such 
 
 religiously believed them to be gospel truths ; and on the other 
 hand, my dear shade of Aristides, between you, and me, and the 
 ^^ Post" were the latter to assert that "The Hauxted Man! " 
 was the finest Epic(!) in the language, we should have all St. 
 James's da capo-ing the monstrous absurdity ; and every little 
 miss and mannikin in the kingdom inundating the press with 
 diluted imitations of this ineflfable trash. 
 
 A 2
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 auto da fe martyrdom; as, for the most part, 
 what is called social respectability in England, is 
 nothing more than successful vice,* Of this we 
 
 * A Frenchman's synopsis of English society, during the Ex- 
 hibition, is so amusing and so true, that I shall here quote it : — 
 
 " Vous autres Anglais, are von drole people. You run aftere, 
 and make de cour to a Lady P., qui en a fait de toutes les cou- 
 leurs ; while you serve up de cold shouldere to a Lady C. or 
 a Lady A., who have do presque a noting. "Wid all your 
 aristocracy, you bow down, and you vorship von linen draper, 
 who have juive tout le monde, and you say not von vord 
 about dat honere to your country, de Marquis de Chandos, who 
 is von real noble man. You object to your poor, dancing 
 in de guingette of de Sunday; but you no object to his drink 
 like beast in de cabaret, and come home and kill his wife and 
 child pour se d^sennuyer. You talk von great deal about 
 de "propriety!'* and yet your young Misse make a terrible 
 cour to de gentlemans. You shall see dem gathered round de 
 mens in every salon, telling dem how dey like a de race, and de 
 boat, and de cigar, and all tings de men like, and beg and pray 
 dem to come here, and to go dere wid dem, as he shall be '* so 
 dull," unless dear Mr. dis or dat he is of de party; in short, dey 
 have all de petits soins, and de compliments, dat we mens have 
 for de womens in odere contrics. Den, too, you let your jeune 
 misses read de papers, fill wid all de horreurs ! les plus scabreu- 
 ses; and lastly, you make all your law for to protec de rascal! 
 de trute he is von libel, par example ; while de lie, he may run 
 about de vorld at him pleasure, and do as moche mischief as any 
 odere gamin ; ma foi! I no understan your moeurs, by damn!"
 
 PREFACE. • V 
 
 have too many modern instances to admit of dis- 
 pute ; and that country is not, nor cannot be, a 
 moral country, where there is a continual under 
 current of onE-sided twaddle going on upon all 
 subjects, social, literary, and political, and where 
 no amount of private vice, and want of probity, 
 incapacitates men from public life. Neither have 
 we, God bless us ! the consistency which gives at 
 least a respectability to even erroneous opinions ; 
 for while we are the most loyal people under the 
 sun, to our own lay figure of royalty, whatever it 
 may chance to be, and eulogise, with all the 
 strength of our lungs, the wit and paternal soli- 
 citude of a King Log, or the forbearance and 
 justice of a King Stork, — we, on the other hand, 
 receive with open arms, and indigestions of pub- 
 lic dinners, and crammed speeches, the rebels of 
 every other country. But to resume this little 
 memoir, I am not here going to touch upon the re- 
 commencement of dirty work by a certain attorney, 
 last July ; for I have taken measures to deal with 
 that elsewhere; neither am I going (as Coleridge ac- 
 cused Lord Byron of doing) to " wipe my eyes upon
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 the public," — for indeed, notwithstanding my po- 
 verty, I am still exceedingly fastidious in lingerie, 
 and therefore should prefer a more delicate 
 pocket handkerchief, perfumed with a purer esprit. 
 Upon my return to England some four years ago, 
 the first publisher I applied to informed me, that 
 what prevented my books having fair play, was the 
 underhand dirty work that was going on against me, 
 and against them, for that a lady, more notorious 
 than celebrated, had been sent to him to threaten all 
 sorts of spiteful influences against him, if he pub- 
 lished for me ; besides leaving no stone unturned 
 to crush my individual works. To this gentleman's 
 honour be it spoken, he expressed the greatest 
 indignation at such dastardly conduct ; and it de- 
 cided him to publish my book, which he had been 
 before wavering about doing. Not so the magnate, 
 Mr. : * he was better drilled, belonging to the 
 
 * I myself feel that all these Mr. s are very invidious, 
 
 as they may be filled with the names of innocent and irrelevant 
 persons ; but as it is a part of the social arcana of the nineteenth 
 century, on all occasions to screen the guilty, at the risk of com- 
 promising the innocent; whatever I may think of such injustice 
 I, of course, single-handed, cannot conquer it.
 
 PREFACE. Vll 
 
 old band of amateur sbirri. A gentleman in the 
 kindest manner interested himself to try and dis- 
 pose of (for at least something like an adequate 
 price) my " Ophidion/' which Mr. after- 
 wards, to my unspeakable annoyance, christened 
 
 " The Peer's Daughters !" Well, to he 
 
 went ; and that gentleman, in his most bland and 
 puff-paste manner, professed his willingness to 
 take the book, but strongly objected to his, as the 
 publisher, being kept in ignorance of the author's 
 name ; and after several days' pour-parler-ing, my 
 friend and charge d'affaires, thinking to serve me, 
 
 revealed the fatal secret ! whereupon Mr. 
 
 had to act up to the restrictions he was under — to 
 put every barrier in the way of my earning my 
 bread ! * I did not try Mr. , the other puh- 
 
 * WMch I am obliged to do, because £ 400 a year, from which 
 even the income tax, is nobly deducted I and which £400 a year has 
 been chiefly spent in defending myself against the blackest con- 
 spiracies, is not enough to support a person hampered with a 
 beggarly bran new title, which in this country only procures the 
 one privilege, of being cheated upon all occasions, as if one had 
 all the rank of all the Howards ; or, what is far better, all their 
 wealth to boot. Men have a thousand resources from which 
 women are debarred. Politics alone are a monte de piet^, where
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 lishing autocrat, notwithstanding that I, about that 
 time, stumbled upon a letter of his, containing the 
 most flourishing promises upon a former occasion ; 
 but I not only knew by experience that such pro- 
 mises, in this country, were indeed broken reeds to 
 lean upon ; but my nerves had also grown weak in 
 wading through this Grub Street mud, and I had 
 not courage to encounter the remembered glories ! 
 
 of Mr. *s white hands and white pocket 
 
 handkerchief, as in my then enfeebled state, I 
 might not have been able to distinguish whether 
 
 " That was more white than this, 
 Or this, than that ; — 
 Or either whiter, than his white cravat !" 
 
 And yet alas ! I went farther and fared worse 
 than I could possibly have done with the courte- 
 ous and courtly Mr. B , for I got deeper into 
 
 everything is saleable, from an opinion down to an oppression ; 
 and any geutleman, who has ranted a radical all his landless 
 youth, may prove himself a rogue in grain, and come out strong 
 as a protectionist, on his own grounds^ at the fag end of his days ; 
 and at this political Mons Pietatis, turned coats are always at a 
 premium.
 
 PEEFACE. IX 
 
 the difficulty by going to Conduit-street, to Messrs. 
 and . I was shewn into a little sar- 
 cophagus of a room, as cold and empty, as the 
 heads of many of the authors for whom that 
 " distinguished " firm had published — there I re- 
 mained alone, for some ten minutes — doubtless, 
 till the panic, occasioned by the schrapnel ! of my 
 arrival, had subsided — for, of course, they had 
 gone to the carriage to find out who I was. In 
 this den was a horrible plaister cast (I suppose of 
 one of the Burkers) which glared down upon me 
 with its cold, cruel eyes, that reminded me 
 strongly of a passage in the " Inferno," so that 
 I was beginning to get awfully frightened, when 
 in stalked a portentous quarto edition of a man, 
 bound in black cloth, and elaborately tooled with a 
 black wig. He soon informed me, that the same 
 objections existed to his publishing for me. I 
 had no other weapons about me but a casolette 
 and an emerald pin, so I solaced myself by recol- 
 lecting the story of the gentleman who, having 
 causes of complaint against these amiable pub- 
 lishers, entered their shop with a horsewhip, and 
 
 a3
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 accosting (I believe my friend in the black wig), 
 while he simulated a sort of castanet accompani- 
 ment with the whip, said, 
 
 " If a— you are— a Mr. , d Mr. 
 
 ! and a — if you are Mr. , then d 
 
 Mr. 1" 
 
 In short, like the Nigger, Joconde, in the Ethio- 
 pian serenade, 
 
 " I went to the east, I went to the west," 
 
 though I did not exactly " go to Louisiana." And 
 the effect of all my interviews with these pub- 
 lishing sbirrlf was that of ipecacuhanna — which is, 
 indeed, generally the result of seeking for manna 
 in this wilderness. 
 
 Well, out came " The Peer's Daughters," so 
 villainously printed, certainly, that it would have 
 warranted any amount of literary invective, but 
 no such thing ; from my grandmother's gazette, 
 the " Literary," down to a more recent penny 
 trumpet, called " The Critic," what they desig- 
 nated "the talent" (!) of the book, was ex- 
 tolled to the skies ; it was only upon the author
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 that they heaped the most dastardly personal 
 abuse. Indeed, " The Critic," in its supreme 
 wisdom, discovered that I — by myself — // had 
 committed an outrage upon society in quoting 
 (for it was but a quotation) Lady Mary Wortley 
 Montague's own words, — which, upon the princi- 
 ple of " rendering unto Cassar the things which 
 are Caesar's," I put into Lady Mary's own mouth ; 
 but, for their gross, and coarse, abuse on that occa- 
 sion (done as usual to order), I sincerely thank 
 them ; as I cannot but look upon it as 
 an inverse honour, to be vituperated, and ma- 
 ligned, in the very same column that a Lady 
 Blessington's moral and literary worth was lauded 
 to the skies. With regard to my last book, 
 "Miriam Sedley," there has been even a little 
 more dirty work than usual done. I shall 
 scarcely allude to the cowardly attack in the 
 " John Bull," as from its reckless falsehood, 
 it bore too palpably the stamp of its *' gen- 
 teel Letter writer " to leave any one in doubt of 
 the quarter from whence it originated ; but, to 
 borrow one of those classical elegancies of diction,
 
 Xll tREFACE. 
 
 with which Mr. Charles Dickens's indigenous, and 
 extensive knowledge of St. Giles', has enabled him 
 to enrich our language and our literature, they 
 have now got hold of a new " dodge.'^^ Every one 
 knows that it is easy to make blasphemy even 
 of the Bible itself, by leaving out the context ; and 
 this is the plan the critics (?) have now adopted, 
 in regard to my books ; the (not exactly Delphic) 
 oracle of Dowagers and Dandy's, the " Morning 
 Post," began it, and the others have followed it up 
 with the usual coarse fresco daubings of English 
 imitations. The Morning Pap for instance, taking 
 all the Voltairian School of philosophy, that I 
 have not only reprobated, but ridiculed, in a certain 
 Mrs. Marley, loyally holds these opinions up to 
 public censure as those of Lady Bulwer Lytton ! 
 Now, having been so long behind the scenes of 
 literary and political life in England, and being 
 therefore perfectly aware that in both arenas, the 
 abuse, or praise, of the press, with a very few 
 honourable exceptions, are entirely done to order, 
 though I make every allowance for the garbling 
 and falsifying of this Protective organ, yet really it
 
 PREFACE. Xlll 
 
 was too inane, even for the " Morning Post !" to say 
 " it hardly knew how to approach a book, written 
 in open defiance of the established rules that 
 acknowledge the superiority of man !" or some 
 such rubbish, for I have not the paper at hand. 
 Now if the " Morning Post" means by this, that I 
 have not that awful admiration for the male sex in 
 general, and a blind belief in the Jure divino in- 
 fallibility, of some of them in particular, which a 
 *' British female j'' (in self defence), should have, 
 I plead guilty ; all in begging leave most impli- 
 citly to state, that even this horrible hetorodoxy 
 is their fault, and not mine ; my lot having fallen 
 among the most unscrupulous villains, on the one 
 hand, and the most heartless fools, on the other 
 my nil admirari has, as might naturally be ex- 
 pected, become chronic. Even for the literary 
 Magnates, I cannot whip, or spur, up any of the 
 obligato enthusiasm ; for having indulged in a more 
 extensive course of reading (than any " British 
 female'" ought to do), and being afflicted with a 
 terribly retentive memory, in perusing modern 
 English works I am continually running against
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 very old acquaintances^ who, not being Bishops, 
 have in no way benefitted by the translation ; and 
 when I recognize Montaigne, and La Rochefou- 
 cauld, whole pages of Charles Nodier, whole 
 reams of German, and whole chapters of the 
 Comtesse Dash, done into English as original 
 matter, and see one of poor old Marmontel's tales 
 dragged through the mire of the Seven Dials, and 
 then served up as an English piece de resistance , 
 the British public are free to feed on such gar- 
 bage and welcome, provided 1 am not forced to 
 do the same, for my appetite is but small, and I 
 cannot swallow rechauffes. But for the epithet 
 of " Xantippe," which the executeur de Hautes 
 CEuvres, in the " Morning Post " has so amiably, 
 and gallantly, bestowed upon me, as I cannot even 
 accept a present, to which I feel I have no right, 
 I must beg leave to return it to him *' with many 
 thanks," for if I remember rightly, Xantippe was 
 married to Socrates ? 
 
 And now, I come to a little curiosity of litera- 
 ture, which from its originality (a rare thing in 
 English literature), I hope may prove entertaining
 
 PEEFACE. XV 
 
 to the public at large ; I cannot say that although 
 greatly amused at it, I was much surprised, not- 
 withstanding its novelty, inasmuch as, that no 
 one of common sense ever is surprised, at any 
 amount of meanness that emanates from a liberal 
 paper, any more, than one is astonished at any de- 
 gree of inhumanity, and hard-heartedness from a 
 philanthropist, for their charity and benevolence 
 being universal, it is folly to expect it should ever 
 be exercised towards any individual. Here is my 
 little literary offering to the British Museum. 
 About two months after the publication of ** Mi- 
 riam Sedley," I received one morning a vulgar- 
 looking, blue, parallelogramish letter, inclosing a 
 little slip of printed paper, which turned out to 
 be an advertisement of " Miriam Sedley," with 
 these lines, written — 
 
 " The proprietor of * The Leader ' will thank 
 Lady Bulwer Lytton to pay for the inclosed ad- 
 vertisement." Now, as I believe I am correct in 
 stating, that no advertisement is ever inserted in 
 any paper, without being first paid for ; this could 
 only have been intended as a gratuitous, and per-
 
 XVI PREEACE. 
 
 sonal insult to me, specially ; as it was addressed 
 to me, and not even to the publisher. I don't 
 suppose it actually emanated from Mr. Thornton 
 Hunt, who, as editor of a liberal paper, and dry 
 nurse to all the continental revolutionary move- 
 ments, must, of course, be too busy for such 
 puerilities. But there is another gentleman 
 connected with that impartial journal, who, 
 I understand, one day disputed my identity 
 with a friend of mine, insisting to her, that, " that 
 could not be Lady Bulwer Lytton ; " he having 
 no doubt been duly primed with the histories of 
 my " disgusting appearance," so sedulously cir- 
 culated in anonymous communications sent to 
 penny papers ; but if this gentleman really enter- 
 tained the manly, and magnanimous idea of an- 
 noying " that disgusting woman," by sending her 
 that advertisement; she is very sorry that the 
 malice should have lost its point, inasmuch as, 
 that she really had not the means of complying 
 with his request by paying for it ; for as the Bible 
 tells us, *' none can buy or sell in the market, in 
 these latter times, but those who have the mark of
 
 PREFACE. XVU 
 
 the devil." The editor of a liberal newspaper, 
 must surely be well aware, that it is only the 
 members of the guilt of Literature and Art, who 
 can get high prices for their productions, and con- 
 sequently afford to pay in 'propria persona for 
 puff^ and advertisements, and all the other arcana 
 of literary charlatanrie ; but I, belonging to the 
 Grub Street legion of poor wretches, who are not 
 authors of Mark, my publisher does all that sort 
 of thing, and when the book has run through one 
 or two editions, then begins to account with me 
 for the sale; so that for the future, I hope the 
 liberal and impartial portion of the press, will con- 
 tinue to play at " cross questions, and crooked 
 answers," and not change it, to " Follow the 
 Leader." 
 
 I now come to the most venal of the catch- 
 penny's, called 
 
 " The Illustrated London News :" — six months 
 after my last book was out, it had the following 
 piece of unwarrantable impertinence, evidently 
 done to order. After a plentiful use of the new 
 " dodge," that of taking the speeches out of the
 
 XVlll PREFACE. 
 
 mouths of some of the characters in my book, and 
 saddling me with them, this low, and clumsy 
 assailant, presumes to ask the following question, 
 which, insolent ! and unwarrantable as it is, I am 
 quite prepared to answer — and what is better 
 still, have the proofs wherewith to do so, all safe 
 in my possession. 
 
 " Whose," says this hired tool, " has the fault 
 of her life been ? — her own, or another's ? A fault 
 there has been — a grievous one." Now, as this 
 penny-a-liner has presumed to ask this question, 
 I beg to inform him, that his curiosity, with that 
 of the rest of the public, if they have any ; on the 
 subject, shall, one of these days, and, perhaps, at 
 no distant one, be gratified ; for, although, about 
 a year ago I received the munificent offer of an 
 additional £100 a-year! ! ! if I would give up cer- 
 tain infamous letters in my possession, and live 
 out of England, much as I detest, and have 
 suffered in this land of " tin" and twaddle, I pre- 
 ferred remaining in it ; and living down the whole 
 clique (powerful as infamy has made them), to ac- 
 ceding to this additional outrage ; — meanwhile,
 
 PREFACE. XIX 
 
 I hope the penny-a-liner of the " Illustrated 
 London News," and all his coadjutors, will be 
 better remunerated for their honourable services 
 than a poor wretch of a newspaper proprietor was 
 for similar ones some ten years ago, — when being 
 induced to publish a gross, and most ridiculous libel 
 of me, from the assurance of his employers of its 
 truth, and a promise that they would not only 
 bear him harmless of all expenses, but remunerate 
 him besides, which fair promises were contained 
 in plausible letters, to an Oily Gammon of a soli- 
 citor, who, when requested by the said News- 
 paper Proprietor to leave those letters with him, 
 as a guarantee, made him understand that private 
 letters were sacred, (you see he was a man of 
 nice honour !) and, therefore, he could not do 
 that. The consequence was, that I brought my 
 action for libel, and gained it ; and the poor 
 wretch of an Editor, not having the scratch of a 
 pen to produce, in corroboration of all the 
 flourishing promises he had received, was com- 
 pletely ruined ; and he had not even the satisfac- 
 tion of exposing his crafty betrayers, as, in doing
 
 XX PREFACE. 
 
 so, he must have exposed his own folly, — not to 
 give it a harsher name ; besides, his deceivers were 
 too powerful for him, for every one knows how 
 staunchly the Whigs support their doers of dirty 
 work ; and they are right, for it is upon that pivot 
 that their legislation hinges. With regard to the 
 " bad grammar," the critic (?) of the *' Illustrated 
 London News" instances — for a wonder he is right ; 
 for, after much entreaty, having given my late pub- 
 lisher leave to substitute an initial for a name, 
 what does he do but take the unwarrantable 
 liberty of altering the whole passage without the 
 slightest reference to its context. I cannot 
 quit this disgusting subject without instancing 
 another high-minded trait of this venal por- 
 tion of the London press. Last May or June, 
 a person calling herself the " Comtesse de Bru- 
 netiere Tallien," wrote to me, begging I 
 would subscribe to a French paper, to be pub- 
 lished weekly in London, called the *' Pilote de 
 Londres," with which request I instantly com- 
 plied. This paper, a very well written, and agree- 
 able one, existed for about three months, when it
 
 PREFACE. XXI 
 
 merged into the "Illustrated London News," and 
 the only number I ever saw of it, under its new 
 title, was as heavy and inane as its English name- 
 sake. From that day to this I have never re- 
 ceived another number of it, so that I consider 
 myself fairly swindled out of £1. 10s., a large 
 sum in these days of legislative cheese-parings and 
 candle-ends, when the greatest people think so 
 much of eighteen-pence, and, indeed, when the 
 only tariff of greatness seems to be making, 
 scraping, and hoarding money. Having now 
 done with this clique of the Press, I beg most 
 sincerely to thank the few gentlemen of it, who 
 had the courage and the honesty to give me im- 
 partial reviews, fearlessly criticising, as literary 
 censors, where I deserved criticism, and as fear- 
 lessly praising where they thought praise was 
 due ; and all this without one tinge of personal 
 feeling, pro or con ,• which alone constitutes real 
 criticism, properly so called. Like stars on a 
 dark night, their conduct shines out the more 
 brightly, for the surrounding blackness with 
 which the other reviews of my books are always
 
 Xxii PREFACE. 
 
 conducted ; for many, even of the least dastardly 
 of my opponents, who will not compromise their 
 integrity by furnishing ordered abuse, adopt the 
 mezzo termine of prostituting their probity to 
 SILENCE. And even could I write as vulgar, and 
 as inane, therefore, as truly feminine trash as 
 
 Mesdames and , those two great oases 
 
 of the circulating library desert, still I should 
 fare no better ; for though they are bepuffed and 
 bepatronized to the skies, I should get all the 
 unmerciful lashing, which such coarse and de- 
 moralising inanity deserves. I must further 
 assure them, that I had no voice even in the 
 christening of my present work, which I had 
 called, up to the point to which it was written, 
 " Moliere's Tragedy, His Life and Times ; " but 
 was told that the exquisite taste, and penetration 
 of the circulating libraries, must be consulted, 
 avant tout! So, as usual, author and book, were 
 immolated at the stake of a trashy title, and as 
 what cannot be cured, must be endured, it is 
 now launched as — '* The School for Husbands." 
 I am perfectly aware of the outcry there will
 
 PREFACE. Xxiii 
 
 be in this moral {very) ! country at a woman, 
 however solitary and persecuted ; however out- 
 raged, and writhing under any, and every 
 amount of ceaseless injuries, daring to at- 
 tempt to expose her cowardly oppressors ; and I 
 am quite ready to own, that it would be much 
 better, and certainly much fitter, if some man did 
 it ; but unfortunately, the very few distant male 
 relations that I have the misfortune to possess, 
 seem to have been weaned on asses milk, 
 and to have imbibed the nature of that pa- 
 tient but not over-sapient animal during the 
 process; and it is not till the whole arsenal of 
 injury and outrage has been exhausted upon me, 
 that I " have spoken ;" would that I could by any 
 contrivance get to do so in a Court of Justice. But 
 notwithstanding the ridicule that Bloomerism is so 
 justly calculated to throw upon the cause of women, 
 depend upon it, a day must come, when even in 
 this country, they will be able to assert their 
 rights, as human beings — (I don't mean to have 
 the power of voting, in order to send more knaves 
 and fools to parliament,) but to have some umpire
 
 XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 to appeal to, when they are treated worse than 
 beasts of burden — and persecuted rather more 
 than if they had fallen into the hands of the Holy 
 Inquisition. 
 
 "With regard to this present book of mine, 
 were I publishing it in France, or even in 
 any other country, I should be quite sure 
 that the fidelity and exactitude with which 
 I have stuck to my text, and re-embodied 
 my dramatis persorue, in their own words and 
 deeds, would be fully comprehended, and therefore 
 appreciated ; whatever other demerits or merits the 
 work might be found to possess ; but in conside- 
 ration of the profound and extensive ignorance of 
 a certain set of the soi-disant critics of England, 
 I beg leave to state, that every incident in this 
 book, is an historical fact, and that my only 
 creations are, the Hawthorne Family — Rupert 
 Singleton — and the Introduction of Tom Pepys, 
 
 Had I not been baffled in every effort to obtain 
 even the faint shadows of justice and redress which 
 are to be had for women from our national tribu- 
 nals, (for every strong fact that would open them
 
 PREFACE. :^^y 
 
 to me, has been got over by a perjury or a plot,) 
 I should not now obtrude this much of my affairs 
 upon the public ; but '* it is not against flesh and 
 blood that I wrestle, but against principalities, 
 against powers, against the rulers of t^e darkless 
 of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high 
 places," and the odds being too cruelly unequal, 
 I shall for the future expose each fresh piece of 
 villainy as it occurs, or if goaded much more, the 
 whole tissue, from the beginning to the end ; ,,^nd 
 it will not be upon my ijpse dixit that the facts 
 I shall lay bare will hang, but upon innumerable 
 written documents and hosts of witnesses ; 
 For the rest, having been left literally nothing 
 on this side the grave to lose, to hope, or 
 to suffer, I have consequently nothing left 
 to fear ; and for a continuation of this manly 
 and honourable game of strong oppression, on 
 the part of powerful infamy, agains^t a defence- 
 less victim ; I have been so gorged with it, that 
 I now feel strong, and fearless, enough, if not to 
 crush, at least to expose it, and am quite prepared 
 to brave the one-sided twaddle that such an un- 
 
 A 5
 
 XXVI PREFACE. 
 
 precedented Fronde may occasion, as fearing 
 God alone, I have no fear of anything human, 
 much less inhuman. And now to these back- 
 stabbing assailants of the press I bid farewell ; 
 and thank them for having raised me in my own 
 estimation, for unquestionably, next to the ap- 
 probation of the good, the censure of the worth- 
 less is the most honourable thing that can befall 
 a person of integrity. 
 
 The term worthless, can scarcely be considered 
 too strong, as applied to the Grub street fraternity. 
 Since Mr. Walter Savage Landor (a most compe- 
 tent authority upon such matters,) has asserted 
 that tbere is a " spice of the scoundrel in all literarj'^ 
 men," and from a very extended practical expe- 
 rience, I can but endorse this truism ; for, 
 however slovenly those gentlemen may be, they 
 are, nevertheless, * very spicy !' I have now every 
 reason to believe that I have met with that Rara 
 Avis, an honest publisher ; nay, something more ; 
 for, in a crisis of great distress, in which I was 
 plunged by my former publisher's not very honor- 
 able conduct, he most generously and liberally (a
 
 PREFACE. XXVU 
 
 rare virtue in these days) advanced me an important 
 sum of money : bitterly wanting tliis assistance, 
 and not being too proud to accept it, I am not too 
 mean to acknowledge it, and therefore take this 
 opportunity of publicly expressing my gratitude 
 to him ; the more so, that hitherto (with the 
 exception of the late Mr. Bull,) my inter- 
 course with publishers had only confirmed the 
 truth of Jean Paul's axiom, that the devil 
 invented seeking, and his grandmother waiting.
 
 MOLIEEE^S TRAGEDY 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " The Blessed Virgin ! grant me patience ; 
 for one needs it, when one lives with a fool, and 
 has to look after him ! Only one stocking, and 
 one shoe, on, yet ! — the brioche uncut, and the 
 chocolate untasted — though all the clocks in 
 Auteuil have struck ten, and the last Coucou 
 has started for Paris. And there you are, for two 
 mortal hours, roaring and screaming out that rag 
 of a play — as if, in all conscience, you could not 
 hear enough of it — and to spare, for Versailles 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 and the town — every night in the week, at the 
 theatre ! " 
 
 This speech was enunciated, or rather 
 screamed, in one breath, by an old, gaunt, and 
 mahogany-coloured female mummy, with a high 
 coif, or caucheoise, and short, blue woollen petticoat 
 and sabots, who was busily knitting a stocking, 
 and had just entered a little sunny room looking 
 upon a garden, and was addressed to the occu- 
 pant of it, her master ; who had indeed been 
 guilty of leze gouvernanie, in neglecting to eat 
 his breakfast — brought to him more than an hour 
 back — and leaving his toilet unfinished, so intent 
 was he in rehearsing aloud his play of "Le 
 Medecin Malgre Lui." For the fool so uncere- 
 moniously addressed was none other than Jean 
 Baptiste Poquelin Moliere ! 
 
 «« My good La Foret, only five minutes more, 
 and I shall have done," replied he, with a quiet 
 smile, joining his hands imploringly. 
 
 " Bah ! " rejoined the Mummy, flinging her- 
 self with such energy into an arm chair, that she 
 rebounded again; while drawing another knit-
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TDIES. 3 
 
 ting needle out of the arsenal that appeared at 
 her right temple. She vehemently recommenced 
 clashing the glittering spears round the tournais 
 of the blue worsted stocking. ^' Bah ! and where 
 do you think all these never ending, still be- 
 ginning, five minutes have brought you to ? " 
 
 " To this scene, with Sganarelle — listen, La 
 Foret :— 
 
 " Quelques bon coups de baton eniretienent 
 Vamitie entre gens qui s'aimenty * 
 
 " A fine idea truly, it's a pity but you put 
 on your stockings — kept your feet warm, and 
 your head cool, and then may be you might 
 chance to strike out a better notion of friend- 
 ship, than beating those you love." 
 
 " Don't be alarm.ed, dear La Foret ; I never told 
 you I loved you. But just listen onl\^ to this one 
 scene ; and Moliere read on, to the end of the 
 second act. During the declamation, the stocking 
 
 * Eventually Moliere rendered this passage as follows : — 
 "jB< cinq, ou six, coups de baton entre gens qui s'aiment 
 nefont que ragaillardir Vaffection.'" 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MOLIERES TRAGEDY. 
 
 had been twice lowered, and the knitting needles 
 laid in rest, on La Foret's knee — while something 
 forcibly served her lips more than once, that looked 
 like a smile at starting, but which soon got so 
 mutilated among the surrounding ruts and wrin- 
 kles, that it would have been impossible to iden- 
 tify it as such, though it had positively displayed 
 three long yellow tusks ; but being nearly caught 
 in the fact, by her master's quick eye, at the 
 conclusion of the scene, she rose hastily, poured 
 the un tasted cup of chocolate back into the choco- 
 late pot, and placed the latter on the fire, an 
 infallible sign that she was mollified, which 
 Moliere, like a child who had gained a victory 
 over some strong parental determinations, took 
 advantage of, by rubbing his hands, and exclaim- 
 ing, ** Ha ! ha! my little Quintillanus en Coutil- 
 lons f what do you of think that ? " But, La 
 Foret, who like all great critics displayed her 
 infallible wisdom by total abstinence from praise, 
 merely grunted out, as she folded her arms, and 
 looked steadily at the fire, " Humph ! you did 
 better six months ago,"
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. O 
 
 " Six months ago ! — why I was at the baths of 
 Plombieres ; I did not write any thing then." 
 
 <* Exactly — tliafs what I mean ! " — and so 
 saying, she took the. now scalding chocolate oflf the 
 lire, poured it out once more into the cup, cut a 
 large slice of the brioche, and pushing the tray 
 over to her slave, though nominal master, fiatically 
 pronounced the one word — 
 
 " Eat ! " 
 
 " In one minute," said Moliere, cramming with 
 his left hand a piece of the brioche into his mouth, 
 while with the right, he dipped his pen into the 
 ink, in order to make some addition or correction 
 to his manuscript. 
 
 " Ah ! the old story. I was asking you half an 
 hour ago when I came in to take the breakfast 
 things away (as I thought !) where you imagined 
 your eternal * only Jive minutes! a.nd just one min- 
 ute, had brought you to ? — but you never listen to 
 a word I say.' " 
 
 ** Brought me to ? — why to the skirts of the Foret 
 Noire,' laughed Moliere, approaching his chair 
 nearer to La Foret, in order to purloin a couple
 
 6 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 of lumps more sugar, as she en bonne menagere 
 always mounted guard, over that then expensive 
 luxury. 
 
 " It's not that I mean Monsieur Poquelin, guess 
 again ; unless youVe been robbed of your wits in 
 the Black Forest — for those poor devils of rob- 
 bers don't always find valuables." 
 
 " That's true Ma Bossette^ for when they broke 
 into Monsieur Robinnet's house last winter, tbey 
 only found his snuff-box, and Madarae's pet 
 monkey, and did not find yoic, though you were 
 in charge of the house, and I was still at the 
 theatre." 
 
 "And pray how long is that ago, Monsieur 
 Poquelin ? " 
 
 "Why, I've just told you Dorlotte — a year 
 ago. " 
 
 " Then perhaps you can at last manage to re- 
 collect what day this is ? " 
 
 "Why, yes, replied Moliere, drawing out the 
 ribbon, and settling the deep lace frill at the knee 
 of his one stockinged leg — " I know that this is 
 Thursday, for to-night they act ' L' Etourdi."
 
 HIS LIJFE AND TIMES. 7 
 
 " Great news indeed ! when you never act any 
 tiling else," snapped La Foret, and then added, 
 leaning the palms of both her skinny hands upon 
 the table, and bringing her face with eyes dis- 
 tended for the occasion, so close to Moliere's, that 
 unaflfectedly frightened, he backed his chair, as she 
 vociferated — " It's the loth of January, Monsieur 
 Poquelin !" 
 
 " Well, Ma bonne, what's that to me ?" re- 
 joined Moliere with a smile. 
 
 " There's mankind for you all over : when once 
 they begin to get on in the world, little they 
 trouble their heads about those who gave them 
 the entree into it. What's the 15th of January 
 to you ? a pretty question truly ; why it's your 
 birth day, that's all ! and the packages have been 
 showering in from all parts, ever since six o'clock 
 this morning. Pierrot has scoured the country 
 for flowers, till he's made the salon look more 
 like June than January. His Majesty has sent 
 something, I don't know what (they're all on the 
 table below). The Due de Mazarin — game 
 enough to dine the whole troupe. The Comte
 
 8 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Bussy Rabutin, a box of perfumed gloves from 
 Martial's, with a letter; his cousin Sevigne, such 
 a cravat ! which she, and Madame de Grignan 
 embroidered between them ; and such lace ! and 
 all for a man that will use it like a wisp of hay !" 
 
 " My birth-day ! Another ! So soon ; said Mo- 
 liere with a sigh, — and the smile which had lit up 
 his countenance the minute before, went suddenly 
 out, and left every feature cold and blank. 
 
 " Why, certainly, you don't look much like a 
 birth-day beau, I must say, and I should recom- 
 mend your covering your left leg with a stocking 
 — if not on account of the cold, at least in com- 
 pliment to Mademoiselle Armande, as she will not 
 fail to be here soon, with her usual birth-day bou- 
 quet for you." 
 
 " Armande," murmured Moliere, while a slight 
 flush suffused his face, and his hand mechanically 
 wandered among the lace of his shirt frills and 
 ruffles. 
 
 " Ah ! pa," said La Foret, without raising her 
 eyes from her knitting, which she had now resu- 
 med, " what do you mean to do with that pretty
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 9 
 
 child who is now no longer a child ? For so many 
 years you have danced her on your knee, ex- 
 changed bon bons with her for kisses, and heard 
 her call you her little husband, that I believe you 
 forget she is now seventeen instead of seven ; but 
 I think La Bejart intends that you should provide 
 for the whole family by marrying her — I don't 
 mean Armande — but she herself." 
 
 At the word marrying, Moliere's face had be- 
 come crimson — a sudden and burning heat caused 
 him to tear open his vest ; but at the conclusion 
 of La Foret's harangue, which proclaimed that it 
 was Armande's elder sister — the actress — who had 
 matrimonial designs upon him, the volcano became 
 extinct, he breathed freely, and exclaimed calmly 
 *•' Heaven forbid 1 '* 
 
 " Amen," responded La Foret, " for I don't like 
 ges femmes maitresses ; but mind what you are 
 about, for she's bent upon it." 
 
 ** Que le Diahle m'emporte'' cried Moliere, 
 rising. 
 
 ''That's just what I'm afraid of!" interrupted 
 La Foret. 
 
 b3
 
 10 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " Bah ! my Good La Foret," said he, with a 
 now genuine laugh, as he rapidly tied and but- 
 toned sundry parts of his dress, endeavouring at 
 the same time to scramble up the loose sheets of 
 his manuscript. '' One may be a physician in 
 spite of oneself, as I have proved to you this 
 morning, but scarcely a husband against one s 
 will. » 
 
 "Humph! you think not?" (A.nd here the 
 knitting needles flew like forked lightning.) " At 
 all events, console yourself. Monsieur Poquelin ; 
 you won't be the first by many hundreds !" 
 
 " But I tell you I don't like La Bejart." 
 
 " Who ever said you did ?" 
 
 " Then how is it possible I should marry a 
 woman whom I do not like enough to ask, or 
 rather, whom I positively dislike so much, that, 
 were she to ask me, I should refuse her. There^ 
 I hope that is con-sequent and intelligible." 
 
 ** Is it possible to be so devoid of common 
 sense !" muttered La Foret, shrugging her shoulders 
 and beating time to this fantasia by a rapid move- 
 ment of her right foot.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 11 
 
 Moliere merely smiled; his opponent, exas- 
 perated at his forbearance, flung down her knitting 
 on the table, and tightly folding her arms, sud- 
 denly rose, and walking leisurely over to him^ 
 while he kept backing as she advanced, till he could 
 back no further, on account of the officiousness of 
 the wall, she exclaimed — 
 
 ^^ Ah! ga Monsieur Poquelinf si vous rCetes pas 
 hete comme Dieu est puissant ! — perhaps I shall 
 be able to make you understand that nothing is 
 more easy (since it is what is happening every day 
 in the world) than to make people take things they 
 have no mind to. /, for instance, abominate ! 
 have ! detest! can't endure ! the taste of Tarragon 
 in soup ; and every day when I go for the herbs 
 for my pot au feu, I say to La Mere Bobiche — 
 take care of the Tarragon ! and the crocodile looks 
 up in my face with an * Ah I ma bonne you may 
 trust me, I know you dislike it ; so T always keep 
 back half old Barbouillier's, the Ecrivan Pub- 
 lique's, choux-vertes, and send him your Tarragon, 
 till the old crab ought to be perfect Tarragon 
 vinegar by this time!' Nevertheless, Monsieur
 
 12 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Poquelin," concluded she, lowering her voice to 
 a solemn drawl, and shaking her skinny finger at 
 him, so as to give each word due emphasis — " All 
 tliaty does not prevent my soup being poisoned 
 with Tarragon every day!" 
 
 " And how do you account for such compulsory 
 diet, my good La Foret ? for you are not the sort 
 of woman to be made to swallow anything,'^ 
 
 "How do I account for it? Why La Mere 
 Bobiche has got it into her head that she will 
 make me take my share of estragon with the fine 
 herbs, and so it's always in the basket." 
 
 ** And you, too, seemingly ! honne mere'' 
 
 " Not so fast. Monsieur Poquelin, La Bejart 
 may yet be the estragon in your pot au feu'' 
 
 " Never ! La Foret ; there is one good and 
 eflfectual reason why she will never be that ; but 
 where is Josselin ? send him here ; I want to get 
 dressed." 
 
 ** Ha ! can it be that you like the child instead ?" 
 said the old woman, peering intoMoliere's face as 
 if a light had suddenly broken in upon her. " Ma 
 foi ! that would be even worse !" added she, re- 
 gardless of his order to send his servant to him.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 13 
 
 " Ball ! you are doating, La Foret." 
 " Are you sure it is not you, Jean Baptiste ?" 
 " Really the heat of this room is insupport- 
 able !" cried Moliere, growing very red, and fanning 
 himself with his handkerchief, as he walked 
 to the window and opened it, although the snow 
 was now descending in flakes athwart the bright 
 sun. 
 
 *'So — it's la petite Armande?'' persisted the 
 old woman, clenching the matter with an assertion. 
 " ' Pon my word ! La Foret, you forget your- 
 self, my patience has limits ; " but suddenly re- 
 collecting that from long experience his Prime 
 Minister knew to the contrary, he changed his 
 plan of defence, and not having yet put on his 
 wig for the day, he said with an appealing smile, 
 as he lowered his head for her inspection ; " Look 
 here ; to-day I am forty-four ! and my head is as 
 grey, as if it bore the snows of double that num- 
 ber of winters; it would be hard to find any love 
 locks amongst them." 
 
 " Bah ! " exclaimed the not-to-be-hood-winked 
 La Foret ; " you are only exchanging the
 
 14 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Tarragon for a cauliflower, Monsieur Poquelin ; 
 for though your head may be white, I'll swear 
 your heart is very green ! " 
 
 Here, luckily for Moliere, who was beginning 
 to find his adversary too much for him, a vehicle 
 of some sort stopped at the garden gate, and a 
 loud ring announced an arrival. 
 
 " Go, La Foret — quick ! — quick ! and send 
 Josselin here. No — stop ! — stay ! First get me 
 my other stocking. It is on the bed in the next 
 room." 
 
 La Foret returned with the stocking, and also 
 a coat of rich brown, murray-coloured velvet, 
 lined with white Padusay silk, and braided with 
 gold, slung across one arm ; while in the other 
 hand she held a block, upon which was a magni- 
 ficent, flowing, and full-curled Louis Quatorze 
 peruke, which she placed on the table, laying the 
 coat on the back of a chair, while Moliere placed 
 another for her, and, pressing her into it with 
 gentle force, drew a second for himself. When 
 seated, he placed his left leg in La Foret's lap, 
 saying, " My good La Foret, would you be so
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 15 
 
 kind as to put on my stocking ? " And, in order 
 to prevent any scrutinizing glances from her keen, 
 small, penetrating eyes, during the operation, he 
 again drew forth his manuscript, which he held 
 before his face, as he leant back in his chair, and 
 affected to be busily reading — instead of which, 
 he was only listening whether the old woman was 
 looking at him ; and he soon had ample proof that, 
 at all events, she was thinking of him; for pre- 
 sently, as she was coaxing the wrinkles straight 
 with her homey hands, in the delicately fine silk 
 stocking, and finally rubbing the strip of red 
 morocco at the heel of his shoe, with the comer 
 of her apron, she continued to soliloquize: — 
 
 " 5o, it's the little Armande ? " 
 
 " Hush ! La Foret ; you mutter so that I don't 
 know what I'm about." 
 
 " Humph ! I'm afraid not, indeed ; that's the 
 worst of it." 
 
 " Dianire .'" cried MoUere, starting to his feet 
 in a pretended passion, " but you'd make the 
 Pope swear ! Can't you speak out if you have 
 anything to say ? "
 
 16 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 This last request he considered as a master 
 stroke of finesse^ as it was intended to imply 
 that he was so pre-occupied, that he had not heard 
 one word she had uttered ; and then turning to 
 the table, he took a penful of ink to cross some 
 T's that were quite sufficiently crossed already, 
 almost as much as he was himself. But it was 
 absolutely necessary to appear very busy, for no 
 one knew better, that in all acting, whether off or 
 on the stage, appearances are everything. Luckily 
 for him, Josselin now entered the room, and 
 announced that Mademoiselle Armande Bejart was 
 below, with only her honne and a magnificent 
 bouquet for Monsieur. Now came Moliere's chef 
 d'osuvre, for he felt that La Fore t's basilisk eyes 
 were upon him. At the theatre it would have 
 elicited thunders of applause, for never was there 
 a more finished and consummate piece of acting 
 than the admirable look of but half resigned, and 
 ill concealed, annoyance with which he flung 
 down the pen, and crumpling up his manuscript, 
 shook it in his clenched hand above his head, and 
 said, " Allom ! it is decreed that I am to be
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 17 
 
 interrupted, and that I am 7iot to have any peace 
 to-day ! " and then, plunging his left hand into 
 his bosom, he turned to Josselin with evidently 
 forced calm, and said — 
 
 " Beg of La Petite to wait ; I'll come to her 
 presently ; and — Josselin," calling the latter back, 
 as he was about to close the door, " don't say I 
 was angry at being interrupted, it would look un- 
 gracious as — as — she has brought me a bouquet 
 for vay fete.'" 
 
 Moliere now locked up his manuscript hastily, 
 to which haste, however, he endeavoured to give 
 the semblance of petulance by the jerk with which 
 he put the key of the bureau into his pocket, and 
 then taking the wig from the block he placed it 
 (with great care for a man so out of humour) on 
 his head." My good La Foret would you bring 
 me another cravat ?" 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with that one ?" 
 
 " Oh ! nothing — only the lace — that is, I 
 thought there were some spots of coffee on it." 
 
 " No more than in the moon," decided La Foret, 
 now examining the long ends minutely through a
 
 18 
 
 pair of large round spectacles, with iron rims, 
 which she had excavated from her pocket in order 
 to pass sentence, and which, whatever justice they 
 rendered to the cravat, by no means embellished 
 her nose, which appeared like a solitary mushroom, 
 sprung up in the plain of her very broad, flat, face 
 between two mountainous cheek bones." 
 
 " Well but La Foret, I should prefer the one 
 trimmed with Flanders lace." 
 
 " Flanders lace ! he knowing the difference ! or 
 caring what lace he wears ; poor man ! there can 
 be no douht about it ; it must have been sheer 
 sorcery ! the Jades ! they have bewitched him ! 
 Ah ! I'm sorry for him ; for I don't like the breed," 
 muttered the old woman, as she opened a drawer 
 in the inner room, and took out the cravat which 
 was adjusted with infinite pains by its owner; 
 when she returned with it, while in the back 
 ground, she accompanied every movement of her 
 master with an expressive pantomime, that con- 
 sisted in shaking her hands, and turning up her 
 eyes, which plainly expressed in dumb show, that 
 she considered that same fine Flanders lace cravat,
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 19 
 
 as the tempting Providence preliminary to a halter ! 
 And as she assisted Moliere to induct himself into 
 the murraj-colored coat, and observed the care 
 with which he bent forward, so as to prevent his 
 curls being crushed, her own head not being simi- 
 larly encumbered, she shook backwards and for- 
 wards, with the measured pendulum movement of 
 a Chinese joss. At length the labours of the toi- 
 let were ended. With a beating heart, Moliere 
 left the room to go down to Armande Bejart. As 
 soon as La Foret heard his step descending the 
 stairs, she seated herself close to the fire — resumed 
 her kniltting — and relieved her mind by once 
 more prophetically, and sympathetically, exclaim- 
 ing— 
 
 " The Poor Man ! "
 
 20 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In order to make the conversation between 
 Moliere and hisfemme de charge , in the foregoing 
 chapter more intelligible to the reader, previous 
 to accompanying the former down stairs, we will 
 cast a retrospective glance upon the last ten years 
 of his life. When he first began to personate 
 his own creations, and had enrolled his troupe, he 
 was far from having attained to the pinnacle of 
 celebrity, and what is better still popularity 
 (which is the social part of fame), on which we 
 find him at the commencement of this history ; 
 for merit of any kind, marvellously resembles 
 a rusty needle, which always finds great difiiculty
 
 HIS LIFE AJs^D TIMES. 21 
 
 in penetrating the double-milled, and cross- 
 grained tissue of public opinion, till difficulties 
 and perseverance act on it as moral friction and 
 emery, and render it sufficiently polished, and 
 pointed, to insinuate itself alike into the finest 
 or coarsest textures. The public, to do them 
 justice, are willing enough to be amused, delighted, 
 or even instructed ; but it is astonishing how 
 often the banquet has to be spread before them, 
 before they think it necessary to return thanks, 
 and bestow fame on the amphytrion who has 
 feasted them. And Moliere was no exception to 
 the rule. Ready made reputations, like established 
 religious creeds, never want votaries, it is so 
 much easier to follow and to echo, than it is to 
 discover and to lead. It is true, that from the 
 first, " La Troupe de Monsieur, or Theatre du 
 Petit Bourhon as his was called, was always full ; 
 and of course his coffers began to follow its 
 example ; still the outlay was enormously 
 disproportionate to the receipts, and the 
 eternal feuds and squabbles among the troupe 
 (each individual of which, male and female, thought
 
 22 MOLli:RE's TRAGEDY. 
 
 his or her transcendant talents alone were entitled 
 to the best roles) became harassing and disheart- 
 ening to the lessee in the highest degree ; for he 
 was not yet of sufficient renown to be an oracle, 
 and a fiat among his own ; as the appreciation in 
 which people are held by their intimates, or their 
 relatives, is generally forced upon the latter, by 
 the pressure from without. So that the only ad- 
 vantages Moliere reaped from his twin labours of 
 author and actor, were that his small apartment aw 
 quatrieme in the house of Monsieur Robinnet, 
 Rue Papejean aux BatignoUes, began to wear a 
 somewhat less sordid appearance ; and La Fore t con- 
 sequently scolded less, — did not quite so often pro- 
 phecy the total destructionof France, with the rest 
 of Europe bringing up the rear — if she missed, or 
 thought she missed, a log of wood, from the store 
 the water carrier brought up for the wreck's pro- 
 vision ; and she also became less extreme to mark 
 what her master did amiss in leaving the print of 
 his muddy shoes on the polished red brick floor ; 
 and she even occasionally substituted a bottle of 
 Fetit vin de Bourgogne, for the ordinary — and
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 23 
 
 execrable macon. It was about this time (1654), 
 that Madeleine Bejart joined his troupe aspre?7iiere 
 du gazon. She was then a young girl of nineteen ; 
 a tolerable actress and rather good-looking — in an 
 apocryphal style ; for she had not one regular 
 feature, nor much to boast of in the way of com- 
 plexion ; but still she had that je ne sais quoi, 
 which every one knoics very well is composed of 
 espieglerie — a pretty tour?ieur, and coquetry a 
 discretion — or, perhaps, the reverse. But what 
 chiefly interested Moliere, was her being an orphan, 
 and having her little sister, Armande, then a child 
 of seven years old, entirely dependant on her; and 
 though, even at that tia:ie, her squabbles with La 
 Grange, the rival theatrical queen, were incessant, 
 they were not yet, on account of Moliere, who 
 was not at that timiC sufficiently rich, or sufficiently 
 celebrated, to enter into the designs of so worldly 
 and ambitious a spirit as Madeleine Bejart's. 
 So she left him quietly to the then artless ad- 
 vances of her little sister, Armande, who loved 
 him as children love, for the sv;eets love brings ! 
 How much more disinterested is the love of
 
 24 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 adults ! for verily, they cannot love for the same 
 
 reason 
 
 For hours would this little creature sit upon 
 Moliere's knee, even while he wrote ; and when, 
 after numerous ineffectual efforts to make him 
 listen to histories of dolls and sugar-plums, she 
 would receive no other answer than a gentle pat 
 on the cheek, and a " c'est bien ma mignonne, by- 
 and-bye;" and then the pen would recommence 
 its monotonous travels over the paper ; Armande, 
 relinquishing all attempts at conversation, in 
 despair, would, with a sigh, bury her little face in 
 Moliere's bosom, and fall asleep — that blessed 
 peroration of all childish disappointments ! 
 
 Even the Hyperian curls of his best peruke, 
 ledioleni oi Rose Ambree^YfeTe not sacred to her. 
 Ink might be spilt on point-trimmed handker- 
 chiefs, and manuscripts torn or destroyed ; " that 
 child," as La Foret said, " was chartered," and 
 never blamed. One memorable anecdote in parti- 
 cular was extant of her childish omnipotence. 
 One day, that Moliere returned home to dress, as 
 he was to dine with Chapelle, he found Armande
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 25 
 
 on his bed, where his gala clothes were laid out, 
 at high romps with the cat ; the latter on her back, 
 with his best point d'alen^on cravat in ribbons 
 between her paws, and her companion applauding 
 her achievement with peals of laughter ? Moliere, 
 beside himself, was about to strike the cat, when 
 Armande, seizing his arm, burst into tears, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 Non, Non, 'petit Mari — Tt was not Mimie — it 
 was Armande ! " 
 
 " Then, Armande is a very naughty girl," said 
 Moliere, turning from her. 
 
 " No, no, kiss me andforgetit,"but Moliere turn- 
 ed his back on her and leant on the mantel-piece. 
 
 When Armande (then between eight and nine) 
 drew herself up with the air of a tragedy queen, 
 and walking out of the room said, 
 
 " You shall remember calling me a naughty 
 girl Sir, for I will never see you again." 
 
 Half an hour after, Moliere was at Madeleine 
 Bejart's lodgings, on his knees, asking Armande's 
 pardon : and, as he sued with pralines in one hand 
 and cherries in the other, he did not sue in vain. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Upon this episode of her master's life, La 
 Foret's commentary was a portentous shake of the 
 head, and a muttered " Aye ! cherish the viper, 
 till it is warm enough, and then it will sting you." 
 
 It is a curious anomaly in our bark of life, that 
 however skillfully steered, well disciplined, or 
 richly freighted, and however bravely it may 
 weather the storms of fate, it never progresses an 
 inch upon the stream of success, till it has re- 
 ceived an impetus from some great personage's 
 praise ; while, stranger still, their slightest breath 
 serves to inflate its sails, and launch it on the 
 full tide of prosperity. But lest the demi^God, 
 Genius ! should lord it after too Olympian a 
 fashion over the inferior clay of earth, it generally 
 right royally keeps a jester, and it is the Jool 
 that attracts, and for that Ye2ifion\s privileged. 
 
 This is the manner of Moliere's first launch. 
 It was one evening, in the Autumn of 1656, that 
 John Paul Gondi, then Cardinal de Retz, ex- 
 hausted at once by his own irregularities, and his 
 indefatigable zedlm preaching the purest morality 
 to the people and thus, like many other great
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 27 
 
 men (?) doing the work of vice, and receiving 
 the homage of virtue, found himself, by the 
 advice of his secretary, at Moliere's Theatre ; 
 which, according to the latter, was ike very best 
 place in all Paris for exorcising the demon 
 ennui. The play happened to be " Le Depit 
 Amoureux," and though his Eminence had ex- 
 perienced it so often, he was not a little delighted 
 at Moliere's new version of it. Therefore, telling 
 his secretary when he went out, to see for his chair, 
 to bespeak four boxes for him, for the following 
 evening, and to bring Moliere round to his box 
 then. He was so profuse in his compliments, 
 both with regard to the play, and the acting, that 
 in his double capacity, Moliere's modesty stood 
 on the defensive, and accused the Cardinal of a too 
 amiable facility of being pleased ; saying that he 
 was sure his Eminence's critical acumen must 
 pronounce a very diflferent verdict. 
 
 " By no means, my good Monsieur Poquelin," 
 said De Retz, between the parenthesis of his 
 ptisichy cough, as he complimentarily quoted these 
 linesfrom the play, *' /say with your Gros-Rene^^ 
 
 c 2
 
 28 MOLIEEE'S TEAGEDY. 
 
 * Four moi^ je ne sais point tant de philosophie. 
 Ce que voyent mes yeux ; franclicmcnt je my fie' 
 
 Indeed," added he, as he rose to depart, " your 
 fame had ah'eady reached me, for I recollect one 
 night at Mdlle. de L'Enclos', about three months 
 ago. Mademoiselle de Scudery telling me that 
 your plays, your theatre, and your acting, were all 
 equally perfect. Then^ I confess I thought she 
 exaggerated, but I now see she did not." 
 
 " On the contrary, your Eminence must be 
 more than ever convinced what charming romances 
 Mademoiselle de Scudery composes," bowed 
 Moliere. 
 
 "Nay, My good Monsieur Poquelin; of ro- 
 mances 1 dont pretend to be a judge, but I find 
 what she told me is the truth ; and you will not, 
 I hope, dispute my gospel knowledge. Good 
 night ; to-morrow I shall be here again, with some 
 friends. I have secured four boxes, as I hope to 
 find the theatre overflowing." 
 
 " Oh ! by the bye," added he, turning back, 
 "let me see you to-morrow morning. My levee 
 hour is from eleven to twelve, and that you may
 
 HIS LIFE A2^D TIMES. 29 
 
 be punctual, do me the favour of consulting mi/ 
 oracle, for we are all prone to regulate the whole 
 world by our own time ; " and so saying, the great 
 man left in the poor actor's hand his own magni- 
 ficent diamond repeater. 
 
 If "auger is like the letting out of water," a 
 gift which fortune sends, is generally like the 
 letting in of the same element; for where o?ie has 
 fallen, others are sure to follow, so that Moliere 
 was soon inundated ; the court and the city out- 
 vying each other in theii* largesses. Nevertheless, 
 he continued to inhabit the house of Monsieur 
 Robinnet, in the Rue Papejean, only exchanging 
 his small apartment au quatrieme, for a handsome 
 suite of rooms on the Jlez de Ckaussee, or ground 
 floor ; and adding thereto, a small but pleasant 
 country-house at Auteuil, the same in which he 
 has been first introduced to the reader. 
 
 Now indeed, his circumstances became worthy 
 of the attention of so shrewd and sensible a 
 woman, as Madeleine Bejart, than whom few 
 were wiser in their generation ; for she was deeply 
 imbued with the world's first great truth of all
 
 30 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 ages, which teaches, that human beings, in them- 
 selves are nothing ; but like Chessmen, whether of 
 pure gold, ivory, coloured bone, or common clay, 
 derive their sole value from their 'position, and 
 the victorious moves they make on the checquered 
 board of life ; and Moliere being 7ioiv Sipersonnage 
 — never did Madame de Maintenon, at a later 
 period, try harder to become sole proprietor of 
 the antiquated splendours of Louis Quatorze, 
 than did Madeleine Bejart at this juncture, to 
 share the rising splendours of Moliere. With 
 this difference, that Madeleine had no prejudices, 
 and she by no means insisted upon the Church 
 ratifying her title to the person, and personals, of 
 the great comedian. Yet even on these liberal 
 terms, he rejected the boon so freely oflfered him, 
 and then it was, that her jealousy of La Grange 
 became venomous and unbounded ; not only be- 
 cause her personal attractions were greater, but 
 because her acting being so superior, she naturally 
 occupied more of the time, attention, and appro- 
 bation of Moliere, who, without being the least 
 in love with La Grange, was glad to make her a
 
 HIS LIFE AKD TIMES. 31 
 
 safety valve of escape, from Madeleine, who, con- 
 founding cause, with effect, put no bounds to her 
 reproaches and her rage. But as lookers on, 
 generally see more of the game than the players. 
 La Foret began to fear, that to escape from 
 temporary annoyance, her master, like many 
 equally wise men, would foolishly invest his fate 
 in an annuity of misery, by marrying one or the 
 other; and this, she would have been deeply 
 grieved at, for though far from even then having 
 a very exalted opinion of Moliere's talents ; as 
 those who witness the first struggles, and failures, 
 of genius, can seldom bring themselves to believe 
 in the duration of even its meridian sun of 
 fame, but think that the early clouds and storms 
 will still return. Yet La Foret had a sort of 
 dogged savage love for the man, whose nature 
 was so guileless and attaching, which made her 
 wince under the idea of his having any domestic 
 tyrant but herself ; and, as she had done all the 
 sulking, snapping, and contradiction of the house- 
 hold for years, she justly thought, she was fully 
 competent to continue the office of tormentor-
 
 32 MOLIERE S TRAGEDY. 
 
 general, without any adjuncts whatever, over, or 
 under her. The deceitful calm of a week's 
 cessation of hostilities between the Bejart and 
 La Grange, would sometimes alarm her, and 
 make her think that her master had compromised 
 himself with one or the other; but, then again, 
 she would consider the matter, and, accelerating 
 her motions in winding her worsted, or knitting 
 her stocking, console herself, as Mrs. Malaprop 
 would have done a couple of centuries later, by 
 reflecting that there would be no danger, since 
 the " reciprocity was all on one side ! " while at 
 other times (as we have seen at the close of the 
 last chapter) her fears would return ; and she felt 
 convinced that if La Bejart was determined to 
 marry her master, she would marry him. Alas ! 
 poor blind animals that we are ; fears, like fire- 
 arms, do not always serve for our safeguard, 
 but too often explode at a time, and in a direction, 
 that we least expected. 
 
 While La Foret was fearing, and Madeleine was 
 hoping. Time flew, dropping from his wing 
 into the heart of Moliere much greater fears, and
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 33 
 
 much wilder hopes. Armande, from a young 
 child, had become a young girl ; nothing could 
 have been more gradual, and natural, than this 
 transition, yet nothing more sudden than the 
 electric shock by which Moliere first received 
 intelligence of it. Although perceiving how 
 rapidly the child grew, for the last two years, 
 he had ceased to kiss, and to fondle her, in- 
 stead of which, he gave her lessons in elocution 
 and in acting, and felt a sort of paternal pride in 
 his pupil ; nay, it was a two-fold pride, for, as 
 with much talent, and exquisite tact, she embodied 
 his conceptions, he felt that she also was his 
 creation, and for the six months she had now- 
 been on the stage, the plaudits her daily 
 increasing popularity received, excited strange 
 tumults in his bosom ; for, while he felt a sort 
 of exulting pride at them, they occasioned a 
 reaction of doubt and disappointment that he 
 could not explain to himself, and which indeed as- 
 sumed no tangible form till the envy of Madeleine 
 at her sister's brilliant success, burst forth in all 
 the malignity of that vile passion, and made her 
 
 c3
 
 34 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 exercise towards the latter, all those subtle and 
 implacable acts of tormenting, of which female 
 malice possesses the masonic secret, and all the 
 tyrannical despotism which relations have the 
 power of resorting to, when death, or chance, 
 delegates to them a spurious parental authority. 
 
 It was one mornins^ after Armande had 
 achieved a more than usually brilliant histrionic 
 triumph, that Madeleine had made a scene, in 
 which she had not spared a single opprobrious 
 epithet in her voluminous vocabulary, on her more 
 youthful, more attractive, and, worse than all, 
 more successful sister, telling her that 7io girl of 
 her age, who had any sense of propriety, could 
 act with such aplomb (for Satan is never tired 
 of reproving sin, in this world). And this 
 harangue, which took place in Armande's 
 theatrical dressing-room, she perorated by tearing 
 the latter's flagitiously becoming night's-before 
 costume to ribbons, and strewing it over the field 
 of battle, after which, she departed with a terrific 
 slam of the door, leaving Armande bathed in 
 tears, not, it must be confessed, so much at her
 
 ms LIFE AND TIMES. '35 
 
 sister's displeasure as over the manes of her de- 
 molished finery. Scarcely had the enemy re- 
 treated, before a knock came to the door. 
 
 " Come in," sobbed Armande, only too glad 
 to have a witness to her distress. It was 
 Moliere, but instead of taking a chair near her, 
 he stood behind one, at the furthest possible 
 distance from her, and leaning over it, he said, in 
 a tremulous voice, as he looked at her with a 
 most tender compassion : — 
 
 "Armande ! my child ; I have seen your sister, 
 and — and — perhaps she is right. I think you 
 are too young, too — too — inexperienced for 
 the stage." 
 
 " What 1 then," said Armande, with a sort of 
 proud defiance, that but ill disguised her anguish 
 and despair, " are yoUi also, against me ? do you, 
 too, think that, instead of improving, I am losing 
 my art? " 
 
 "Just heaven! no, quite the contrary," inter- 
 rupted Moliere ; " but the stage is a fearful and 
 a perilous career for a young girl, and there is — ■ 
 most unquestionably there is — something pollut-
 
 36 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 ing, something desecrating, in being exposed to 
 the full gaze of every profligate, and insulted 
 with the coarse licence of their applause ! " 
 
 And as he spoke, Moliere clenched his hands as 
 convulsively as if he had been crushing their 
 plaudits in their throats, and then opened them, 
 each finger trembling as violently as if it had 
 committed a separate and special murder. 
 
 Armande dried her tears, and stared at him, 
 first, with unaffected surprise, and then, burst- 
 ing into an affected laugh, she crossed her small 
 white hands, with the same inimitable grace that 
 she did everything, and said, *' Surely you are 
 jesting sir ? " 
 
 " Oh ! no, Armande, it is no jest, it is a truth, 
 a sad truth, that the stage is the last place where 
 a young girl, gifted as you are, if she has a 
 pure and noble mind, should appear." 
 
 " Ah ! indeed, then should she starve, or eat 
 the bread of charity ? " 
 
 " Charity ! Oh Armande, Armande ! Have I 
 deserved this ? " 
 
 " Sugar it as you will, it is still the bread of
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 37 
 
 charity, if I do not work to earn it for myself. 
 Madeleine has told me so too often for me to 
 forget it ; she says that but for yoUf I must have 
 perished long ago, and that yoic only befriended 
 me to please Aer." 
 
 " Madeleine is mistaken." 
 
 " Then why did you befriend me ? for I should 
 like to know, that she may not always take the 
 credit of it." 
 
 *' Not certainly that you might become an 
 actress," said Moliere huskily, as he plunged his 
 right hand into his bosom, and walked to and 
 fro. 
 
 " Then why did you take such pains to teach 
 me to act ?" 
 
 *•' Because I'm a fool! " 
 
 ^' Nay," said Armande archly, '•' as it is the 
 first time I have heard that accusation, I 
 certainly cannot believe it, till it is better authen- 
 ticated." 
 
 " You may — you must believe it — for I shall 
 act with you no more ; I at all events, will not 
 be guilty of encouraging you in your destruc-
 
 38 molii^re's tragedy. 
 
 tion ! " And he paced the room with increased 
 velocity. 
 
 " Then Monsieur ^^ rejoined Armande, making 
 him a low curtsey, I must only act without you, 
 and I shall not be the first heau talent which has 
 struggled to celebrity unassisted by its best 
 friendsr 
 
 There was a tone of irony in her last words, 
 which stung Moliere to the quick ; but here their 
 conversation was interrupted. He was, however, 
 as good as his word ; for from that day, he ceased 
 to act with her, and thought himself a paragon of 
 wisdom for so doing, which could not have been 
 the case, for wisdom is said to make people happy 
 — and decidedly Moliere was, from that, out, 
 wretched in the extreme, at seeing her act with 
 others ; but still, he champed his misery, and his 
 perseverance together ; for he did not swerve from 
 his resolution. And as he did all he could to avoid 
 Armande, for like Fabius Maximus, doubting his 
 own resources, he thought the best way of coming 
 off victorious, with a pow^erful enemy, was by shun- 
 ning them ; therefore the preposterous idea never
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 39 
 
 occurred to him that he was in love with her ! And as 
 we have before said, when at last he was made ac- 
 quainted with the fact, it was a perfect electric 
 shock to him. Here is the way it came about ; 
 he was calling one morning at Madeleine's lodg- 
 ings upon a matter of business, at an hour when 
 he knew, or thought, her younger sister would be 
 at the theatre ; it so happened, however, that they 
 were both out ; but the servant said, that Made- 
 moiselle Bejart would not be long before she was 
 back, if he would walk in, and sit down. He did 
 so, and seeing the harpsichcn open, at which he had 
 so often heard Armande play and sing, he seated 
 himself before it, and began with one finger, try- 
 ing to make out the air of a romance, then much 
 in vogue, which she was in the habit of singing, 
 called — 
 
 *• La Violette des Bois." 
 
 He had been for about half an hour, heating 
 the woods (at least as much of them as had been 
 taken to make the hammers of the harpsichon), and 
 up-rooting the poor violet, with the sharpest, and 
 most spade-like sounds, accompanying every false
 
 40 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 note he played with a " tut ! tut ! no — that's not 
 it ! *' when presently he heard a silvery laugh 
 behind him, and a well-known sweet voice, 
 saying— 
 
 " NOf most certainly, that's not it! and the 
 next moment, a small, warm, satiny hand was 
 laid on his, to conduct it over the right keys, 
 while a cluster of soft ambrosial brown curls fell 
 like a shower of Cupids on his cheek, as their 
 owner bent over him ; it was Armande ! had he 
 been stung by an adder, he could not have with- 
 drawn his hand more quickly, as he uttered 
 a faint exclamation, and fell back in his chair. 
 
 " Heavens ! you are ill ! you are in a high 
 fever ! " cried Armande, now feeling his pulse, 
 which certainly galloped at fever speed, under the 
 pressure of her touch. 
 
 " Yes — no — that is — I mean — I believe I have 
 a fever of some sort," said Moliere, rising and 
 walking to the mantel-piece, in order to escape 
 from the scrutin}'- of her eyes. 
 
 " How very imprudent of you to go out then ; 
 I will send for Doctor Rohault directly," said
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 41 
 
 she, looking really anxious, and distressed, as she 
 had her hand on the handle of the door, in 
 order to leave the room, and send for the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " No, no," cried Moliere, catching her dress, 
 *•' I'm not ill, indeed I am not, but should yoic 
 be sorry if I was, Armande ? " 
 
 "Should I be sorry? What a question! To 
 be sure I should be sorry, what would all Paris 
 do?" 
 
 ''Ah!" sighed her interrogator, "always in 
 the fashion, Armande ! you would only then 
 be sorry for me, because you think all Paris 
 would be so ? " 
 
 " Not at all in the fashion, for I'm sure it's not 
 at all the fashion for women to care for their 
 husbands, and you know you are mon petit Mari ? " 
 said the young girl, coaxingly laying her hand 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Don't, Armande," said he, retreating back a 
 few paces, with a sort of shudder. 
 
 " Don't what ? I am very unfortunate ! you 
 seem alivays angry with me now; surely, though
 
 42 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 it was so wrong all of a sudden for me to be an 
 actress (the only thing I can be) it cannot be 
 wrong for me to call you 'petit Mari, for have not 
 I done so all my life ? " 
 
 " Alas I yes, but you are too old, and I am 
 much too old now for you to do so any longer ; 
 it becomes an inconaenance — a — a — bitter bad 
 jest, Armande." 
 
 " There is no use in denying it, decidedly you 
 must be ill, for you turn white, and red, and then 
 livid again, all in a moment 1 so I will send for 
 Rohault." 
 
 ''On no account;" said Moliere, seizing his 
 large broad leafed feather trimmed hat, and 
 slouching it as much as possible over his eyes. " I 
 have urgent business now ; tell your sister I shall 
 return another day," and the next moment, he had 
 closed the door after him, and was rushing down 
 the stairs, leaving Armande convinced that he 
 was either out of his senses, or in a fever ; in 
 which surmise she was doubly right, for his 
 malady partook of both symptoms, as he was in 
 love, and had for the first time made the disco-
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 43 
 
 very. He hurried along the streets, jostling 
 and jostled, his mind a perfect chaos, from which, 
 however, Armando rose like a beautiful creation : 
 and then for a moment he thought, perhaps she 
 would marry him ; but it was only for a moment ; 
 though it was not Armando's rejection, nor even 
 Armande's ridicule, that he dreaded ; no ; it was 
 the world wide sneer that ever pursues an 
 apostate, the contemptuous pity with which the 
 disciples of a deserted faith aye bid farewell, 
 to the convert of a new creed. " Oh I see it, I 
 feel it all beforehand," writhed he, in his mental 
 soliloquy, " /, Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere, 
 the High Priest of Celibacy ! the great Blasphemer 
 of Marriage ! calling its solemn mystery, Love 
 doing Penance ! I, the Aristophanes of husbands ! 
 whom my *' clouds" of ridicule have compassed, 
 as those of the caustic Athenian did Socrates ; / 
 who have outstripped thee, Fran9ois Rabelais, in 
 my jibes against conjugalities, now to read my 
 recantation, and become a target in the courts 
 of Hymen, for every fool to pick up my spent 
 arrows, and aim them back at me : nay, to have
 
 44 MOLIERE'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 the very sex at whose shrine my liberty is 
 immolated, the loudest in their declamations. 
 A Paris edition of the Ecclesiazusce. No, no. 
 Verily, my good friends, I cannot oblige you. 
 Fool I Ass ! Idiot ! " exclaimed he aloud, still 
 hurrying on, with his eyes bent on the ground. 
 Just as he passedNinon de L'Euclos' house, in the 
 Rue des Tournelles — 
 
 " u4h pa, Mon cher Poquelin,'' cried the Due de 
 La Rochefoucault, who was about to knock at 
 Ninon's door, placing both his hands upon 
 Moliere's shoulders ; " take care what you are 
 about ; for though I have not the least doubt that 
 nothing can be more appropriate, for every nine 
 men out of ten, than the names you are so liberally 
 bestowing, yet, in thus publicly performing the 
 rites, without the ceremony of a christening, you 
 may chance to infringe upon the prerogative, and 
 consequently incur the displeasure of our good 
 friend, the Bishop of Meaux ,-* besides, there is 
 an innate modesty in all civilized society, which 
 
 * Bossuet.
 
 HIS LIFE ASV TlilES. 45 
 
 causes its members to be greatly shocked at the 
 sight of Truth in the unadorned state in which 
 she leaves her well ; they don't like it ; and 
 they invariably evince their displeasure by 
 turning their backs on her as much as possible. 
 Witness the scurvy reception my maxims have 
 had. There is not a single vice or absurdity that 
 I have analysed, but what there has been some 
 fool to start up, and resent it as a personality ! 
 Yet the best of the joke is, that though each is 
 so eager to claim, and proclaim, their own indivi- 
 dual property, all are agreed to hoot me, as if I 
 Francois de la Rochefoucault were the millionnaire 
 monopolizer of all their separate peccadillos. Ah ! 
 my dear Moliere, you are the knowing hand. You 
 don't attack all mankind indiscriminately ; you 
 have selected the four most unpopular genus — 
 husbands, hypocrites, misers, and medicos ; and as 
 you are not very likely to become the three 
 first,and keep clear of the Pharmacopia, you bring 
 down your game from behind a hedge. By-the- 
 bye, considering you have deserted us for so many 
 months, I never saw * Le Depit Amoureux ' better
 
 46 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 cast than it was last night. The little Bejart was 
 charming in Lucille, Don't you think so ? " 
 
 "I don't admire her acting," said Moliere, 
 curtly, but with perfect truth, though not exactly 
 in the sense his auditor took it. 
 
 " Then, upon my word, you must be most un- 
 happily difficult to please." 
 
 *' Perhaps so," said Moliere, 
 
 ** And yet," resumed the Due, " I have heard 
 others, too, say that they think she has fallen off; 
 especially, that she is not so happy in her inimi- 
 table bye-play as she used to be, when she acted 
 with you." 
 
 " Ah ! Indeed !" said Moliere, an involuntary, 
 but transient gleam of joy flitting across his 
 face. 
 
 " Why, really, my dear Poquelin, an i//natured 
 person — which I am not — would think you 
 were pleased at poor little Armande's retro- 
 grading." 
 
 *' Perhaps," again smiled Moliere, ** for no one 
 should be better aware than the Due de la 
 Rochefoucault, that there is always sometkiny in
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 47 
 
 the misfortunes even of our best friends, which is 
 not displeasing to usJ" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! Et tu quoque Brute /'' laughed 
 the Duke, again putting both his hands on 
 Mohere's shoulders, and then shaking him, as 
 he added, giving one loud knock on the ponderous 
 doors of Mademoiselle de L'Enclos' Hotel, *' Are 
 you coming in?" to which the other, answering 
 in the negative, they exchanged adieux and 
 separated ; Moliere walking on abstractedly, till 
 he found himself at the other end of Paris, half 
 way to Auteuil, still pondering his own thoughts, 
 or rather his one thought of Armande, of which 
 Memory was the lever, and Hope the fulcrum, 
 till roused by the rapidly falling leaves, which 
 strewed the road on either side, and kept 
 dancing before, and eddying round him, for it 
 was the latter end of October. 
 
 " Ah," said he aloud, as he walked on, his eyes 
 bent on the ground, as he cleared himself 
 a passage, by putting the crisp and yellow leaves 
 away on either side, with his stick. " Nature 
 never lacks apt illustrations whereby to demon-
 
 48 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 strate to us the perishable tenure of all things 
 fresh and fair : had not these leaves been so 
 green, they would not be so withered now ; and 
 of all birds, surely the lark is the silliest ; for it 
 soars the highest into the heavens to quaff golden 
 nectar from the sun, and by building in the most 
 tufted trees, woos its own martyrdom of winter 
 clouds and bare branches. Better far, to be the 
 lone martlet on the house top, whose few tame 
 negative joys are not sufficiently costly, to be paid 
 by future suffering. 
 
 Armande my wife ? tush ! m.adness — folly ! at 
 best. Mine, and 7iot mine ; for all who see her, 
 admire her ; and oh, worse still, she likes being 
 admired, an execrable fault. Fancy the clustering 
 grapes of one's own vine losing their purple bloom 
 beneath the coarse gaze of every boor that praised 
 their luxuriant beauty. Who would have a vine 
 were such the case ? Not I, for one. Then, as I 
 said before, to have all my own poisoned arrows 
 come whizzing back to me, till I became a public 
 laughing-stock, a perfect Marital St. Sebastian ! 
 No, no, the very idea is preposterous ; for though
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBLES. 49 
 
 the sugar Love infuses into our cup of life is the 
 purest, the sweetest, and the most refined of all but 
 once tested by the subtle and searching chemistry 
 of Hymen, there is plenty of acid to be discovered 
 in it. Come then, courage, prudence, and self- 
 control, ye are the only alteratives within my 
 reach." The result of these resolutions was, 
 that Moliere avoided Armande more than ever. 
 Was he in consequence happier, or wiser ? Time 
 will tell. 
 
 It was about six weeks after the above soliloquy 
 that he was sitting by his own fire- side, in the 
 Rue Papejean, finishing " Les Precleuses Ridi- 
 cules,'' when he was startled by a loud ring at the 
 door of his ante-room ; and as he recollected a sort 
 of half engagement he had made with La Fontaine, 
 to go and pass the day with him, at Madame de 
 la Sabliere's ; thinking it was " le honhomme' 
 now come for him, he laid down his pen, and 
 opening a drawer of the library table at which he 
 was writing, threw his paper into it, and locked it. 
 He had scarcely done so, ere the ring was re- 
 peated more violently than before, whereat he 
 
 VOL. I, D
 
 50 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 remembered that he had sent Josselin of a message, 
 and that La Foret had announced to him about a 
 quarter of an hour before, that she was going only 
 as far as the laundress', and would be back imme- 
 diately ; but as in ail ages, and in all countries, 
 whenever servants, male, or female, are only going 
 to the laundress', and will he hack immediatelyy 
 some unforeseen circumstances are sure to detain 
 them at least an hour ; Moliere had the good sense 
 to decide upon opening the door himself, but had 
 a schrapnel forced its way through, he could have 
 scarcely been more astounded, than he was at the 
 appearance of Armando, who rushed in, bathed in 
 tears, and flinging herself on her knees before him, 
 exclaimed, between several hysterical sobs — 
 
 " Save me ! Oh do save me from Madeleine, or 
 I shall throw myself into the Seine, for I can 
 bear it no longer." 
 
 " But how can I save you my child ?" asked 
 he, raising her, and trying to place her in a chair, 
 but instead of seconding his endeavours, her 
 head leant forward, and she fell sobbing on his 
 shoulder ; it was now his turn to want support.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 5i 
 
 his feet appeared to be giving way from under 
 him, and with his burden he tottered back a few 
 paces, and sank upon a sofa ; if he had a defined 
 wish at that moment, and it could have been 
 riveted into a fruition, it would have been to have 
 sat /or ever silently there, with Armande's head, 
 leaning on his shoulder, but he was too happy 
 not to feel that he was doing wrong, or at least to 
 have a vague notion that he ought to do some- 
 thing to put an end to his happiness, so he spoke, 
 to break the spell, and said — 
 
 " But how can I save you from her my child ? " 
 *' By getting me an engagement in the Pro- 
 vinces ; anything, no matter what ! " Moliere 
 turned very pale ; here was an evil he had never 
 anticipated ; for although he voluntarily excluded 
 himself from her presence, he never contem- 
 plated the possibility of her being at a real and 
 positive distance from him ! and now, as the 
 electric plummet of a new torture, suddenly 
 dived into the soundings of his heart, he felt that in 
 misery's " lowest depths," there was " a deeper 
 still ! " 
 
 d2
 
 52 moliere's tragedi. 
 
 " Impossible ! my child," he at length faltered 
 out, '* so young ! so inexperienced ! unfriended 
 and alone ! in that basest of Pandemoniums, a 
 Provincial Theatre ! never ! " 
 
 *' Then," said Armande passionately lifting up 
 her face, untying her hat, and flinging it from 
 her, " let me stay here, for I will 7iot return to 
 Madeleine." 
 
 " Stay here ! " exclaimed Moliere, trembling 
 violently. " More impossible still ! that is if 
 you — if I — I mean unless you were my wife, and 
 — and — you would not marry me, would you 
 Armande ? " added he, lowering his voice to an 
 almost inaudible whisper, and taking her hand. 
 
 " And why not ?" replied Armande, a sudden 
 gleam of joy darting through her tears ; for 
 although to do her justice, she had never had any 
 designs upon Moliere — being by far too impulsive 
 a character to be artful — yet, with all her woman's 
 quickness, solving at once a whole gnarle of 
 problems, she at a glance took in (nay she even 
 exaggerated) all the advantages of position she 
 would derive from becoming Moliere's wife, for
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 53 
 
 was he not the idol both of the Court and the 
 Town, and in marrying him would she not also 
 wed his celebrity ; and participate by " right 
 divine " (or at least human) in the offerings laid 
 upon his shrine ; and as each individual's world is 
 the circle, be it narrow or wide, in which they 
 " live, move, and have their being," Moliere 
 being the sun of her social system, she would at 
 least reflect in lunar rays his splendour! but more, 
 and most of all, she then might queen it over 
 Madeleine ! nay, the one signal victory of carry- 
 ing off Moliere from her was without any other 
 advantage, quite sufficient to cause her almost a 
 delirium of joy, and if she had never thought of 
 doing so before, it was because, from the fact of 
 her knowing that her sister had laid a ten years 
 siege to him, custom had in her mind hedged him 
 round with a sort of spurious fraternity, the 
 boundaries of which she never dreamt of over- 
 stepping, but now that he himself had made a 
 slight opening in this barrier — and she had at a 
 single glance taken in the brilliant vista that lay 
 beyond it, Coquetry slept on its post— and thus
 
 54 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 surprised, she had with unaffected delight, 
 replied, " And why not ? " 
 
 ** Oh, Arraande ! dear Armande ! " exclaimed 
 the too happy Moliere, now seizing both her 
 hands, as he knelt before her ; while with one 
 deep, adoring look, he anchored that rich argosy 
 — ^his soul — freighted with life-long hopes, in her 
 young eyes. " Do you then love me enough to 
 marry me ? — me ! — old enough to be your father ?" 
 " Indeed I do love you well enough to marry 
 you twice over, were you old enough to be my 
 grandfather ! " 
 
 Poor Moliere ! he heard the words , and neither 
 knew, nor heeded, the source from whence they 
 sprang ; and it would have availed him little if he 
 had — for there are moral, as well as physical 
 poisons, so subtle as to have no test, and which 
 are only made manifest by their deadly effects. 
 The next moment after those words were uttered, 
 he had folded Armande convulsively in his arms, 
 and beyond the small circle that those arms 
 bound, there ivas no world for him ; as, in those 
 few seconds, the essence of a whole life had been
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 55 
 
 distilled into one costly drop of happiness ! While 
 he is quaffing it we will take the opportunity of 
 describing this woman — who exercised so omni- 
 potent an influence over Moliere — and we will do 
 it in his own words : ** Her eyes were not large, 
 but they were dark and full of fire, at once 
 brilliant and earnest, and yet of the most touching 
 expression that can be imagined ; her mouth was 
 rather large, but it seemed to have been purposely 
 moulded so by the Graces, in order the better to 
 display her most pearl-like teeth. She was not 
 tall, but still so willowy and graceful, that the 
 absence of height was not perceptible. She 
 rather affected a degree of nonchalance in her 
 carriage and manner of speaking, but, with all, 
 there was an irresistable, because undefinable 
 charm about her, that insinuated itself into every 
 heart. As for her intellect, it was the most subtile 
 and delicate possible ; and if she was the most 
 capricious person in the whole world, and what 
 would have been past bearing in any body else ; she 
 no doubt was so, to show people how every thing, 
 even the worst faults became her, and to convince
 
 56 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 them, there was nothing that they could not, and 
 would not, bear from her. Her voice," to borrow 
 the words of another contemporary, *'was so im- 
 ploringly touching, that when she acted, any one 
 would have been persuaded that the feeling was 
 really in her heartf which was only in her words; 
 and even when she had ceased speaking, and her 
 immediate role was ended, there was in her coun- 
 tenance such mobility, power, and eloquence of 
 expression, that her bye-play became a wonderous 
 antithesis of silent declamation." 
 
 " Armande, mine ! my own ! " said Moliere, as 
 soon as he could speak. " Did my ears deceive 
 me, or did I hear aright, that you would marry 
 me even were I old enough to be your grand- 
 father?" 
 
 "Your ears did not deceive you, neither do I, 
 petit mari" replied the young girl, patting his 
 cheek, " so the sooner we are married the better." 
 
 These words grated unpleasantly on the ear of 
 the bridegroom elect, for two reasons, first, 
 because there was an off-hand business-like barter 
 and exchange tone about them, that wounded
 
 HIS LIFE a:nt) times. 57 
 
 his love ; and next, because there was an un- 
 feminine and soulless boldness in them that hurt 
 his self-love. 
 
 " Ah ! " sighed he, *' it is not me, Jean Baptiste, 
 that she loves ! it is Moliere ! the well off, celebrity ! 
 that she is ready to sacrifice herself to ! Oh ! 
 Armande ! Armande ! " groaned he aloud, " you 
 do not love me ; therefore I will not accept the 
 sacrifice you are ready to make of your youth and 
 your beauty, to such a one as I am ; for never 
 shall you have to reproach me, or worse still, 
 never will I reproach myself for having, in a 
 moment of selfishness, taken advantage of your 
 position ; no, no, never ! A life long regret is far 
 better than even a momentary remorse." And 
 he buried his face in the cushions of the sofa. 
 
 Armande in a moment perceived the mistake 
 she had made ; nor, indeed, was she wholly in- 
 sensible to the depth, the fervour, and the one- 
 ness of his all-absorbing love for her ; how should 
 she be ? for there is a magnetic power in all high, 
 pure, and noble natures, which raises for the 
 time being, that inferior ones are within the 
 
 D 3
 
 58 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 sphere of their influence, even the most inferior, 
 in some sort, to their own level. So that even 
 Armande Bejart's heart, all toilette as it was, with 
 its little conventional sentiments du repertoire, 
 became infected with the strong feeling of the 
 man, and touched by the deep devotion of his love 
 till now in her turn, kneeling beside him, taking 
 his passive hand, and pressing it within hers, as 
 she leant her soft and glowing cheek against 
 his, she said, in that low, sweet voice, all persua- 
 sion, and half tears, for which she was so re- 
 nowned, — 
 
 " Jean ! look at me ! " She had never called 
 him Jean before ; and she knew in so naming him 
 for the^r*^ time ! she was becoming sponsor for 
 her own success. ** Dear Jean, don't let us begin, 
 as most married people end, by a misunderstand- 
 ing ; don't think me forward and bold for saying 
 the sooner we were married the better ; but think 
 how kind you have been (and you alone) to me 
 all my life; and I was wild with joy ! at the idea 
 that I should be your wife ! and then, that neither 
 Madeleine, nor any one else, would have the
 
 HIS LIEE AND TBIES. 59 
 
 power of tormenting me, and that I should have 
 a right to love and cling to you." 
 
 " And would you love and cling to me, and me 
 only, Armande ? " 
 
 " Ah ! Mechant ! you doubt it ?" was Armande's 
 only reply, as she placed her little hand before 
 his mouth, where it was soon filled with kisses. 
 Moliere then raised her; but, somehow or other, 
 he mistook his knee for the sofa, and seated her 
 on it : while she made a similar blunder with 
 regard to his neck, which, no doubt, she took for 
 the arm of the couch, as she put hers round it, 
 as naturally as possible. Poor Aloliere ! He 
 had but a choice between two evils — either to 
 reason with her upon their mutual folly, or to 
 kiss her ; and, as it is always far easier to do a 
 foolish thing than even to say a wise one, he 
 adopted the latter alternative ; after which, draw- 
 ing a long breath, that was something more than 
 a sigh, he said, holding Armande at a little dis- 
 tance from him, and looking intently, yet wander- 
 ingly, into both her eyes, as if determined tliat, 
 should the truth escape him in one, he would 
 overtake it in the other, he said —
 
 60 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 "And is not my pretty Armande afraid of 
 being laughed at for marrying such an old fellow 
 as I am ? " 
 
 " Par example ! " retorted Armande, archly, 
 holding up her finger, and shaking it at him ; 
 *' there's a Jesuitical poltron ! Who's the Tar- 
 tufe^^ pray, now, sir ? You are frightened at my 
 youth, and want to scare me with your age ! But 
 it won't do ! You are accustomed to make the 
 world laugh, not at^ but with you ; and, if I am 
 to be laughed at, I promise you, they shall not 
 have all the laughter to themselves. For, since 
 those may laugh that win, who will have a better 
 right to laugh than I ? " 
 
 ^'Armande I Armande ! tu me rends fou I " cried 
 Moliere, again convulsively pressing her to his 
 heart, and indeed he asserted little more than the 
 exact truth ; for he had now attained that acme 
 of beatified delirium, wherein the heart overflows, 
 and the determination of feeling to the brain 
 
 * Tartufe was written, and known to his whole troupe, 
 for many years before Moliere dared to publish, and act it . 
 and it was only by dint of Louis Quatorze — who was not 
 yet Maintenoned — upholding him against a strong caba 
 that it was at last acted.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 61 
 
 subverts reason, and her whole court of conse- 
 quences, and renders a man as maleable as wax in 
 the hands of a woman, or vice versa, as the case 
 may be ; But Moliere, though at that moment he 
 would not have exchanged \sdth any of the gods, 
 was but mortal ; and it is given to none of us, to 
 float for any length of time, in the tepid, ambro- 
 sial, and intoxicating aether of the ideal, without 
 falling into the cold, stagnant pool of reality be- 
 neath, and being disagreeably sobered by the plunge. 
 Armande again began to urge their immediate 
 marriage ; and though she now did so, with a tact, 
 a delicacy, and yet an abandon, which, while they 
 left her lover's affection nothing to wish, also gave 
 it nothing to fear ; still it opened his eyes sud- 
 denly, and unpleasantly, to the full view of one of 
 those inextricable dilemmas, which moral cowards 
 are, from their pusillanimity, always barricading 
 themselves with ; the fact was, that in order to 
 escape from the toils of Madeleine Bejart, Moliere 
 had for the last ten years been solemnly assuring 
 her, that if any woman could induce him to test 
 by personal experience, that ^^ Invention Mirijique,''
 
 62 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 as Rabelais called marriage, it would be her ; but 
 that even she was not potent enough to tempt 
 him to enter a state, which he had devoted all his 
 wit, if not all his wisdom, to ridiculing. This 
 particular phase of his fear of her sister, he did 
 not of course communicate to Armande ; but 
 merely founded his objection to their immediate 
 union, upon the general awe in which the latter 
 stood of Madeleine, in common with himself ; and 
 the frightful state of warfare into which her dis- 
 pleasure would plunge them ; but at the end of 
 half an hour, all Moliere's objections were ex- 
 hausted, and his companion was too good a tac- 
 titian not to let him expend them ; and then gain 
 her point by a compromise. So in her turn, she 
 urged that without being his wife, she could 
 neither return to seek his advice and support, nor 
 endure her sister's despotism ; but that armed with 
 the secret knowledge that he was her husband, 
 and that in the event of any catastrophe she could 
 openly claim his protection, and compel Madeleine 
 to yield to his paramount authority, she should 
 have courage to endure anything, and he then
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 63 
 
 need not make their marriage public till it quite 
 suited him to do so. All this was too congenial to 
 Moliere's love, and too flattering to his vanity, not 
 to lull his better judgment into a deceitful repose, 
 and silence his last faint remonstrances. Armande's 
 arm was round his neck — Armande's eyes were 
 diving through his, into his very soul — and Ar- 
 mande's gentle breath was on his cheek, driving 
 back, with the strength of a tempest, all his reso- 
 lutions, till the whole world, and even its " dread 
 laugh," became as dust in the balance, weighed 
 against her smile. And he was now as anxious as 
 she was, to rivet their compact indissolubly, but 
 from a very different motive. Hers was to secure a 
 position ; his, to secure her. At length, he gave 
 utterance to his thoughts : 
 
 "Yes, Armande — dear Armande ! — my Ar- 
 mande ! You shall return to your temporary 
 tyrant, as my wife — my little wife ! Oh ! how 
 happy that sounds ! It circles round my heart, 
 and makes it glow like a draught of sunshine ! " 
 And agaiQ he put back her clustering ringlets, 
 with both his hands, and kissed her fair high
 
 64 MOLli^RE'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 forehead, as he added : " Yes, this very day — • 
 this very hour ! We will go to the Pere Tas- 
 chereau, the Cure of this parish. How fortu- 
 nate ! that La Foret should be out ! — and Jos- 
 sehn, too ! So that no one will know that you 
 have been here." 
 
 But he had scarcely ended his gratulations, 
 before a loud ring pealed at the door. 
 
 Peste ! cried Moliere, — quick — your hat, gloves, 
 and hood, and go into this closet — it's only the 
 honhomme, and I'll soon get rid of him." 
 
 " But if he sees me here," trembled Armande, 
 " what a pretty history he will make of it." 
 
 " History ! — hardly, my pretty coward — coming 
 from him, every one would be sure to take it for 
 a fable ^^ rejoined Moliere, as he pushed her into 
 the closet and hastened to open the outer door. 
 The visitor was, as he had surmised, La Fontaine, 
 come by appointment to take him back to dinner. 
 On opening the door, he discovered the former 
 holding a piece of paper against the wall, and 
 writing on it. " Ezcusez mon cher Jean,* said 
 Moliere, but I am obliged to go out on very
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 65 
 
 urgent business, but shall not be more than half- 
 an-hour absent, if you will walk in and sit down." 
 
 " Ah ! obliged to go out on urgent business ! " 
 repeated La Fontaine, evidently in a brown study, 
 as he placed the pencil with which he had been 
 writing against his chin, while, holding out his 
 left hand to Moliere, he began an elaborate apo- 
 logy for being obliged to go out and leave him !" 
 
 '* Mais 7ion, honhomme,'^ said his host, laughing, 
 and shaking him by both shoulders. 
 
 " It is /, Moliere, who am obliged to go out, 
 and leave you; for this is my house." 
 
 " Ah ! — a la honneheure ! — that is better ; then 
 I can go in, and finish my fable before you 
 return ? " 
 
 " Yes surely," said his companion, smiling, as 
 they now walked into the salon together, and 
 Moliere placed the same chair for his guest that 
 he himself had vacated on Armande's arrival, while 
 La Fontaine lost no time, but elongating his feet 
 under the table, and withdrawing the skirts of his 
 coat from under him, next proceeded to lay his 
 hat on the table, tuck the long ends of his laced
 
 66 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 cravat through a button-hole, and dip his pen 
 into the ink, with a long drawn " Ah ! that's 
 something like; one's pen trots without spurs, 
 now ; how I hate writing with a pencil, it's like 
 goading a jaded horse, horiy c'est pa, and he read 
 aloud as he wrote. 
 
 " J'ai vu heaucoup d'hymens ; aucuns d'eux 
 ne me tentent." 
 
 Apropos,^' said Moliere, who was leaning 
 over his chair, the back of which faced the 
 door of the closet in which Armande was 
 concealed, and he therefore wished to get La 
 Fontaine thoroughly occupied in his composition, 
 before he released her ; and he knew the best 
 way to do that, would be to touch upon his do- 
 mestic affairs, which would be sure to drive him 
 at once for refuge, into the thickets of fiction. 
 
 " Apropos, Mon cher Jean ,- as I know you 
 went lately to Chateau Thierry to see her, I sup- 
 pose there is no indiscretion in asking you how 
 you found Madame La Fontaine ? " 
 
 " Found her at church, so did not see her." 
 
 " Well, but surely she was not two whole days
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 67 
 
 and nights at church ; and that is the time you 
 stayed at Chateau Thierry." 
 
 '* Yes, true ; but when I arrived, they told me 
 my wife was au salut, and wanted to go for her ; 
 but I would not on any account let them disturb 
 her, so I drove to Despreaux, who entertained me 
 very hospitably for two days, and then I returned 
 to Paris." 
 
 ** Without going to see your wife again ? " 
 
 " Yes, I forgot it ; besides they were very busy 
 at Despreaux gathering in the walnuts ; and I am 
 passionatel}^ fond of the perfume of walnut leaves, 
 so that I really had not time." 
 
 Moliere burst into an uncontrolled fit of laugh- 
 ter, which only served as a signal to La Fontaine, 
 that he was at liberty to continue his fable; so 
 the next moment, his pen was leisurely pursuing 
 its course over the paper, while he read aloud 
 each line as he wrote it — 
 
 " Ne pent trouver d'autre parti, 
 Que de renvoyer son epouse." 
 
 ** Mais qu est <;e que tu nous chante la, mon cher
 
 68 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 JeanV cried Moliere, under the peculiar circum- 
 stances not at all relishing the import conveyed 
 by the jingling of the rhymes. 
 
 " Ah ! it is my new fable of 
 
 " ' Le Mal Marie!' " 
 
 " Humph ! it seems to me, you have not chosen 
 a happy subject." 
 
 " Of course not, since " Le Mal Marie must 
 always be an unhappy subject ; but my good 
 Moliere, do let me finish it, and pray don't inter- 
 rupt me again; for recollect, that although you 
 are Terence, I am only ^sop." 
 
 And the next moment La Fontaine was again 
 engrossed with his fable, and Moliere with his 
 own thoughts, which were perhaps not equally 
 fabulous, and certainly not half as agreeable ; 
 nevertheless, they were so all-absorbing, that he 
 appeared to have taken root at the back of his 
 friend's chair, till he was roused by a slight 
 *^ Ahem ! " from the closet, when turning round, 
 he beheld Armande first pointing to La Fontaine, 
 and then to the opposite door, and intimating by 
 the most speaking pantomime, that they had better
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 69 
 
 take that opportunity of making their escape ; as 
 Le Bonhomme was now so completely in the 
 clouds, that he would never perceive them. 
 
 " Well," said Moliere aloud, and flipping the 
 feathers round his hat with some little parade, so 
 as to ascertain that fact beyond a doubt ; " I am 
 going now." 
 
 La Fontaine held up his hand, as much as to 
 say, " go ; but don't talk." Whereat Moliere 
 beckoned Armande from the closet; and placing her 
 in advance of him, passed like one person before the 
 poet ; but so preoccupied was he, that they might 
 have been a troup of cavalry, and he would neither 
 have seen, nor heard them. 
 
 Once in the street, the lovers hurried silently 
 on, till they came to the river, when a Debardeur* 
 hailed them, in that picturesque costume now only 
 seen at bal masques, and soon rowed them across 
 
 * The Debardeiirs, now so plentiful in the continental 
 carnivals, are the exact costumes worn by the lightermen 
 of the Seine in the time of Louis Quatorze. This costume 
 was revived by Dejazet for a bal masque, and has been the 
 rage ever since.
 
 70 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 to the Cure's House ; they found him at home, 
 and the result was, that when Armande, as has 
 been related in the first chapter, came to Auteuil, 
 on the 15 th of January, with a bouquet for Mo- 
 liere's fete, she had then, unknown to the whole 
 world — including La Foret, and Madeleine — been 
 three months 
 
 His Wife!
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 71 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The three months that Armande and Moliere 
 had been married, had been fertile in acute torture 
 to him, and wearisome disappointments to her ; 
 if before, he had experienced the throes of a latent, 
 undefined, and unauthorized jealousy at seeing 
 one whom he would have had looked upon 
 by none but himself and Heaven, subjected 
 nightly to the admiring, or critical gaze of all, 
 what he suflfered, now that he felt, that this 
 " cynosure of wondering eyes," was in reality his 
 exclusive property, and yet that he alone, of all 
 that admiring crowd, was debarred all access to 
 her, became positively the torments of the damned ; 
 in vain his jealousy, and his love, continually urged
 
 72 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 her to retire from the stage ; she, on her side 
 objected, that if she gave up her profession, her 
 sister not being aware of her marriage, might 
 naturally wonder from whence she derived her 
 means of subsistence, and as to this, Moliere 
 could not offer any negation ; he was perforce 
 compelled to writhe in silence. Armando on her 
 side, was more than disappointed at reaping none 
 of the immunities, and eclat of her new position, 
 and wearied her husband with importunities to 
 declare their marriage, and publicly brave the 
 fury, and the vengeance of Madeleine, but it was 
 not only Madeleine that Moliere shrank from, it 
 was from giving the world, in his own person, 
 the spectacle of what he had most ridiculed — a 
 JEALOUS HUSBAND — for sucli he felt he was; and 
 even were the jealousy left out, had he not made 
 Mari, et Plastron, (husband and butt,) the great 
 synonyme of the day ? Oh ! even handed justice ! 
 verily thou dost ever, sooner or later, stamp our 
 crude theories into the current coin of our lives. 
 and time tests by facts, the anjount of alloy we 
 have infused into them.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 73 
 
 On the morning of the 15th of January, when 
 the Lapin, in which Armande had arrived from 
 Paris, stopped before the garden gate of La Co- 
 lumhiere (for so was Moliere's house at Auteuil 
 called), it was wdth a beating heart that he de- 
 scended to meet his young wife, for all their meet- 
 ings had still the charm of mystery. But Moliere's 
 heart would have palpitated still more, had he 
 known the desperate resolutions with which his 
 gentle bride had come, for she was resolved not to 
 leave the house that day, without publicly making 
 known their marriage ; whereas her husband was 
 in a fool's paradise, thinking with his own Tartufe, 
 that marriage, like any other sin, only became a 
 crime, when known. 
 
 Never had Armande taken more pains with her 
 dress, and never had the trouble better repaid her, 
 for it was impossible for any one to look more be- 
 witching than she did, on this occasion. 
 
 Poor La Valiere had given place to the brilliant 
 and heartless Montespan, whose autocratic reign 
 over the heart of Louis Quatorze had only then 
 secretly commenced, and who consequently was 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 moli^re's tragedy. 
 
 at the zenith of her power. The latter had just 
 introduced a new captivation in dress, which was 
 a trimming of Grebe, dyed rose colour, and called 
 at the time Aile d' Armour, or Cupid's wing, the 
 silvery tint of the feathers being perfectly visible 
 through the blush colour, rendered it one of the 
 softest, and yet most brilliant things, that can be 
 imagined. On the morning in question, Armande 
 wore a dove-coloured velvet dress, and juste^au 
 corps, (what in modern parlance we should call a 
 polka) trimmed with this Cupid's wing, white doe- 
 skin gauntlets, trimmed with Valenciennes lace, 
 embroidered round the gauntlet, and at the back 
 seams of the glove, with little wreaths of myrtle 
 and roses, in green, and gold, and pink silks : her 
 habit shirt, which was also of the finest Valen- 
 ciennes, was buttoned with opal studs, set round 
 with smallbrilliants, and hex juste- au-corps, frogged 
 with Brandenhourges, and buttoned with opals like 
 the habit shirt ; round her throat she wore a pink 
 cashmere cravat, the long ends trimmed with 
 silver lace, and drawn through one of the loops 
 of her juste au-corps. Her luxuriant brown hair
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 75 
 
 fell in rich ringlets a la Nhwn, as it was then worn 
 on either side of her neck, and was surmounted by 
 a broad leafed, dove-coloured velvet Montpensier 
 hat, v^rith a delicate pink ostrich feather round the 
 crown, curled over and drooping on the left side, 
 and fastened with an opal and brilliant loop, and 
 button on the other side. Every 2^etite maitresse 
 at that time, exhaled a most exquisite perfume, 
 composed of heliotrope, attar of rose, violet, and 
 marechal, and called Soupirs du Roi. And indeed 
 if Louis Quartorze's sighs were only half as fra- 
 grant, independant of his kingship, it cannot be a 
 matter of surprise that they should have been 
 irresistable. 
 
 " Oh ! Monsieur," said Armande, gracefully 
 advancing to meet Moliere as he entered the room, 
 presenting him a magnificent bouquet, while Jos- 
 selin arranged the fire, and the chairs, " allow me 
 the privilege of expressing to you the good wishes 
 of the whole troupe on this auspicious day." 
 
 " Mon Enfant^ you, and they, are too kind,*' 
 said Moliere, taking the flowers and burying the 
 lower part of his face in them, as he anxiously 
 
 E ^
 
 7G molieee's tragedy. 
 
 looked over them, to watch Josselin's exit, which 
 had no sooner taken place, than, throwing the 
 flowers on the table, he flung himself at Ar- 
 mandes's feet, which he began kissing. 
 
 " And me, what have I done that I am not to 
 be kissed ? " pouted Armando. 
 
 " Ah ! what have you done indeed ? " echoed 
 Moliere rising, and folding her in his arms, " to go 
 and make yourself so beautiful;" you have no con- 
 sideration, no feeling, no pity, for poor me, com- 
 pared to whom Tantalus suffered from repletion.*' 
 
 " Nay, Petit Mari" rejoined Madame Moliere, 
 seating herself on the sofa ; but first, like every 
 French woman, evincing a tender care for her 
 dress, by duly drawing it out, and then taking off 
 her gloves, as she continued, and laying them 
 smoothly on the arm of the sofa with their gaunt- 
 let cuffs outside, " your miseries — if you have any ? 
 — more resemble those of your own Avare than 
 poor Tantalus, his sufferings were compulsory, 
 yours are voluntary. I confess that all my 
 pity is for him, as he, and I, are in the same galere. 
 Every day Madeleine becomes more insupportable.
 
 HIS LIFE AKD TIMES. 77 
 
 and it really is well worth while to have been 
 three months a married woman — nay, the wife of 
 Moliere, Le grand Monarque du Theatre — to be 
 treated, and ill-treated, like a child of seven years 
 old, by a cross sister. Confess, that this Gall- 
 moon — for I cannot call it a Honey-moon — lasts 
 rather too long for mortal patience." 
 
 " But, dear Armande," — 
 
 "Don't interrupt me," proceeded Armande, 
 nonchalantly arranging as she spoke, the lace of her 
 habit shirt and cuffs. " If I was so dear, you would 
 not place me in such a false, and difficult, position. 
 If I was dear, you would not, you could not, refuse 
 my only request. If I was dear, you would sho w 
 the whole world you thought me so, by letting 
 them know that I was your wife.'' 
 
 '* Ah ! Armande ! cruel Armande ! what sharp 
 words you use ; in another week Madeleine will 
 be gone to Bourdeaux, and then I will write, and 
 announce our marriage. Surely another week is 
 not much ? " 
 
 " Oh no, nothing is much, when everything is 
 nothing, this, perhaps, is not much either ; and,
 
 78 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 indeed, I don't think it is, considering that the 
 writer has so long graduated in the College of 
 Cytheria," and as she spoke, she drew a letter 
 from her pocket, out of which she took a mag- 
 nificent diamond solitaire, and then read out a 
 passionate declaration of love to herself. 
 
 " Hell ! and fury ! " cried Moliere, now livid, and 
 making a snatch at the letter, which Armande held 
 out of his reach at arms length behind her back. 
 "Who is the wretch who has dared to make you 
 such propositions ? " 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Cher petit Mari, moderate 
 your indignation, for remember the ivretch is not 
 aware that he is injuring Moliere and insulting 
 his wife! No, no, he merely considers that he is 
 making advantageous proposals to Armande 
 Bejart, the orphan and the actress." 
 
 " Oh, true ! true !" groaned Moliere, now lean- 
 ing both his elbows on the table, and burying his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 " Besides," resumed Armande, " men make vice 
 the fashion, yet each man thinks, that in his own 
 person, he is to be sacred from its infliction.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 79 
 
 though chartered for its commissiofiy — a monstrous 
 fallacy ! which every day disproves." 
 
 "Armande," saidMoliere, with forced cahuness, 
 convulsively clenching his hands the while, '' tell 
 me who that letter is from ?" 
 
 " What is the use of doing so, even were I known 
 to be your wife ? You would only be laughed at 
 were you to resent it. Vengeance is out of the 
 question, therefore honour is not in keeping. Who 
 blames his Majesty ? while every one laughed at 
 Monsieur de Montespan because he did not like 
 his honours at first ; who arraigns the great Conde 
 or pities his wife ? and as for the poor Duchess de 
 Grammont, she is positively, with all her beauty, 
 unpopular and disliked. Why ? I never could 
 conceive, unless it is that being ill-used and irre- 
 proachable, is too great a dose of perfection for 
 the world to swallow. Even Madame de Grignon, 
 lovely as she is, makes no figure in the world — 
 affeuhlee par sa vertue atroce ! — as Monsieur de 
 la Sabliere says, always adding that the said virtue, 
 would do well to confine itself to Madame Scar- 
 ron's buff mittens, and even your friend. La Fon-
 
 80 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 taine, says, '^Llionnete homme trompe seloigne et 
 ne dit mot. " 
 
 " Heavens ! Armaiide, with what levity you 
 speak upon so serious a subject." 
 
 " Que voulez vouz ? shrugged Armande, / do 
 none of these things : like poor Monsieur de la 
 Rochefoucault in his maxims. I only point out 
 other people's doings ; and it is not fair to visit 
 their misdeeds upon me, as if they were my own 
 especial sins. 
 
 " Armande," said Moliere, who was now pacing 
 the room, his eyes bent on the ground, and his 
 right elbow supported by his left hand, while his 
 chin was between the fingers of his right, as he 
 suddenly stopped opposite his wife, — " Tell me 
 who that letter is from ? and I solemnly promise 
 you, I will not be such a fool, such a madman, in 
 short, such a malotru,'' concluded he with a bitter 
 laugh, " as to take any notice of it." 
 
 " Well then," said Armande, with affected non- 
 chalance, but not a little pride at her conquest, as 
 she handed him the letter, " it is from Le Marquis 
 de la Fare — le beau la Fare, as they call him."
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 81 
 
 " What, Madame de la Sabliere's la Fare ?" 
 
 **Not particularly hers, more than La Champ - 
 mesles the La Granges, or any one eises," rejoined 
 Armande with sublime indiflference, as she care- 
 lessly rolled one of her silken ringlets round her 
 fingers. 
 
 " The villain !" muttered Moliere. 
 
 " The maUf' corrected Armande, " for are you 
 not all more or less the same ?" 
 
 " Oh ! Armande, it is shocking to hear a woman 
 make so light of what should be so sacred" 
 
 " Nay, be just, and you will own that it is not 
 our sex but yours^ who think lightly on these 
 subjects, and make light of things the most sacred, 
 breaking hearts, and destroying reputations, with 
 as little, indeed with less, remorse, than I should 
 destroy these poor flowers," said Armande, taking 
 the bouquet off* the table and scattering the leaves 
 of a beautiful rose. 
 
 " Cest pourtant vrai,'^ sighed Moliere, as he 
 seated himself en the sofa beside her, and passed 
 his arm round her waist, " but not all, we are not 
 all monsters, Armande." 
 
 E 3
 
 82 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " No, no, of course," laughed Armande, ** kiss- 
 ing his forehead, and patting his cheek, " he is all 
 perfection, isn*t he ?" 
 
 " No— he is not ; but I'll tell you what he is," 
 said he, pointing to some small green insects that 
 were meandering along a leaf of the bouquet that 
 Armande held in her hand. "I am one of these, 
 in another sphere, and on a larger scale ; look well 
 at them, they are poor ugly little things, con- 
 demned to an humble, hidden, and laborious ex- 
 istence, surrounded by enemies and harassing 
 cares, to provide the food which their very toil 
 deprives them of appetite to eat, and which 
 toil, gradually spins the winding-sheet in which 
 they are wrapped ; — apparently dead for ever ; 
 but wait but a little while ; and from this sear 
 cloth will emerge, clad in the richest and most gor- 
 geous colours, and furnished with brilliant wings, 
 which enables them to soar high above the earth 
 upon which they formerly grovelled ; and instead of 
 coarse and scanty food, they revel in the ambrosial 
 honey of flowers, and quaff the pure nectar of the 
 ambient air ; but, oh ! better still, they then find
 
 HIS LITE AKD TIMES, 83 
 
 in those higher and brighter regions another being, 
 beautiful as day, whom they love, and who loves 
 them, and their love only ends with their exist- 
 ence. Shall I explain the allegory ? For a long 
 time I toiled in poverty to earn the daily bread 
 which I was too exhausted to eat when earned, 
 and pining under privation, and neglect, my race 
 seemed run, till a great man's breath came like a 
 genial summer air, and burst the icy bonds 
 of poverty, which had bound me in a living 
 sepulchre ; then it was, I soared on Reputation's 
 brilliant wings into the higher regions of the per- 
 fumed atmosphere of luxury ! and now that I 
 have met with the being more beautiful than the 
 day ! whom / love ! ah ! how dearly ! and who 
 says she loves me ; oh ! Armande, let our loves 
 but end with our existence ! " 
 
 *^ Eh hien. I don't desire better," said Ar- 
 mande, " but do you call it love to be ashamed 
 of what you love ? " 
 
 " Ashamed ! Oh ! Armande ! " 
 
 " Well, it looks very like shame, when one 
 takes every pains to conceal from the world a
 
 84 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 love, which being perfectly orthodox, would 
 give the world no pretext for censure." 
 
 " It is for your sake, Armande ; to save you 
 from your sister's fury, that I have concealed our 
 marriage," stammered Moliere, for he knew he 
 was not uttering the truth, and this consciousness 
 — notwithstanding the world-old axiom, that all 
 frauds exercised by man, towards woman, are 
 fair; such being the right of might, — blunted 
 his usual aptitude of expression, and analytic 
 lucidity. 
 
 " Nay, if that be all," rejoined Armande, 
 "leave me to fight my own battles, and don't 
 trouble yourself about the result." 
 
 But it was not all, and Moliere knew it ; first, 
 he felt how his want of moral courage had com 
 promised him with Madeleine, and what good 
 right she would have to upbraid him with the 
 falsehood and duplicity he had been guilty of 
 towards her, and reproaches are always insup- 
 portable in proportion to their justice, and last 
 and greatest of all, was his sense of ridicule, and 
 his fear of danger ; he was in the predicament of
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 85 
 
 that Scythian King, who, having been made um- 
 pire upon what he conceived to be an imaginary 
 case, had passed on it the most rigorous sentence 
 of the penal law, and was then suddenly informed 
 that he had signed his own death-warrant. After 
 all that he (Moliere) had said and written to un- 
 hallow marriage, and make husbands ridiculous, 
 he now felt assured he was about to expiate in 
 his own person, all the random profanities he had 
 aimed at the conjugal state generally. Armande 
 had him at bay, yet he was about to make a last 
 effort at a reprieve. When another vehicle stop- 
 ped at the garden gate, and a loud peal at the 
 bell announced a visitor, both Moliere and Ar- 
 mande sprang to their feet, and were peering 
 through, without, however, approaching the win- 
 dow, and the next moment, Pierrot had opened the 
 gate, and assisted Madeleine to alight from the 
 Lapin* or Coucou in which she had arrived from 
 Paris. 
 
 * Public one horse conveyances, plying from Paris to 
 the en\'irons, and so called at the time, like the modern 
 Coucous, Gondoles, and Citadines.
 
 86 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 ** Heavens ! Madeleine l" exclaimed Moliere, 
 " and no doubt that ass Pierrot is telling her you 
 are here !" 
 
 " Well !" said Armande, calmly crossing her 
 arms, " and am I not here ?" 
 
 "Ye — ye — yes, no doubt — certainly — of course; 
 but — ^but for mercy's sake ! don't let her find you 
 here. This way, dear A.rmande." 
 
 And he opened the dining-room door, and then 
 another door, beyond which, lay the kitchen, and a 
 back door leading into the garden. But at one 
 end of this passage was a flight of stairs that led 
 to Moliere's bedroom ; in short, the same flight 
 by which he had an hour before descended to 
 meet Armande. 
 
 " There !" JSVamie^' cried he, pointing to the 
 garden door, you can get out at that door, and wait 
 in the summer house till Madeleine is gone." 
 
 But instead of following the prescribed route, 
 Armande, who had come determined to remain^ or 
 at least only to return to Paris as Madame Moliere, 
 began deliberately to ascend the stairs, Moliere 
 darted forward with the intention of grasping
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 87 
 
 her dress and impeding her progress, but 
 she bounded before him like an antelope, 
 and never stopped till she reached the bed- 
 room, where she threw her hat upon the bed, and 
 herself into an easy chair. The next moment 
 Moliere had overtaken her, and joining his hands 
 imploringly said, " Dear Armande ! she is in the 
 house ! not here! for Heaven's sake not here, this 
 is my bedroom." 
 
 "Well," said iVrmande, leisurely taking of her 
 rose coloured cashmere cravat, folding it and lay- 
 ing it on the bed beside which she was sitting, and 
 then unfastening her juste-au-corps , and flinging 
 it to the other side of the bed so as to completely 
 litter it with her things, " Well, mon ami, and 
 who has a better right to be in your bed room 
 than YOUR wife ? raising her voice terribly as she 
 emphasised the last words. Here Madeleine's 
 voice was heard on the stairs, saying in a sharp key, 
 
 '• So ! it seems that while Monsieur Moliere is 
 not visible for me, Mademoiselle Armande has 
 her entrees. Ah ! ha ! Monsieur de la Fare is right — 
 that little sister of mine, with her air saiiite ny 
 touche should be watched or she may give us all the
 
 88 molieke's tragedy. 
 
 slip, the artful little jade. I have long perceived that 
 she contrives to be paramount at the theatre, and 
 now no doubt she is rehearsing the first role in 
 the Depit Amoureux ; ha ! ha ! -were not our good 
 friend Poquelin too old, and had I not good 
 reason to know that his inclhiatiotis are anchored 
 elsewhere, I should almost be tempted to think 
 that the little hussey had designs either upon his 
 heart or his hand ; but no, no, that is too prepos- 
 terous, he would never make himself so ridiculous 
 as that, to save himself the trouble of writing 
 comedies, b}'^ himself becoming such a farce for 
 the world's amusements." 
 
 From the first sound of Madeleine's voice 
 Moliere had risen hastily from his kneeling posi- 
 tion, and hurried perturbedly from one door to the 
 other, there being two entrances to the room, one 
 from the back staircase, the other from the sitting 
 room, where we first introduced him to the reader, 
 but as the import of Madeleine's words reached 
 him, he seemed to lose all self possession, and 
 in a fit of nervous distraction locked the door that 
 opened into the passage, before which, in another 
 moment, Madeleine must pass ; wringing his hands
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 89 
 
 he frantically turned to Armande, who sat calm 
 and impassible as a statue, and pointed in dumb 
 shew, with supplicating gestures, to the sitting- 
 room, with a look of entreaty that she would go 
 there ! but the only notice she took of this appeal, 
 was by springing on the bed, elongating her feet, 
 leaning her right elbow on the pillow, and sup- 
 porting her head in her hand, with an air of the 
 most provoking indifference, as if resolved to await 
 the issue of the event. At this, the hands which 
 her husband had been so convulsively wringing 
 the instant before, now dropped powerlessly by 
 his sides ; cold as the day was, large drops stood 
 on his forehead, and staggering back a few paces, 
 he leant helplessly against the door for support ; 
 the next moment Madeleine tried it, as she passed, 
 but being locked it resisted her efforts. 
 
 " Ah!" said she, hurrying on, " they are doubt- 
 less in the sitting-room." 
 
 " Armande ! " faintly groaned Moliere, but Ar- 
 mande who had her back to him (as the bed was 
 situated at the side of the room) never turned, but 
 kept her eyes steadily and eagerly fixed on the
 
 90 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 opposite door : she had not long to wait, lor pre- 
 sently it was flung wide open on both sides, by 
 Madeleine, who was rushing forward, but who no 
 sooner beheld her sister calmly reclining on the 
 bed, and Moliere pale and trembling against the 
 door, as if he had committed murder outright, 
 instead of only one of its phases — marriage. She 
 started back, and remained a few seconds with 
 her eyes and mouth distended, and her hands up. 
 
 " Is it possible !" she at length exclaimed, 
 darting forward, seizing Armande by the wrist, 
 and trying, but in vain, to drag her off the bed ; 
 ** so young, and yet so shameless ! So this is the 
 translation of all your prudish airs with M. de la 
 Fare, M. de Sevigne, and others, whom Ninon 
 herself does not disdain, but who, forsooth, dare 
 not approach that immaculate piece of perfection 
 Mademoiselle Armande Bejart, without being 
 petrified by the frigidity of her virtue ; this is the 
 reward too of all the care I took of your pen- 
 niless infancy ; this too after the example I have 
 always set you ! Viper !" 
 
 ** Stop, my very dear sister," said Armande,
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 91 
 
 with the most contemptuous and irritating sang 
 froid, as she leisurely arranged the lace of her 
 tucker, '' stop, beware of false counts in the in- 
 dictment: I never followed your example, because 
 you know I am a bad walker, and walking in 
 your steps, might have led me too great lengths.'' 
 " Insolent ! " muttered Madeleine between her 
 set teeth, as withdrawing her glaring eyes from 
 her sister's face, she now advanced a step or two, 
 (with both her hands tightly^clenched, held a little 
 way out on each side of her, and quivering with 
 passion,) towards Moliere. '* Ah, wretch ! " she 
 exclaimed, now bringing the whole battery of her 
 invective to bear upon him ! ^' tremble ! and cower ! 
 it is what all detected villains do ; blench and 
 turn pale ; lie, and betray ; for such are the 
 coward's weapons ; not content with deluding, 
 beguiling, and trifling with me for years, with 
 giving me perjuries for vows, and treachery for 
 trust, you must complete your black list of 
 iniquities, by ruining the youth of the girl whose 
 childhood had been confided to your honour; 
 your honour ! where is it ? a vapour, wreathed in
 
 92 moli^re's tragedy. 
 
 the clouds, and scattered by the winds. Ha ! ha ! 
 your honour ! oh ! it is great, and mighty, and 
 worthy to take precedence at Versailles ; for have 
 
 you not made of my sister but no, I will 
 
 not pollute my tongue ; let your own craven lips 
 utter the word. Say villain, I command you, 
 what you have made of that deluded and degraded 
 girl?" 
 
 ** And I also command you Moliere, if you are 
 a man, and not merely an author, and an actor^ 
 to say what you have made of me ? " said 
 Armando, quietly descending from the bed, and 
 walking with her sweetest smile, and a look of the 
 most profound submission, which contrasted 
 strangely, not to say grotesquely, with her words, 
 up to her husband. 
 
 Fear had now reached that height in Moliere's 
 mind, from whence it perceives that escape is im- 
 possible, and growing giddy at sight of the abyss 
 that surrounds it, loses itself, and becomes 
 courage. 
 
 " Forgive me, dear Madeleine," said he, taking 
 his young wife's hand, '* for, indeed, against you
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 93 
 
 have I much offended ; but you are partly to 
 blame, for from the pains you bestowed upon her, 
 and the admirable manner in which you brought 
 her up, you made an angel of Armande, and — and 
 — I made her my wife." The bolt was shot, the 
 arrow sped, the worst was past, and Moliere 
 breathed freely, as he now stood, almost proudly, 
 by Annande's side. 
 
 As he spoke, Madeleine glanced wildly from 
 him to her sister, and from her sister back to him, 
 and when he ceased, she at ler.gth said, in a hoarse, 
 almost inarticulate voice, tearing her drees open 
 at the throat the while with both hands, as if the 
 words were choaking her: 
 
 " Shameless falsehood ! unworthy subterfuge !" 
 
 *' Not so, sister," said Armande, drawing her 
 marriage certificate from her pocket; " you will see 
 bv this, that we have been married these three 
 months, and not yet having had a husband to pro- 
 tect me," added she, with one of her sweetest 
 smiles at Moliere, " I have, ever since, as a sort 
 of safeguard, carried this charter about me." 
 
 Madeleine, with a trembling hand, snatched it
 
 94 moliere's teagedy. 
 
 from her, and having perused it, and seen that 
 there was indeed no single flaw or informality in 
 it, she crumpled the parchment convulsively in 
 her hands, from which, the next moment, it fell, 
 and Armande hastily seized it. 
 
 *'Malheifreuse / Malheureuse ! " exclaimed Mad- 
 eleine, grasping her own hair on either side, till 
 suddenly assuming a tone of the most deadly calm 
 and withering irony, which became fearful from 
 the ashy palor of her cheeks, with one crimson 
 spot under each eye, she said, with her usually 
 haughty air, " Every crime brings its own punish- 
 ment, and as you have secured yours," added she, 
 dropping them a low and stately curtsey, " I have 
 the honour of wishing Monsieur and Madame 
 Moliere a very good morning : not wishing to 
 intrude upon their domestic felicity! " 
 
 With this speech, she swept out of the room, 
 the house shaking and its master with it, from 
 the manner in which she slammed the door ; this 
 probably gave Moliere an impetus, for the next 
 moment he had his arms round Armande's neck, 
 while hers encircled his.
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 95 
 
 ** "Well ? " said Armande, looking up archly and 
 affecting to feel first his head and then his arms, 
 " Now she knows it ! and yet, it seems to me, you 
 are all here, not a single limb left on the field 
 of battle. Are you not proud, my little Conde ! of 
 your victory ? " 
 
 " That am I ! For who would not be proud of 
 such a conquest ? " said he, again folding her in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Did Monsieur call ? " asked La Foret, appear- 
 ing at the sitting-room door ; but she no sooner 
 perceived that he was not alone, and who was his 
 companion, than the now nearly completed blue 
 stocking, dropped from her hands. 
 
 " No, no," replied Moliere, somewhat pettishly 
 as he disengaged himself from Armande, " I did 
 not call, I — I — am busy. 
 
 *' So I perceive," said La Foret. 
 
 " Well," laughed her master, as he patted his 
 wife's peach-like cheek, and advanced with her 
 towards the old woman. 
 
 " You cannot deny that it is a very 'pretty 
 business at all events ; in fact ma honne, I am
 
 96 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 married, and Mademoiselle Armande is now 
 Madame Moliere, and your mistress." 
 
 La Foret tried to drop a curtsey, but both her 
 limbs, and her politesse, were too rusty for any 
 such bendings, so she merely growled out, as she 
 left the room, 
 
 *' Humph! I suppose Monsieur's Comedies are 
 not liked any longer, so he is now going to try the 
 Tragic line !" 
 
 And so commenced, the first day of Moliere's 
 Honeymoon.
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 97 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On his marriage having been made public, 
 Moliere removed his Paris quarters from the Rue 
 Papejean to the Rue de Richelieu, opposite the 
 Rue Traversiere (the house, in fact, which is now 
 No. 32, Rue de Richelieu), where he exercised 
 a liberal and frank hospitality with his thirty thou- 
 sand francs a year, or £1,200, an ample fortune 
 even in England, and still more so in France at 
 that time. We will spare the reader the revengeful 
 furies of Madeleine ; the ceaseless regrets of La 
 Foret, that her master had not continued in old 
 Poquelin's shop in the Rue St. Honore, corner of 
 theltue des VieillesEtuveSfSLudfoWowedhisfathei's 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 98 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 modest trade as an upholsterer, rather than have 
 changed his name for that of Moliere, and his 
 original calling for that of marriage, which, she 
 was convinced, was not his vocation ; or if he 
 must be a playwright, why did he not stick to 
 comedies, which he could construct successfully in 
 a fortnight ; witness " Le Misanthrope," the plot of 
 which Signor Angelo had narrated to him from a 
 Neapolitan piece, one day in an after-dinner stroll 
 through the Palais Royal ; and thirteen days 
 after, Moliere reproduced it on the boards of Le 
 PetitBourlon under the title of Le Misanthrope," 
 to the envy and dismay of the rival company at 
 the Hotel de Bourgogne. Nay, for that matter, 
 had he not written ^^L' Impromptu de Versailles " in 
 five days, " Le Depit Amoureux " and "Za Critique 
 de L'Ecole des Femmes " in ten, all of which were 
 so many triumphs ! whereas would not his mar- 
 riage or his " tragedy," as she persisted in calling 
 it, be as signal a failure ? although it had taken 
 him ten years to construct! Neither will we 
 here dwell upon Moliere's own sufferings, for the 
 first year of his marriage, for suffer he did, as
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 99 
 
 alas ! his own Don Garcia was less jealous, and 
 perhaps Georges Dandin and Sganarelle were less 
 duped; but events must develop themselves. 
 Suffice it to say, that he entreated his wife in 
 vain to quit the stage, and therefore had no 
 other alternative than to act with her, and 
 undergo the nightly martyrdom of witnessing 
 her coquetry and its too successful results ; 
 while Madeleine, in the blind fury of her re- 
 sentment, went the lengths of calumniating 
 herself, in order to injure Moliere by asserting 
 that she was the mother, instead of the sister of 
 Armande, and that he had actually married his 
 own daughter ; but this slander was as clumsy, as 
 it was base, for the register of Armande's birth 
 but too clearly disproved it ; besides, at that time, 
 Moliere had la raison des plus fort. Success, and 
 the consequent protection of those in high places, 
 therefore, had he been, in reality, the monster of 
 iniquity which Madeleine had endeavoured to make 
 him appear, protected as he was, the gentle pub- 
 lic, ever amiable, indulgent, and tolerant as it is, 
 to the favourites either of fortune, or of fame, would 
 
 p 2
 
 100 molieee's teagedy. 
 
 have held him blameless, for Louis Quartorze's 
 colossal, and truly royal selfishness, at that time, 
 found its account in patronising Moliere, by the 
 constant fund of amusement he derived from 
 his genius, and, therefore, he did protect him right 
 valiantly against all gainsayers, even on the score 
 of the Tartufe ; for the star of the widow Scarron 
 was not only not then in the ascendant, but was 
 within many years of its rising, and as the poet's 
 old school-fellow at the College de Clermont (since 
 the College de Louis le Grmid), the Prince de 
 Conti had not yet taken to Jansenism and 
 jangling. He also stood by him, so that he had 
 the signal honour of having the Grand Monarque 
 and the Duchess d'Orleans stand sponsors to his 
 first child, in the Chapel Royal, at Versailles, and 
 it was upon that occasion that Moliere was guilty 
 of his first and last pun. Here are les circon- 
 stances attenuentes attending it : — he was then en- 
 gaged in writing his Ccmedie Iniprcmptu of Les 
 FdcheuXf which was written, learnt, rehearsed, and 
 represented all in fourteen dajs, for Les Fetes de 
 Vaux, At the rehearsal, the hunting scene was
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 101 
 
 not yet written, but on the occasion of the chris- 
 tening, as Louis Quartorze was patronizingly 
 walking apart with his protege on the terrace at 
 Versailles, after that ceremony, the former said, 
 pointing to Monsieur de Soyecourt, his pompous 
 Grand Veneur, or Master of the Buck-hounds, 
 " There is an original that you have not yet copied, 
 pray do give us one scene of him." 
 
 Here Monsieur de Soyecourt seeing the King 
 point to him, thought his Majesty wanted him, 
 and advanced hat in hand, to know his pleasure, 
 whereupon Moliere in reply to Louis Quatorze's 
 request said, glancing at the Master of the Buck- 
 hounds, " Alors, Sa Majeste veut sans doute, que 
 le spectacle Soit Court (Soyecourt). 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! deUcieux" Vdughed the King, and 
 the next day, Moliere brought out ''Les Fdcheux'* 
 with the hunting scene, as it now stands, and a 
 full-length portrait of Monsieur de Soyecourt, who 
 was the only one of the whole court, who did not 
 recognize the likeness, so difficult is it to know 
 oneself; but as the same causes, are always pro- 
 ducing different effects in this world, while every
 
 102 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 one else was laughing, because they knew him ; he 
 was laughing as loud as any of them, because he 
 had not the honour of his own acquaintance ; it is 
 true, he remarked to Bussy Rabutin on leaving the 
 theatre, as they passed into the great banquetting 
 hall, at Versailles, after the ballet ^ that he thought 
 the character of" Orante'* rather simple ; but Bussy 
 only replied solemnly, and loud enough for the 
 whole court to hear, and the King to laugh at for 
 full half an hour, whenever he looked at his Master 
 of the Buck-hounds, 
 
 " Veritatis simplex oraiio est,^*
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 103 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 It was about noon, on a sultry day towards 
 the end of June, that a considerable sensation 
 was excited amongst the good Parisians, both 
 pedestrian, and equestrian, who happened to be 
 passing along the Rv£ de L'TJniversite, at a 
 stately gilt coach, and four English horses, followed 
 by what, a century later, was called a chariot, 
 (save that this one was open in front, like a cab- 
 riolet, but had a square gilt, raised, or dome-like 
 top to it, with four spiral gilt knobs ;) to this 
 vehicle, which only contained two, (which two 
 were an abigail, and a lackey,) were harnessed a 
 pair of post horses, so cumbered with ropes and
 
 104 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 wisps of straw, that the wonder was, independant 
 of the carriage and its freight, how they could 
 move, much less draw, especially as two very large 
 trunks were strapped on behind, one of iron, iron 
 bound, and nailed, the other of black leather, but 
 so huge and clumsy, that it more resembled the 
 gigantic skeleton of one of the black elephants to 
 be found in the Caucassus than anything else ; 
 nevertheless, it did move at a measured pace, after 
 the gilt coach, the latter, being driven by an 
 English coachman, who managed, even in those 
 days, to grasp all the reins in one hand, and that 
 hand his left, this it was, which caused so much 
 astonishment, and admiration, among the Pari- 
 sians of the olden time, whose eyes, and mouths, 
 both remained distended till the equipages 
 turned into the wide court-yard of the " Hotel 
 de L'Ecuelle d'Or,'' or the Hotel of the 
 Golden Porringer, at that time considered 
 the best Hostelry in Paris, and through Sir 
 Richard Browne's recommendation, (though he 
 had now some time quitted St. Germaine and 
 returned home) patronised by all the English who
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 105 
 
 came to Paris. The arrival of the gilt coach and 
 its satellite chariot, at the Golden Porringer, 
 was announced by a loud ringing of the porte- 
 cochere bell of that establishment, and a perfect 
 cannonade of whip-cracking, executed with great 
 science and perseverance by the French postilion 
 in the rear, so that the crowd rather thickened 
 than decreased in the Inn-yard, to see the con- 
 tents of the coach, and chariot alight, while 
 Maitre Dhido?inier, mine host of the Golden Por- 
 ringer, and all his marmitons rushed forth to do 
 the honours of his hostelry by welcoming the new- 
 arrivals ; whom, we may as well tell the reader at 
 once, were Sir Gilbert and Lady Hawthorne 
 and their daughter Lucy. Sir Gilbert was a 
 worshipful Knight and staunch cavalier, moreover 
 a justice of the peace in his own county, that of 
 Surrey, and worth the then large sum of £4,000 
 a-year, which did not, however, prevent Lady 
 Hawthorne from being one of the best housewifes 
 in the county, with the exception, perhaps, of 
 her not having given her lord and master a son, 
 or, what he took infinitely more to heart, an heir. 
 
 F 3
 
 106 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 it required much, to atone for this, so that although 
 Dinah Hawthorne's pickles were the greenest— her 
 preserves the freshest — her venison pasties the 
 richest — her swan pies the most intricate ! — 
 — her sack possets the most resuscitating — her 
 cowslip wine the most sparkling — her rooms the 
 most crowded with tent stitch hangings, chairs, and 
 settles, and her daughter, Lucy, indisputably the 
 prettiest and most amiable girl in the three king- 
 doms. Sir Gilbert only looked upon all these 
 things as his bare due, or in other words as small, 
 very small, change for the son he ought to have 
 had ; and as for Lucy's beauty, in addition to the 
 novel truism, that beauty is only skin-deep, he 
 was wont pithily to observe, that with the portion 
 he should be unfortunately compelled to give her, 
 " it was nothing more than a spendthrift trap, and 
 the wench would have been far better, had she been 
 as ugly as Madam Scroggins of the Grange,' 
 while poor Lady Hawthorne thought such a speech 
 great ingratitude to God, and so blest Him the 
 more, for having given her so beautiful a child ; 
 Lucy herself, thought less of the matter, pro, or
 
 HIS LITE AXD TIMES* 107 
 
 con, than either of her parents ; and chiefly spent 
 her time, acquiring a proficiency in French and 
 Italian, and in endeavouring to excel upon the 
 har^psichon with her cousins, the Brownes ; for 
 Lady Browne was Lady Hawthorne's sister, 
 and Mrs. Evelyn (the wife of John Evelyn), the 
 latter lady's niece, who from her father's long 
 official residence in France, of course knew most 
 of the notabilities of that country ; and had there- 
 fore furnished her aunt and cousin with numerous 
 letters of introduction to the best people in Paris, 
 and amongst others, to Madame de Sevigne, 
 whose kind offices, in securing rooms for her 
 relatives at " VEcuelle d'Or^' she knew she might 
 rely upon, as Marie de Rabutins generous devo- 
 tion, had never yet failed, either the necessity, or 
 the friendship that appealed to it. How Sii: 
 Gilbert Hawthorne had ever been induced to quit 
 England, much less to visit France, remained 
 indeed a marvel, and a mystery, to his most 
 intimate acquaintance ; for he was one of those 
 ancient Britons, who thanked his God that he 
 did not know a syllable of French, or any other
 
 108 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Popish language, and next to being a Regicide,^ 
 or sitting at the same table with a Round- 
 head, it was well known that he considered 
 foreigners and all foreigneering loays as one of 
 the greatest of abominations. There was much 
 conjecture, therefore, touching this going over 
 of the Hawthornes into France ; and Tom 
 Fairlop, Lady Hawthorne's nephew, who was 
 training up with young Master Isaac Newton to 
 the noble science of Astronomy, and therefore 
 fell very naturally into the error of mistaking 
 pretty Mistress Lucy for one of the heavenly 
 bodies, and her two dark blue eyes for constella- 
 tions, did indeed remark that for some weeks 
 before this journey of his uncle's, the nebular of 
 sadness, as he expressed it, had overcast the 
 glorious milky way of his cousin's face, and her 
 ideas seemed to wander vaguely, and shoot off 
 into space, when lie would fain have fixed them 
 in one sphere, of which he should have been the 
 centre. Could Lucy — so joung, so frank, so 
 innocent of all, and in all, have secrets? at least 
 any secret that the angels themselves might not
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 109 
 
 look upon ? Alas ! poor Tom Fairlop, it is pre- 
 cisely those sort of secrets in a young girl's heart 
 which she cannot bear, that any hut the angels 
 should look upon ! So without prying further 
 into them at present, we will return to Sir Gil- 
 bert, who, like the other grand monarque^ Louis 
 XIV., has been almost kept waiting ! As soon 
 as Mattre Dindonnier had opened the coach door, 
 Sir Gilbert descended therefrom, enjoining his 
 wife and daughter to remain where they were 
 till further orders, which command he additionally 
 enforced, by holding out his right hand so as to 
 bar their passage ; after which, he flipped the dust 
 from his damson velvet suit, majestically shook 
 the curls of his wig for the same purpose, and, 
 with his left hand, giving a tap to one of Holden's 
 best feathered beavers (which had cost him £4 10s. 
 a fortnight before), so as to secure it upon his head, 
 he grasped his gold-headed cane, holding it up in 
 his right hand, and calling to the lackey, who was 
 helping the maid to alight from the chariot, said, 
 " Ho ! Launcelot, sirrah ! my morning's draught; 
 get the drawer you dog, and let the Mounseers
 
 110 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 help the wench down ; don't stand there, shilly- 
 shallying over her, as gingerly as if she was a 
 ilask of my best Canary, though mayhap, the 
 woman- kind be the frailer ware of the two ; ha ! 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 And Sir Gilbert Hawthorne made the welkin — 
 alias Maitre Dindonnier*s court-yard — ring with his 
 laughter, at what he deemed his own wit, while 
 the trembling Launcelot let poor Mistress 
 Winifred drop out of his hands as hastily as if she 
 had been a red hot poker, or an adder, so that she 
 would inevitably have fallen, and broken her 
 neck, had not one of the Mounseers to whom Sir 
 Gilbert had alluded, rushed forward to her 
 assistance. Launcelot, having assured himself 
 by a hasty glance that she was safe, proceeded, 
 without loss of time, to excavate a large silver- 
 gilt goblet or cup, with a cover highly embossed, 
 a demijan of ale, and a corkscrew, from the vehicle 
 from whence he had just descended, and soon 
 presented a foaming tankard to his master, who 
 swallowed it at a single draught, and then, with a 
 deep-drawn ha — h \ and a sharp click of his
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. Ill 
 
 tongue against the roof of his mouth, in token of 
 approbation, passed the back of his hand across 
 his lips, and giving the cup back to Launcelot, 
 he graciously turned to the coach-door, and said 
 to his wife, " Now sweetheart, you may get out." 
 
 But Lady Hawthorne, being busy searching for 
 hexjlacon of gilliflower water, did not immediately 
 obey ; so the Sweetheart was followed by a — 
 
 " Dinah ! come out, I say ; " and eventually by 
 a still more authoritative " Lady Hawthorne ! do 
 you hear me ? " — 
 
 Which effectually brought her to her senses ; 
 and the next moment, somewhat pale, she stood 
 on the pavement beside her master. Lady Haw- 
 thorne was a still handsome woman, of about 
 forty, with soft, dark, earnest-looking eyes, small 
 regular features, and a Madonna-like cast of coun- 
 tenance, which was set off to the best advantage 
 by her continuing to wear the black dress, and 
 wimple, or hood, worn by women during the 
 Commonwealth. 
 
 " Well girl, art asleep ? Come along," cried 
 Sir Gilbert, actually condescending to proffer his
 
 112 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 daughter the assistance of his hand to alight, and 
 in an instant, Lucy Hawthorne, light as a bird 
 perching on a spray, reached the ground. Hers 
 was a different style of beauty from that of her 
 mother ; she had a profusion of that peculiar shade 
 of light hair which the French call blonde cendre, 
 and she wore it according to the fashion of the 
 day, a la Ninon, or what we term the Charles the 
 Second style ; her eyes were (as we have before 
 stated), of a deep, dark blue, whose depth like 
 the vault of heaven on a summer night, seemed 
 unfathomable ; her forehead was high, and of the 
 whiteness and smoothness of ivory ; her eyebrows 
 two shades darker than her hair, were low 
 and straight ; her face was a perfect oval, and her 
 complexion that of a blush rose ; her nose was 
 straight, but not of that insipid Grecian straight- 
 ness, but twice indented, with th.a.t piqua?ite, and 
 delicate chiselling of the nostrils, which is known 
 in France as the Montmorency nose, and which is 
 so exquisite in profile ; her lips were as red as 
 pomegranate blossoms, and as pouting as cherries, 
 and when parted, displayed two rows of small
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 113 
 
 white teeth like strung pearls ; in her right cheek 
 was a dimple, which seemed the parent of a nu- 
 merous offspring of smaller and rounder ones, 
 that played round her mouth when she smiled ; 
 her eyelashes were so long, that they curled up- 
 wards, and gave an arch expression to her eyes, 
 though at the same time, there was such a heaven 
 of repose in her face, that it gave one the idea of 
 an angel sleeping in it ; her ears were small and 
 delicate as a shell, and harmonised perfectly with 
 her round swan-like throat ; and although slight 
 in the extreme, there was a flowing roundness in 
 the contour of her bust, which was also apparent 
 in her exquisitely moulded hands and arms ; her 
 height was about five feet seven, supported by 
 the prettiest little feet and ankles in the world ; 
 and Lucy's dress on this memorable morning, was 
 a fawn coloured Indian silk, with a blue lute- 
 string whisk,* which partly concealed her face as 
 a bonnet would have done in these days. Her 
 feet were inclosed in fawn coloured Indian silk 
 
 * A sort of cardinal, or tippet with a hood to it, much 
 worn at the time.
 
 114 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 slippers, the same as her dress, with large blue 
 lutestring rosettes on them, while under her arm 
 she carried a beautiful little King Charles spaniel, 
 also decorated with blue ribbons, and answering 
 to the name of Fop. 
 
 " Now Luce girl ? it's for thee to wag thy 
 tongue, and jabber French to these Mounseers" 
 said her father, " for thank heaven ! I never 
 defiled my mouth with anything French, beyond 
 mayhap a stoupe of their wine, now and then, 
 which I must say, I like better than your 
 mother's cowslip, only, they need'nt know it. 
 Strike up ! child, and tell them, I'm neither an 
 olive, nor a pond, and so want neither frogs, nor 
 oil, and still less, am I a rat, having been always 
 staunch to my king and country, so I want no 
 cats, for I do mind me, that Master Pepys did 
 tell me, on his return from the Hague, and other 
 foreign parts, that as soon as ever horse, or coach, 
 entered an inn yard in France, all those white 
 capped varlets that you see there, did scale the 
 house tops after cats, and ten to one, but half an 
 hour after, the poor wretch of a traveller was
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIDIES. 115 
 
 treated to a week's cramp in the stomach, in the 
 shape of a Tom, or Tabby, ragout^ and that they 
 call Cat's, Gihier here, so none of their Gihieriox 
 me; and when yon have told them that /keep to 
 beef and mutton, and — unamputated — ducks and 
 geese, pheasants and partridges, then ask, if your 
 cousin Evelyn's friend, Madam de Seve?i knees, 
 has been inquiring for us yet ? Seven knees ! 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! there's a name ! if she has seven 
 feet to ; egad ! I don't wonder at her standing so 
 well with every one, as your Aunt Browne and 
 Cousin Evelyn say she does ; ha ! ha ! ha ! but 
 if she was to go on allhev seven knees to me, she 
 won't get me to eat frogs, nor cats either, I can 
 tell her, ha ! ha ! ha ! anything else, but I can't 
 swallow that Madam, dang it ! " and again Sir 
 Gilbert roared, — and between each roar, he dived 
 down, and slapped his own thigh so energetically, 
 that had he been a donkey on /o^^r legs, instead 
 of on two, and any other hand had aimed the 
 blows, he would have had every reason to consider 
 himself a most ill used animal. 
 
 But Lucy, before she warned Maitre Dindon-
 
 116 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 nier and his coadjutors touching those branches 
 of natural history which her father dreaded their 
 introducing into his repasts, offered her mother her 
 arm, and put down Fop, who seemed not a little 
 delighted at once more shaking out his ears and his 
 ribbons in the sunshine, after which, he made a 
 hurried geological tour round the court, his nose 
 minutely investigating every blade of grass that 
 grew up between the pointed stones, save when 
 his scientific researches were interrupted by his 
 occasionally treading on his own ears. After he 
 was thoroughly satisfied as to the animal, vegetable, 
 and mineral productions of the inn-yard, he 
 raced round and round, barking with delight, 
 till coming to a remise where a steady, middle- 
 aged, black and white poodle sat sunning himself 
 and indulging in a perpendicular, noon-day 
 siesta, where, between half closed eyes and sundry 
 nods, he appeared to be making desperate efforts 
 to look wise. Fop suddenly stopped, and, lifting 
 up his right paw, backed a few paces with a con- 
 temptuous growl, of which, however, Turlupin, 
 the poodle, took not the slightest notice, which
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 117 
 
 dignified indifierence soon brought Fop to whine 
 pecavi, who, from bullying, proceeded to snifF 
 
 amicably round the foreign gentleman, and thus 
 
 courteously accosted, the latter soon began to 
 
 reciprocate his civilites. 
 
 Meanwhile Lucy, under favour of Sir Gilbert's 
 total innocence of French, without indulging in 
 any personalities respecting frogs or cats, merely 
 informed Maitre Dindojinier of the viands her 
 sire most affected ; requesting in her own most 
 sweet voice, that mine host of the Golden Porrin- 
 ger, would have the goodness to bear them in 
 mind, and then she inquired whether he knew if 
 Madame de Sevigne had received their letter sent 
 on by a carrier from Calais ? and whether she was 
 aware that they would arrive on that day ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Madame La Marquise is aware that 
 the family of Sare Hawthorne was to arrive to- 
 day. Since she came down herself this morning 
 to choose their apartments, and selected those oq 
 the ground floor to save them the trouble of going 
 up and down stairs, and Madame is now here 
 waiting to receive my lady, Sare Hawthorne, and
 
 118 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Mademoiselle," concluded Mattre Dindonnier^ cap 
 in hand. 
 
 " What does he say ?" asked Sir Gilbert. 
 
 " That Madame de Sevigne is here waiting to 
 receive us, sir ; how very kind of her ; had we not 
 better go in immediately ?" said Lucy. 
 
 " Aye, a3^e, in with you ; and wife, mind you 
 tell her to tell the people here what I like to eat; 
 I suppose they've never a cold chine in the house ? 
 for I should like a snack before dinner, as I dare 
 say that won't be ready this half hour ; and you 
 can ask Madame de Seven knees, if she'd like to 
 stay and dine with us ? in course, slies used to 
 their foreigneering messes, and so won't mind. I 
 must just go with Giles to look after the cattle, 
 and then I'll come in, and see Madame, but you 
 and Luce must do all the talking, for I can't twist 
 my tongue to it — there, in with you." 
 
 And both wife and daughter, with considerable 
 alacrity, prepared to obey Sir Gilbert's unusually 
 agreeable command ; but as Lucy Hawthorne 
 turned round to call her dog, I know not what 
 apparition she saw, whether ghost or goblin, but
 
 HIS LIFE A^'D TIMES. 119 
 
 she gave a faint scream, and turned first very pale, 
 and then very red, as she grasped her mother's 
 shoulder — 
 
 " What, in the name of frogs and fiddlers, ails 
 the wench ? " cried her father, turning suddenly 
 round. 
 
 "Oh! — oh! — nothing, sir," stammered Lucy, 
 " only these stones are so sharp, I twisted my foot 
 between two of them." 
 
 " Aye, aye, like enough," muttered Sir Gilbert, 
 as he loosened the buckle of one of the reins, 
 " most fools as come to foreign parts, are sure to 
 put their foot in it." 
 
 " My dear love, lean on Winifred and me ; and 
 bathe your temples with some of this gilliflower 
 water," said Lady Hawthorne, suiting the action 
 to the word. 
 
 " No, no, dear mother, it's nothing," said Lucy 
 in a faint voice, as she kissed and put aside her 
 mother's hand. 
 
 " Aye, good lack ! that's just what women 
 always cry out about ; ha ! ha ! " cried Sir Gilbert. 
 
 With another tremulous look round, Lucy
 
 120 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 entered the house with her mother, and the next 
 moment there was a cry of ** Gare ! " among the 
 crowd in the street, as a horseman^his hat slouched 
 low over his eyes, his cloak and doublet much 
 splashed, and the black horse he rode covered with 
 foam, dug his spurs into the noble animal's flanks, 
 and dashed through the street, up towards the 
 bridge. " Gad wot ! " exclaimed the knight, still 
 continuing his groom-like operations upon his har- 
 ness. " None but a fool, or a Frenchman, would ride 
 at such a pace ! "
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 121 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The waiter threw open the door of a very 
 large back room on the ground floor of the 
 Ecuelle d'Or, (so large that it was divided by 
 a high arras, or stamped gold leather screen), the 
 latticed windows open, and shaded by a natural 
 drapery of fresh green apricot leaves, interspersed 
 with their ripe golden fruit, while the walls within 
 were hung with fine Gobelins tapestry, representing 
 the whole of ^sop's fables, on the v,alls, chairs, 
 and sofas. Over the folding doors (of which 
 there were four), were battles by Le Brun, 
 and mythological pieces by Mignard, let into 
 the panels, while in one corner of the room was 
 a harpischon, and on it a theorbo and a lute, 
 and opposite to it, a large sofa, before which was 
 
 VOL. r. G
 
 122 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 a carved oak table, with a vase of fresh flovrers, 
 and a profusion of books upon it. On this sofa 
 was seated a lady about eight and thirty, who, 
 without being exactly pretty, like Sterne's Eliza, 
 was " something more^'' for while all her details 
 were good, hair, eyes, teeth, hands, and figure, 
 her countenance was such an encyclopedia of 
 expression, that it might have furnished matter 
 for a whole life's study, without being exhausted 
 at the end of it. She wore her dark brown hair, 
 of which she had a profusion, a la Ninon ; her 
 dress consisted of a grey dove-coloured Padusay 
 silk, with a crimson taffety BertJie, fastened in 
 front with a brooch of pearls and pendent sap- 
 phires, of that form which is now called a Sevigne, 
 large rosettes of crimson Taffety, went down each 
 side of her dress, in robings, and in the centre of 
 each rosette, was a large button of pearls and 
 sapphires, while her shoes, which were of the same 
 colour and material as her dress, had also crimson 
 rosettes on them, with similar buttons in the 
 centre ; half back on her shoulders, and nearly off 
 her head, hung a hood of dove-coloured Moire 
 trimmed with black, and silver blonde ; on her
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 123 
 
 bare arms were some delicately fine grey (that is 
 lavender-colour like her dress) silk mittens, with 
 a ruche of narrow quilled crimson tulle round the 
 tops, and a band of crimson velvet, an inch and a 
 half wide for bracelets, which were also fastened 
 by pearl and sapphire buckles of an oval shape. 
 
 This lady was reclining on the large tapestried 
 sofa, while beside her stood a long, starched, yet 
 mildewed looking individual of the other sex, 
 gorgeously apparelled in straw-coloured velvet, 
 embroidered in amythests and gold, the ends of 
 his magnificently trimmed Flanders lace cravat 
 brought through one of the gold edged button 
 holes on the left side of his coat ; he was 
 patiently, or it might be, impatiently , holding an 
 interminable hank of white floss silk, that the 
 lady, half turned towards him on her left elbow, 
 was winding ; but with great stoicism, he contrived 
 to introduce some sort of variety into his monoto- 
 nous occupation, by occasionally looking at the 
 ceiling, then at the lace falls round his garters, 
 and still further, at the large violet bows on his 
 shoes, accompanying these little fantasias either 
 with a yawn, or by humming the then popular 
 
 G 2
 
 124 moltere's tragedy. 
 
 romance of " gependant je ne suis pas malj* 
 which, indeed, few men are, in their own esti- 
 mation. 
 
 The lady was Madame de Sevigne ; the ivinder 
 was her son, whom she had told must attend on 
 that day, and hour, at the Ecuelle d' Or, to welcome 
 the Hawthornes ; and, although it was a bitter 
 bore to him, as Mademoiselle de L'Enclos had a 
 par tie ChampHre at Meudnn on that very day, at 
 which he greatly feared he should be late; yet, as 
 no French son, or husband then, any more than now, 
 ever dreamt of disobeying his wife's or his mother's 
 wishes, twelve o'clock that said sultry ^2nd of 
 June found the poor man literally at his mother's 
 apron string (a most unusual circumstance with 
 him) winding silk, instead of being at Ninon's 
 feet corder-mg jieurette and expatiating upon the 
 torments of a love which he had never felt. But 
 Madame de Sevigne had got some strange notions 
 into her head, that the members of English 
 families were always together (!) and that the 
 Hawthornes would be scandalized if /^er son was not 
 there, with her, to receive them, whereas Monsieur 
 de Sevigne, who, thanks to his friend St. Ever-
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 125 
 
 moiid, was much more practically au courant to 
 the state of Society in England since the Restora- 
 tion, did not at all relish the united family role 
 his mother had decided upon, as far as he was 
 concerned ; so, after having exhausted the attrac- 
 tions of the ceiling, his knee ruffles, and his shoe 
 ties, he at length ventured to say, after a sonorous 
 yawn : — 
 
 " Ah ! gama Mere,* if these good people should 
 not come after all, to day ? " 
 
 " Well, Mon Ami,' replied she calmly, without 
 raising her eyes from the silk she was rapidly 
 turning over a silver reel, " If they don't come 
 to day, they'll come some other day." 
 
 * Even Madame de Sevigne could not escape the cen- 
 sure of her contemporaries, and it was upon this very 
 natural, but at that time imique, fact, of insisting upon her 
 son, and daughter, addressing her as mother, that she 
 incurred their reproach of outraging the proprieties, and 
 shocking the laws of etiquette, prescribed to women of a 
 certain rank " aux femmes (Tun certain etat,^^ when the little 
 Marquis and Vicomtes of the day, spoke of their mothers as 
 Madame ma Mere! and the same mothers, if their sons 
 had been dying, would have ceremoniously inquired of their 
 attendants, commet va Monsieur mon fils ?
 
 126 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " JDianfref" cried Monsieur de Sevigne, slightly 
 stamping his foot, and letting the silk slip off one 
 of his wrists. " And am I to stand here like a 
 Devidoire day after day, to appear ridiculous 
 after all ! for these relations of Sare Brownes 
 will actually fancy that we are in love with each 
 other ! not perhaps knowing that we are mother 
 and son ; for you look very young, Marquise,'' 
 
 ** They'll not think any such thing, if they are 
 sensible people," sighed Madame de Sevigne. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 '*Why, you know, my dear, sensible people 
 never judge from appearances, neither will Ninon ; 
 she will know that it is necessity y not inclination^ 
 which keeps you away." 
 
 " Peste ! " cried Monsieur de Sevigne, with 
 another stamp, " this skein is getting entangled." 
 
 " It is only because you have too many ends, 
 and don't keep steadily to one," rejoined his 
 mother, now for the first time raising her ejes, 
 and fixing them steadily on his. 
 
 " Bah ! must one then always end, where one 
 begins ?" said he, bursting into an affected laugh.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 127 
 
 " No, but if one does not perceive the beginning 
 of the end, one is apt to get entangled, as you see." 
 
 "t/g vCy suis pas" said the Marquis, biting 
 his lip, which gave a denial to his words, and he 
 then added a propos de boltes, " if these Haw- 
 thornes are like the Brownes, they are not worth 
 waiting for ; car ma foi / that poor Mistress 
 Browne, now Madame Evelyn, was fastidiously 
 ugly, and poor Monsieur Evelyn, with that ter- 
 rible nose of his, like a large frost-bitten hon 
 Chretien pear, made one always long to build a 
 little hot-house over it, as your cousin Bussy 
 used to say." 
 
 "Ah! Bussy is a mauvaise tete,'' shrugged his 
 fair cousin. 
 
 " Or a bad heart, which ? " said Monsieur de 
 Sevigne, with more asperity than the case seemed 
 to require. 
 
 " Oh ! no, certainly not that, that is not where 
 the Rabutins fail." 
 
 " Rather say at once Marquise, that they are 
 infallible !" retorted he, not too dutifully, for poor 
 Monsieur de Sevigne was one of those foolish
 
 128 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 sons who repay a wise mother's uttermost care 
 and solicitude, by becoming the very reverse of 
 their hopes and wishes, and consequently, not- 
 withstanding his frivolity, he was a martyr to a 
 whole infer7io of passions which he thought he 
 ought to feel ; but could not, for as Ninon de 
 L'Enclos said of him — '' His greatest glory would 
 have been to have died for a love he did not feel ;" 
 and among this strange chaos of unfelt feelings, 
 having heard of Bussy Rabutin's love for his cousin 
 Marie, before he, Monsieur de Sevigne was born, 
 and more than suspecting that Bussy carried on 
 this love to his mother's account, now she was a 
 widow; though perfectly aware it was unrecipro- 
 cated by her, he thought it due to his father's 
 memory ! to occasionally testify a few of those little 
 houtades of causeless jealousy, which no doubt his 
 father would have really felt, had he been still 
 living, to suspect wrongs for himself. 
 
 Whenever therefore, he thought fit to simulate 
 any display of the kind ; his mother grew impatient, 
 and now flinging down the silk she was winding, 
 with a somewhat contemptuous toss of the head,
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TIMES. 129 
 
 she drew over some writing materials that were on 
 the table before her, and said, as she dipped a pen 
 into the ink — 
 
 " ^yell, since Milady Hawthorne don't come, 
 I'll write to my daughter." 
 
 " Good — so I'm free," said Monsieur de Sevigne, 
 and disencumbering himself of his floss-silk mana- 
 cles, he walked over to a long pier glass, where he 
 practised a series of salutations with his hands 
 pressed to his heart ; then a fire of the most killing 
 looks with, and at, his own eyes, which the trusty 
 mirror faithfully returned ; and lastly, he drew a 
 glove from his pocket, redolent of marechal, and 
 raising it gracefully to his lips, imprinted a few 
 deep, but silent kisses upon it, as passionately, as 
 if it had been the fairest hand of the fairest woman 
 in the world ; if self-knowledge he so desirable, 
 surely Monsieur de Sevigne must have found it 
 delightful to be thus hand in glove with himself; 
 but just as he was about for the third time to raise 
 the glove to his lips, the doors from the passage 
 were thrown open, and Lady Hawthorne and Lucy, 
 preceded by Fop, entered. 
 
 G 3
 
 130 molieke's tragedy. 
 
 Madame de Sevigne rose with that cordial, yet 
 graceful alacrity, which is as far from the awk- 
 wardness of hurry y in action, as energy is from 
 vehemence, in speaking, and pressing first Lady 
 Hawthorne's hand in the most friendly manner 
 between both her own, and then Lucy's, welcomed 
 them to Paris, and hoped they would derive as 
 much pleasure from their visit, as it gave her to 
 make their acquaintance. 
 
 ** Ah ! Madame ! " said Lucy, with all the 
 genuine and expansive enthusiasm of youth, " to 
 have the privilege of seeing, and knowing you, of 
 whose amiability, and whose wit, we have heard 
 so much from my aunt, and cousin, is quite 
 pleasure enough, even if your charming city con- 
 tained no other." 
 
 " One cannot be surprised," smiled Madame de 
 Sevigne appealing with an admiring look to Lady 
 Hawthorne, "that^re^^y speeches should come 
 out of such a mouth. Allow me Mesdames to 
 present my son to you. Marquis, Lady, and 
 Mistress Hawthorne, the sister and niece of our 
 good friend Lady Browne."
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 131 
 
 " Ah ! Miladi Browne is too happy to have 
 such a sister, and such a niece !'* said Monsieur 
 de Sevigne, now lavishing more especially upon 
 Lucy, some of that ammunition in the way of 
 smiles, bows, and glances, which he had lately 
 wasted on the glass ; or not wasted either, since 
 they had all been returned to him with the com- 
 pound interest of satisfied conceit. His admira- 
 tion he now involuntarily transferred to Lucy, yet 
 still, he was afraid to invest too large an amount 
 of it even upon her most faultless face, not yet 
 knowing whether, with all her beauty, she would 
 be the fashion, and a beauty, however exquisite, 
 that was not, might, as far as he was concerned, 
 have just as well been a fright. So now having 
 finished his corve, as he himself would have said, 
 he prepared to make his adieux and depart for 
 Meudon ; for though he was perfectly cognizant 
 of Sir Gilbert's existence and approaching advent, 
 he had no idea of putting himself out of the way 
 for any he creature in existence. So he pleaded 
 an unavoidable engagement, and proffered his 
 excuses to Lady Hawthorne. No sooner had the
 
 132 * moliere's teagedy, 
 
 door closed upon Monsieur de Sevigne, and his mo- 
 ther had seated herself between her new acquaint- 
 ances, than she said, pointing to the profusion of 
 books which lay piled round the table, 
 
 "You see I was determined you should feel 
 yourselves at home in our strange town, and as 
 nothing looks to me so like old friends as books 
 of every kind, whether old or new, I judged of 
 you, as people generally do, by myself; and this 
 morning 1 brought a quantity of choice books 
 here, and have arranged them as you perceive. 
 You cannot lay your hand on one of them, no 
 matter which, but you will wish to read it through ; 
 here, my dear Mistress Lucy, is a whole row of 
 pious works, and what piety, good heavens ! what 
 a point of view do they take, to do honour to 
 our religion ! others are all admirable historical 
 works, others moral ones, others poetical ! Don't 
 be alarmed, my dear Lady Hawthorne, there are 
 only novels and memoirs besides, for romances 
 have been duly despised, and are exiled to the 
 small closets in your bedroom."* 
 
 * Madame de Sevigne says, in one of her letters to
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 133 
 
 " I am sure, my dear Madame de Sevigne, we 
 can never thank you half enough for all your 
 kindness to us." 
 
 " Comment done / ma chere dame, I hope I may 
 indulge in a little chronological anticipation, and 
 call you my friends ; and it is a maxim of mine 
 never to let the grass grow on the path of friend- 
 ship."* 
 
 " And a charming maxim it is, if all the world 
 would only act up to it, as you do," said Lady 
 Hawthorne ; and then added, after a moment's 
 pause, " I hear you have such a beautiful daughter, 
 Madame, I hope she is quite well ?" 
 
 " Well, she is beautiful, very beautiful, I may 
 
 Madame de Griguon — '' J'ai apporte ici quantite de livres 
 clioisis, je les ai ranges ^e matin ; on ne met pas la main 
 sur un, tel qu'il soit, qu'on n'ait envie de le lire tout entier. 
 Toute une tablette de devotion, et quelle devotion mon 
 Dieu ! quel point de vue pour honorer notre religion ; 
 I'autre est toute d'histoires admirables, I'autre de morale, 
 I'autre de poesies de Nouvelles et de Memoires, Les 
 Romans sout meprises et ont gagnes les petites armoires. 
 Quandj'entre dans 96 cabinet, je ne comprends pas pour- 
 quoij'en sors." 
 
 * " II ne faut pas laisser, croitre I'herbe, sur le chemin 
 de I'amitie." — Madame de S^vign^.
 
 134 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 say so to you, for you can appreciate the kind of 
 holy vanity one has, in having a beautiful daughter ; 
 it makes one feel as if one had friends above, among 
 the angels, and that they were always writing you 
 word of it, in your child's face ; thank you, she is 
 quite well, thank God. I hear from her nearly 
 every day^ and write to her every day ; here is a 
 letter I got from her this morning." And as she 
 spoke, Madame de Sevigne drew a letter from her 
 bosom and kissed it. 
 
 It is not one of the least mysteries of the doc- 
 trine of affinities, or what Fourier calls Les atomes 
 crochusy that two persons in such close corporeal 
 proximity, as were Madame de Sevigne and Lady 
 Hawthorne, should yet have their ideas at such 
 an antipodical distance ; for while the former was 
 talking of angels, the latter was thinking of her 
 husband, and his dinners, and how that all im- 
 portant subject was to be broached to the very 
 charming, and very oi^ti-Moutonniere woman be- 
 side her ; but Sir Gilbert had ordered her to 
 impress upon Madame de Sevigne the peculiarities 
 and specialities, of his gastronomic likings and
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 135 
 
 antipathies, and therefore she must do it ; so with 
 a sigh, almost as overburdened as if she had 
 actually eaten all the joints she was about to 
 expatiate upon, poor Lady Hawthorne, said, 
 " Forgive me, Chere Marquise, if I trouble you 
 with our household affairs ; but one word from 
 yoUf I'm sure would have more weight with the 
 master of the hostelry, than all our directions, 
 which perhaps, he might not understand ; and 
 unfortunately. Sir Gilbert can only eat large 
 joints, but my sister, Browne, used to tell me, 
 that even your pieces de resistance are very 
 small, but, perhaps, you would kindly tell the 
 master of the hostelry to let the pieces of 
 roast beef, and roast veal, be as large as possible ; 
 and, for safety, (as Lucy and I don't care what we 
 eat) to let us have legs of mutton as often as 
 he can." 
 
 " Ah ! c est fait / " replied Madame de Sevigne, 
 laughing, *' for I remembered the hospitable din- 
 ners at the Chevalier Browne's, and I thought Sir 
 Gilbert Hawthorne would like the same, and my 
 chef who knew the Chevalier Browne, has, I
 
 136 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 assure you, been practising, so that you may not 
 be quite starved when you come to us ; but, at 
 least, see the shadow of your grandiose English 
 hospitality, and he has put the people here in the 
 way of your great plats, and as for legs of mutton ! 
 I promise you ever since poor Monsieur Male- 
 branche was so fortunate as to get rid of his, one 
 hears of nothing else. Paris is over-run with them ; 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! " and she laughed till the tears 
 came into her eyes. 
 
 " What of Monsieur Malebranche's leg of mut- 
 ton ? " asked Lucy, justly surmising that thereby 
 hung a tale. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Madame de Sevigne, putting her 
 handkerchief to her eyes, where laughter was still 
 dissolved in tears, " Malebranche, you must know, 
 is one of our great philosophical celebrities — as 
 you may suppose, when I tell you, that he is now 
 engaged on a great work entitled, " a search 
 AFTER TRUTH ; " and two years ago, what do you 
 think he found among his researches ? ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! Why an enormous leg of mutton, large 
 enough to satisfy even your good Sir Gilbert,
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 137 
 
 appended to the end of his nose ! ha ! ha ! ha ! the 
 weight, and odour, of which, he declared, so incom- 
 moded him, that he could not rest night or day." 
 
 '* Oh ! then the poor man is mad? " interrupted 
 Lucy. 
 
 " Not more mad," resumed Madame de Sevigne, 
 " than our great Cardinal de Richelieu was, when 
 occasionally he used to gallop on all fours round 
 his room, neighing, and kicking, and fancy him- 
 self a horse, and by the same token, the French 
 people an ass ! and ride rough-shod over them ; 
 yet this did not prevent his being not only the 
 greatest, but the most practical spirit of the last 
 age ; and the first forty years of this — as our com- 
 merce, our navigation, and our French academy, 
 his immortal offspring, are there to testify — to say 
 nothing, of the fifteen hundred crowns a day he 
 used to spend; and no man is a fool who can 
 contrive to spend, or even to owe ! such a sum." 
 
 " And did they put him in a madhouse ? " asked 
 Lucy, innocently. 
 
 " Oh dear no ; after he had galloped and 
 neighed, and kicked, for about an hour round a
 
 138 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 billiard-table, and over chairs and stools, his at- 
 tendants would endeavour to catch him ; and when 
 they succeeded, would tie him to a manger kept 
 for the purpose, filled with hay, and a pail of water, 
 beside which they made him lie down, and covered 
 him over with blankets, to superinduce a profuse 
 perspiration, under which, he used to fall asleep ; 
 and when he awoke, the quadruped paroxysm was 
 over, and Richelieu was the great first minister 
 of France again." 
 
 " How extraordinary ! " cried Lucy and her 
 mother in the same breath, * * and this poor Mon- 
 sieur Malebranche ; you say he did get rid of his 
 leg of mutton at last. How did he manage to do 
 so?" 
 
 " Very easily," said Madame de Sevigne ; 
 " for the surest way of putting an end to errors 
 and absurdities, whether of wise men, or of fools, 
 is not to oppose them. Had all Malebranche's 
 friends gone on laughing at him, and ridiculing 
 him, for this fancy of his, as most of them did, 
 who knows but he might have had the whole 
 sheep appended to his nose by this time ! But
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 139 
 
 one of his friends, Monsieur Despreaax,* under- 
 took, though no cook, de faire sauter le gigotA 
 And he did. This is the way he managed it : 
 a council was held by Malebranche's friends ; 
 but not one of them knew whether he considered 
 the leg of mutton roastX or raw. This was a 
 poser ! But Despreaux being, like all persons 
 of true genius, a man of resource, resolved upon 
 taking under his cloak the largest roast leg of 
 mutton he could get ; justly concluding, that it 
 was easier to account for its not being raw, if 
 Malebranche should fancy it raw, than for its not 
 being dressed. Accordingly, thus provisioned, 
 he set oflf to the Rue de Clichy, ascended, and, 
 au troisiemey rang. Malebranche was at home, 
 pacing his room, and reading aloud to himself 
 the last page he had written ; while, by way of 
 
 * Better known in England as Boileau ; but, being 
 Sieur Despreaux, he more generally went by the latter 
 name among his contemporaries. 
 
 t Literally, to make the leg of mutton jump ; but in 
 French, sauter also means to hash. 
 
 t They never boil mutton in France.
 
 140 MOLIEKE S TRAGEDY. 
 
 ancompaniment, he was dealing the most unmer- 
 ciful blows to the right side of his nose, with the 
 flat side of a knife. * Good morning ! How fares 
 it with you ? ' said Despreaux, shaking his friend 
 by the hand. ' Well,' replied Malebranche, ' very 
 well, if it were not for this confounded leg of 
 mutton, the smell of which poisons me, while the 
 weight drags me to the very earth.' * Bless me ! ' 
 cries Despreaux ; ' I do indeed perceive that it is 
 at least six pounds larger than when I saw it 
 last ; then^ I, like every one else, was inclined to 
 look upon it merely as an abscess. Heavens ! 
 what you must suffer ! ' 'Ah! my dear friend,' 
 exclaimed Malebranche, flinging down the paper 
 he held in his hand, and embracing Despreaux, 
 but holding his head at a respectful distance, so 
 as not to spoil his visitor's cloak with the leg of 
 mutton ; * you are the first, and only one, who 
 has felt for me ! Every one else laughs at me, 
 and tries to persuade me out of my senses ! * 
 ' Feel for you ! ' said Despreaux, with a gravity 
 that would not have discredited our inimitable 
 comic actor, Moliere ; ' ay, my dear friend, that
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 141 
 
 do I ; and for the many hungry mouths which so 
 sadly want that leg of mutton, which your nose 
 certainly does not want. But, if you had cou- 
 rage, and would trust to my skill, I think I could 
 rid you of it.' * Ah ! if you could, I should be 
 the happiest man in existence ! * * Well, then, 
 put yourself in this arm-chair, before the fire,' 
 (for this happened on a cold day in February," 
 parenthesised Madame de Sevigne,) " * and, above 
 all, don't speak till I tell you — that is, till I have 
 succeeded in severing that horrible appendage 
 (which I think I can do) without even shedding a 
 drop of your blood, owing to an invaluable 
 styptic that I possess, which was given to my 
 great-great-great-grandmother, by Ambrose Paris, 
 when she was keeper of the Puppy Dogs to his 
 Most Mongrel Majesty, Henry the Third.' 
 
 Malebranche seated himself in the great chair 
 before the fire, Despreaux, disencumbering him- 
 self of his cloak, with which, he carefully con- 
 cealed the leg of mutton, which he placed on 
 another chair, and then scientifically turned up 
 his cufis and drew a razor from his pocket, the
 
 142 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 edge of which, he affected carefully to try ; next, 
 he drew forth a small roll of lint, then a large 
 packing needle, which looked marvellously like a 
 larding pin, then some sticking plaister, and, 
 finally, a very small phial of red ink, purporting 
 to be the far-famed styptic of Ambrose Paris. 
 These imposing preparations concluded, he said, 
 giving his ruffles a still higher push : — * Now my 
 dear Malebranche, I must stand behind your chair, 
 lean your head back, and shut your eyes, for fear the 
 motion of my hand backwards, and forwards, should 
 make you nervous ; and, above all, as the operation 
 is a nice one, and requires time and caution, don't 
 move, or speak, till it is over.' So anxious was Male- 
 branche to be relieved of his burden, that he only 
 replied in dumb show, as he closed his eyes so 
 tightly that, as Despreaux said, "he is sure his 
 eyelashes must have dug into his flesh and hurt 
 him. The Chirurgien Improvise then began, 
 cautiously passing the blunt edge of the razor 
 down the patient's nose, then he slightly grazed 
 the skin with the packing needle ; next, he cau- 
 tiously dropped a drop of the red ink, (which had
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 143 
 
 become warm from being held in his hand) 
 on the imaginary wound, which made Male- 
 branche wince slightly, at which Despreaux solilo- 
 quised a long drawn ' Ah ! it begins nicely, so far, 
 so well ; ' then another pass of the razor, followed 
 by a probe of the packing needle, and another 
 drop of ink. After which marvellous exertions, 
 he announced that he must rest a little ; by which 
 means he got over half an hour, entertaining the 
 immovable, and self-blinded Malebranche the while, 
 with some choice gossip about poor Mademoiselle 
 de Fontange's misadventures, and then repeating 
 his chirurgical pantomime, he contrived to wile 
 away another half hour ; when gently unpinning 
 the napkin it was covered with, he drew forth the 
 leg of mutton, plentifully smeared one end of it 
 with the red ink, generously bestowing the re- 
 mainder on the tip of Malebranche's nose ; after 
 which, he concealed the phial, applied a piece of 
 lint and sticking-plaister to the philosopher's nose, 
 taking care to let the sanguinary red ink appear 
 like a halo above it, and then shouted out a 
 triumphant Jubilate ! * It is done ! — the operation
 
 144 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 has succeeded to a miracle ! — open your eyes my 
 dear Malebranche, and behold your enemy liors de 
 combat / ' He presented the miraculous leg of 
 mutton to the enraptured searcher after truth, 
 who, exclaiming, " Ah ! noiv indeed, I breathe, I 
 am once more free ! how can I ever repay you, my 
 dear friend, so great an obligation ? " And in 
 order to do so, he nearly hugged poor Despreaux 
 to death ; the next thing was to examine his fallen 
 foe, which he did with his hands behind his back, 
 his head poked forward, and the rest of his person 
 elongated, as if he was going to fly ; when sud- 
 denly, a blank look of horror ! stealing over his 
 face, the features of which, including his eyes, 
 appeared to grow ridged, he said in a sort of 
 agony, first clasping his hands, and then shaking 
 them, " Mais Diantre! ^a ne fait pas mon affaire ! 
 My leg of mutton was a raw one!'' 
 
 '* Je crois hien,'' replied Despreaux, " and raw 
 enough, it most assuredly was, when I came into 
 the room first; but you forget, my dear friend, 
 the long hour and a quarter it has been hanging 
 from your nose before that roaring fire ; and you
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 145 
 
 see," added he, pointing to the flow of red ink, 
 ** here^ where it was severed from you, it is still 
 bleeding." 
 
 ^^Ah! gest vrai ! it is true! it is true ! assented 
 Malebranche, who recommenced embracing his 
 deliverer, as he called Despreaux, and the follow- 
 ing week, gave a grand dinner to the academicians, 
 to celebrate the joyous event, at which no mutton 
 appeared, save the miraculous leg ! in spirits of 
 wine on a side table, for the benefit of the savants ! 
 and Mademoiselle de Scudery expressed her feli- 
 citations, by sending the Amphytrion a dozen of 
 beautifully embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs, as 
 having regained the use of his nose; he might 
 require to use his handkerchief; and poor Scar- 
 ron (it was just a month before his death,) 
 who was her charge d'affaires on the occasion, 
 threw the whole party into convulsions of laughter, 
 by saying, in his own inimitable dry, serio comico 
 manner, " As we should always be prepared for 
 the worst in this world, and you may (though 
 Heaven forbid!) have a return of your pendant com- 
 plaint, I, my dear friend, beg your acceptance of 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 this tin pocket-handkerchief, which will be of 
 more use to you then," and so saying he presented 
 Malebranche with a dripping pan. 
 
 While they were still laughing at this anecdote, 
 which Madame de Sevigne narrated most graphic- 
 ally, a great noise was heard in the passage, and 
 Sir Gilbert's voice surmounting it, vehemently 
 exclaiming — 
 
 " Odds Boddikins ! carry that Demijan straight, 
 Varlet ! for the ale will be as muddy as your own 
 frog soup ; beshrew the fellow ! he minds me no 
 more than if I were the ghost of an empty cask 
 in old Nol's father's brewery. Ho ! Mounseer, 
 straight, I say, straight. The knave must be deaf ! 
 Good wot ! I forgot that he don't understand 
 Christian language when he hears it; much use 
 there is in my having a wife and daughter that can 
 jabber their outlandish gibberish, which they 
 learnt sore against my will, when they're never in 
 the way when I want them ; but that's the way 
 with the whole sex, they'll talk a man's head off, 
 if he wants to be quiet and sleep peaceably, after 
 a hard day's hunting, by his own fire side, and at
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 147 
 
 other times, when a no, or yes, would save one's 
 life, there's no getting it out of them — no, no, they 
 are dumb as a tomb-stone then, with this differ- 
 ence, mayhap, that the tombstone can lye without 
 speaking and they cannot speak without lying. 
 You, sir, Launcelot ! you can understand the 
 King's English, lay down that lute case and let 
 Winifred attend to her mistress's gear, and you 
 take that Demijan from that fool yonder, who 
 don't know how to carry it." 
 
 Though tongues were diversified and multi- 
 plied at the building of Babel, yet two universal 
 languages still remain on earth — that of passion, 
 and the passions ; and poor Lady Hawthorne and 
 Lucy, both grew very red ; not that the paternal 
 and conjugal whirlwind had reached their ears ; 
 for they were too well used to it to mind, beyond 
 obeying it ; but that it should have come to Ma- 
 dame de Sevigue's ! She, perceiving, and feeling 
 for their distress, said, putting up her finger to 
 listen, as if she had been catching the fleeting 
 notes of the most delightful music ! 
 
 " Ah ! what a fine hunting voice ! I like those 
 
 H 2
 
 148 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 deep, sonorous voices — there is something noble 
 about them." 
 
 " And about you, too/' thought Lucy ; who, 
 fully appreciating the delicate kindness and 
 tact of this speech, felt strongly inclined to throw 
 her arms round the speaker's neck ; and, as if 
 guessing her wishes, Madame de S evigne said, as 
 she smilingly turned to her : 
 
 " Pardon, Mistress Lucy ; but your cheek 
 looks so like a peach, that you must allow me — 
 not, indeed, to bite it — but to kiss it. You 
 know, it will only be another little instalment on 
 our, I hope, long friendship.'* 
 
 " Ah ! madame," said Lucy, embracing her, 
 " how more than kind — how charming, you are ! " 
 
 " While you are only adorable ! " 
 
 The world is made up of contrasts ; so Ma- 
 dame de Sevigne had scarcely uttered the word, 
 before the door opened, and Sir Gilbert Haw- 
 thorne entered. Lady Hawthorne trembled, 
 least he should, as was his wont when he meant to 
 be amiable, seize Madame de Sevigne's hand, and 
 shake it till he nearly dislocated her arm; but*
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TIMES. 149 
 
 for once, her fears were groundless ; for there is a 
 regality of intellect, and of grace, which, like 
 that of birth, awes the most boorish ; therefore, 
 instead of even advancing up the room, electrified, 
 as it were, by the bow Madame de Sevigne made 
 him on entering, Sir Gilbert stood at the door, 
 perpetrating a series of the most grotesque looks, 
 and scrapes imaginable ; while, with an extra- 
 ordinary degree of self-command, which prevented 
 the smile that hovered round her lips from break- 
 ing bounds, and becoming a laugh, she turned to 
 Lady Hawthorne, and said : 
 
 " Pray, dear Madame, tell Sir Gilbert how 
 much I regret my ignorance, in not being able to 
 welcome him to Paris in English, and, at the 
 same time, assure him, that the welcome is not 
 less sincere on that account." 
 
 But Lady Hawthorne was a sensible woman, 
 
 and never flung pearls before those who 
 
 would have preferred peas ; so she as briefly as 
 possible, told her husband how kind Madame de 
 Sevigne had been, in anticipating his wants, and 
 wishes ; and that, that very day, and hour, a leg of 
 mutton! awaited his approbation.
 
 150 molieke's teagedy. 
 
 Recruited, even by the very mention of this 
 substantial fare, Sir Gilbert now seemed to find 
 strength, and courage, to advance, saying, as he 
 did so : 
 
 *' Egad ! then your sister Browne was right, 
 after all ; and she is a sensible woman, and 
 knows something beyond French, flummery, and 
 furbelows. A comely-looking woman, too, by 
 my troth ; and, though French, neither patched 
 nor painted, like Madam Palmer — I should say, 
 my liady Castlemaine, as she is now ; nor Roxe- 
 lana, that Miss of my Lord Oxford'^s ; and all the 
 other Misses and Madams that do swarm like ants 
 now, about Whitehall. Good lack! to think, 
 where four years agone, all was preaching, and 
 praying, all now should be patching and paint- 
 ing ! Well, well ! turn about's fair play, as the 
 
 d 1 said, when he gave Adam t'other half of 
 
 the apple. Dinah, my dear, I hope you've 
 asked Madame Seven knees to stay, and have a 
 bit of dinner with us ? " 
 
 "I have not; but I will." And poor Lady 
 Hawthorne proceeded to say all sorts of civil 
 things to Madame de Sevigne, from her spouse ;
 
 HIS LIEE AND TIMES. 151 
 
 which — Heaven forgive her ! — she pahned off 
 upon that unsuspecting lady, as a literal transla- 
 tion of what he had been saying, and wound up 
 with the invitation to dinner, which Madame de 
 Sevigne said, she was sorry she could not accept, 
 as there was a late state dinner at two o'clock, at 
 the old Duke de Mazarin's, to meet the King ; 
 but she would, certainly, with their permission, 
 stay to see that Mattre Dindonnier had benefitted 
 by the instructions of her cook ; and five minutes 
 after, the doors of the dining-room, which ad- 
 joined the sitting-room, were thrown open, and 
 one of the drawers, as they were then called, an- 
 nounced, in a loud voice, that — 
 
 '* Sare Bon ton ! etait servi,'' which was the 
 nearest approach that the French waiter could 
 possibly make to Sir Hawthorne ! And as, 
 certainly, nothing could be more misapplied 
 than this travesty of his name, no wonder that 
 the worthy knight did not respond to it, till in- 
 formed by his wife, that it only meant that dinner 
 was on the table. 
 
 If well-bred people ever evinced surprise at
 
 152 moliere's teagedt. 
 
 what is taking place around them, Madame de 
 Sevigne would certainly have betrayed hers, at 
 the empressee attention, and almost subaltern 
 respect, that both Lady Hawthorne, and Lucy, 
 paid to Sir Gilbert, their own dinner remaining 
 in abeyance, till he was provided with all the in- 
 numerable condiments which he required, previous 
 to commencing the general action of the meal ; 
 and making an attack upon the apiece de resist- 
 ance which the cuisine of Mattre Dindonnier had 
 been revolutionized to provide for him ; for that 
 huge leg of mutton, to which he gave no quarter, 
 would, at least, have been divided into/owr, under 
 the usual culinary regime of the Golden Por- 
 ringer. Accustomed as she was, to the universal 
 attention of the male sex in general, and even to 
 the scrupulous bienseances and prevenances of 
 her not over-tender husband, for the seven years 
 he had lived, (as a matter of course, from a man 
 to a woman) Madame de Sevigne could not com- 
 prehend the state of vassalage her two new 
 friends appeared in, to their husband, and father, 
 and resolved, as soon as she was intimate enough
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 153 
 
 with them, to get it elucidated, as a curious 
 chapter ii> national manners. Sir Gilbert, having 
 growled a little at the mutton being overdone, and 
 ordered his wife to make the observation to Ma- 
 dame de Seven knees, that she might tell the cook 
 to be sure and not let it happen again, he added : 
 
 *' And now, Dinah, my dear, ask Madam, as 
 she knows all about the court, if there is any 
 news of the conspirators in the Tower, especially 
 the chief caitiff, Sir Henry Vane. For these 
 three weeks that I have been on the road, Liuinun 
 may have been swallowed up by an earthquake, 
 for aught I know." 
 
 At this speech, Lucy Hawthorne turned deadly 
 pale, and her mother poured her out some wine, 
 and, in a hurried and under voice, begged of her 
 to drink it. She mechanically raised the glass to 
 her lips, and kept her eyes wildly fixed on Ma- 
 dame de Sevigne's face, as Lady Hawthorne 
 repeated her husband's question ; but before that 
 lady had time to answer it, her coach was an- 
 nounced ; so, rising to take leave, she said, as 
 she did so : 
 
 H 3
 
 154 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " Why yes, I saw Monsieur Colbert this 
 morning, and he was at his Majesty's En cas de 
 Nuit* last night, when a courier arrived from 
 Whitehall, who said that Sir Henry Vane was 
 beheaded on the 14th of this month, and that 
 never man died so bravely ; even his enemies 
 were lost in admiration of his courage, though 
 scandalized at his, to the last, justifying his con- 
 duct, as he asserted, that he had throughout 
 followed the dictates of his conscience, against his 
 interest, but when some one to taunt him, asked 
 him " why he did not pray for the king ? " he 
 replied, " You shall see I can pray for the king ? 
 I pray God bless him ! " 
 
 " Tut ! tut ! don't believe a word of it, the 
 rascally Regicide ! " cried Sir Gilbert, when his 
 wife repeated what Madame de Sevigne had told 
 her. " I wonder how he likes being beheaded 
 
 * The En cas de Nuit, of the kings of France, continued 
 up to the time of Louis Quinze, was, cold chicken, game 
 and other plats, with bread and wine, laid on a table in their 
 bed room, in case they should be hungry in the night. 
 Sometimes they actually made then* supper of it, and it 
 was esteemed a great favour for any one to be admitted 
 to it.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TDIES. 155 
 
 himself ? ha ! ha ! I'm glad he's been made capa- 
 ble of judging any how." 
 
 Madame de Sevigne thinking he was enquiring 
 for further particulars, added, " The Lieutenant 
 of the Tower says he died in a passion." 
 
 This Lady Hawthorne also translated, but 
 evidently with a painful effort over herself. 
 ** Aye, aye, like enough, and that's what the 
 fools took for courage ! Ho ! Launcelot, give me 
 a goblet of Burgundy, that I may drink down 
 with all Traitors! and that this execution of 
 Yane, may not have been in vain ! Now 
 Madam's gone, we may discuss family matters, 
 and hang me if I don't drink another stoup, to 
 think how well the Hawthornes have escaped, 
 having a bloody head, piked proper, quartered 
 among the May flowers of their unsullied genea- 
 logical tree ; ha ! ha ! ha ! drink wife, and Luce 
 wench ! thou shalt drink too, for by my fay ! thou 
 hast the best cause to be thankful of the three ; 
 look up girl, is it not so ? " 
 
 But Lucy did not answer, for she had fallen 
 back in her chair in a swoon.
 
 156 MOLliRE's TEAGEDT. 
 
 CHAPTER VII, 
 
 The horseman, who had so furiously galloped 
 past the Ecuelle d'Or at the commencement 
 of the last chapter — and whom Sir Gilbert 
 Hawthorne had pronounced to be either afool^ or 
 a Frenchman, continued his headlong course 
 through the streets of Paris, and never drew 
 bridle till he arrived at the back of the Pre aux 
 Clercs, which (it being the hour of noon, or 
 dinner time,) was then quite deserted ; here, dis- 
 mounting, he tied his horse to a tree, and taking 
 off his chapeau de J90^/, or beaver hat, at that 
 time one of the outward marks of a gentle- 
 man, he wiped the large drops from his
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 157 
 
 forehead, and after looking about him, in 
 all directions, he again put on his hat, 
 folded his arms, and with his eyes bent 
 on the ground, paced up and down ; having 
 done so, for about ten minutes, he drew 
 forth a clumsy, oval gold watch, more like an 
 egg in shape, than anything else, embossed on one 
 side, with men and dogs, in a sort of greenish 
 gold, while on the other, was enamelled a floridly 
 coloured view of Antwerp ; in the centre of the 
 handle of this machine, was a small gold knob, 
 attached to a piece of catgut, which he now drew 
 out, whereupon, the watch, which was a repeater, 
 returned twelve and a half strokes. 
 
 ** Half past twelve ! and not come yet. Oh ! why 
 have the winds no voices, that might serve for 
 special messengers, when men's fates hang upon 
 minutes ! " 
 
 And so saying, the stranger replunged the 
 repeater into his bosom, and undid another button 
 of his tight black velvet frock, or riding coat, 
 which displayed a waistcoat of white camelot : 
 taking both figure, and face, it would have been
 
 158 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 impossible to have found a more perfect specimen 
 of masculine beauty, than this young man presented, 
 tall and elancSf to a form of Appolline proportions, 
 he added a face which would have done for the 
 model of the Antinous, his long dark eyes might 
 have been too brilliant, had they not been curtained 
 and subdued by their dark and silken lashes ; his 
 forehead was high and pale ; and his cheeks (it 
 might be from fatigue) were almost equally so ; 
 and that profusion of hair, then usually achieved 
 by wigs, fell in rich and raven masses of natural 
 curls on his shoulders ; the slight, dark moustache 
 that covered his upper lip, perhaps made his 
 small, white, pearl-like teeth appear still whiter ; 
 his hands were unmistakeably patrician in shape, 
 size, and colour, and his small feet, and high in- 
 step, were set off to the best advantage by the fine 
 black morocco cavalier short riding boots, wide at 
 the top, with broad gilt spurs that he wore. 
 Again looking round, and seeing that no one 
 came, the young man stooped down, and plucking 
 a handful of long grass, he patted the beautiful 
 black mare he had tied to the tree, and began
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 159 
 
 rubbing her down with the wisp in his 
 hand. 
 
 "PoorZara!"* said he, again aflfectionately 
 patting the noble animal, **' he who rides Chance 
 I suppose must e'en abide by her, taking Hope for a 
 spur, and Patience for a curb ; well, come," added 
 he, Hinging away the wisp of grass, which had 
 done its duty, and then rubbing his hands on 
 the fresh, greensward, and finally drying them 
 with his handkerchief previous to taking a letter 
 from a side pocket of his coat, which he turned 
 in all directions, and then read, half aloud, the 
 superscription — 
 
 d Monsieur Poquelin MoUere. 
 
 Rue de Richelieu, No. 30, 
 d Paris. 
 
 '^ Humph ! " said he, *^ honest Master Tom 
 Pepys was very sanguine about the good this 
 letter was to do me ; well, at all events, it was 
 kindly meant, and he is worth a ship load, aye 
 marry, the British fleet load! of his pompous, 
 
 * Zara, means chance in Italian.
 
 160 inioliere's tragedy. 
 
 burley- faced, empty-pated cousin, the secretary; 
 but, alas ! I fear me, that honest Tom understands 
 far better fashioning velvet, or fustian suits, at 
 home, in his uncle's, or Pym's shop, than forward- 
 ing love suits abroad ; poor thing ! of shreds and 
 patches, I pity him ! there is another fag end of a 
 family ! What good do my lord Sandwich, and 
 my cousin, the sec, do him ? And as for my lady 
 Jem, she might indeed condescend to wear a 
 Joseph of his choosing, without disputing the 
 charge, but that's all, so that in point of relatives 
 the Lords, are of no more use than the Commons, 
 ' a plague ! on both their houses,' say I. Relations ! 
 forsooth ! why they were made it's impossible to 
 tell? what they are made o/; is much clearer — of 
 millstones, the broadest, and heaviest, which being 
 strung by Fate round a poor d — I's neck when he 
 is drowning, always help to sink him the faster. 
 I doubt if my uncle had been the Protector ; 
 whether he would have employed as much interest 
 in my favour, as would have procured me kneel- 
 ing room in a conventicle, for the chief immunity 
 of wealth, or power, is, to be exempted from the
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 161 
 
 help tax, by being disfranchised from poor rela- 
 tions ! whereas, the moment one's relations commit 
 crimes, or incur disgrace, then, every relative they 
 have, more especially their poorer ones, are made 
 answerable for their forfeit to society." Here 
 the repeater was again drawn forth, and told a 
 quarter-past one. 
 
 " S'death ! can any accident have befallen 
 him?'* exclaimed the young man aloud. 
 
 *' Perhaps," said a voice in French at his ear ; 
 he started ! and on turning suddenly round, 
 beheld a 1^11 figure handsomely, nay almost gor- 
 geously dressed, in the extreme of the mode — a 
 violet velvet suit, with a cloak of the same, lined 
 with white taffeta, collar, wrist, and knee ruffles, 
 of the most costly lace, and a flowing peruke of 
 bright auburn hair; this personage, also wore a 
 chapeau de poil ; and his gauntlets, and the turn- 
 overs of his boots, were trimmed with the finest 
 point d'Alengon, while the basket hilt of his sword, 
 was one blaze of diamonds ; and he likewise wore 
 some order round his neck, in brilliants ; but what 
 struck the young man with a feeling of awe, almost
 
 162 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 amounting to the horrible ! was, the perfect immo- 
 bility, not to say rigidity, of this person's face, 
 which, though critically handsome in every 
 feature, still had something painful, and un- 
 natural, about it ; upon examining it more closely, 
 he perceived that it was a wax mask, but fitted so 
 accurately to the face, and neck, that it required 
 a minute inspection to discover this. 
 
 " You speak French ? " interrogated the figure. 
 
 " Yes," replied the young man. 
 
 "And you are waiting here to meet by appoint- 
 ment, one Master Hans Hallyburton ? " 
 
 " It would be uncourteous to gainsay you," 
 parried the youth. 
 
 " No, but useless," drily asserted the figure. 
 
 " Certainly, if you know to the contrary ? " 
 
 " I do, and there is no use in your waiting for 
 him any longer." 
 
 " "Why so ? " asked the young man in evident 
 alarm. 
 
 " Because, dead men keep no trystings." 
 
 " Dead ! " echoed the young man, clasping his 
 hands, " My God ! is it possible ? "
 
 HIS LIPE AND TIMES. 163 
 
 " Aye, young sir, it is not always possible to 
 live, but it is always possible to die; however, 'tis 
 the worst of all blunders, to die by mistake, because 
 it is irreparable." 
 
 " What mean you, sir ? As you seem cognizant 
 of poor Master Hallyburton's death, I pray you 
 tell me the manner of it." 
 
 *' The manner of it was this. Arriving in all 
 haste last night at St. Denis, he stopped at a 
 Cabaret there, called after that saint, who is 
 represented in the sign, taking his little constitu- 
 tional stroll, with his head under his arm after his 
 decapitation ; but Master Hallyburton merely 
 stayed to bait his horse, but could not be prevailed 
 upon to pass the night, or even to take a hand at 
 gleeke* with some rufflers, who were supping 
 there; though he stood a flaggon of wine, and 
 joined them in drinking the health of our great 
 king, and our great captain the immortal Conde ! 
 but I suppose it was to be, and when that's the 
 case, warnings are of no avail, for what the Fates 
 
 * A game at cards, then much in vogue ; more gambling 
 even than Lansquenette.
 
 164 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 have written, no human hand can efface ; yet as 
 he vaulted into his saddle, a Mousquetaire pointed 
 vrith his pipe over his shoulder to the inscription 
 on the wall,* and nodded to him as he gallopped 
 off. I was also for the road, and followed him, 
 in about quarter of an hour ; when upon reaching 
 the Barrier, I saw a coach attacked by robbers, 
 and Master Hallyburton gallantly defending the 
 travellers ; intending to come to his assistance, I 
 levelled my pistol at one of the bandits, who, 
 unfortunately stepping aside, the charge entered 
 Master Hallyburton's left side, and he expired in 
 a few minutes. Drawing, however, this packet 
 from his bosom, telling me that you would be 
 here at the back of the Pre aux Clercs at noon to 
 day, waiting for it, and entreating that I would 
 faithfully deliver it to you; also this small leathern 
 bag of gold pieces, that is, if you are, as I take 
 it you be. Master Rupert Singleton ? " 
 
 " Alas ! yes, I am indeed he ! and none other," 
 
 * On the walls of every cabaret formerly in France, were 
 inscribed in florid letters, the words, '■^ Dieu te regarded 
 God sees you.
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TIMES. 165 
 
 said the } oung man mournfully, taking the packet 
 which had a stain or two of Halljburton's blood 
 upon it. 
 
 "Poor Hans!" murmured Rupert Singleton, 
 and then added, turning to the stranger, as he tore 
 open the large official seal, " With your leave, 
 Sir ? " 
 
 The document contained only these words — 
 
 *' Sir Henry Vane was heheaded on Tower Hill, 
 at ten of the clock this morning, the fourteenth 
 day of June, in the year of our Lord 1662 ; his 
 lands of course being confiscated to the Crown. 
 Though a traitor, he died bravely : none more so. 
 
 ** John Robinson, Lieutenant of the Tower. 
 " His hand and seal. 
 
 *' In Witness thereof, Hans Hallyburton, and 
 William Swan." 
 
 " A beggar ! and the nephew of a traitor !" ex- 
 claimed the young man, clasping his hands, and 
 leaning his head against the tree : but as he spoke 
 in English, the stranger said, pointing to the open 
 letter. 
 
 " No bad news, young sir, I hope ?"
 
 166 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 *' Only," said Rupert, with a bitter laugh, "that 
 my uncle perished on the scaffold, as a traitor, 
 eight days ago." 
 
 " Were you much attached to your kinsman ?" 
 
 " No, for I never saw him. He was my mother's 
 brother, and when our country was torn by the 
 intestine commotions of civil war, he joined the 
 Protector, and never would see either his sister 
 or me, because she was the widow, and I the son 
 of a Cavalier." 
 
 "Whew!" whistled the stranger; "then, me- 
 thinks, a midge's wing, might suffice for your 
 mourning." 
 
 " Not so, for Honour mourns longer than Affec- 
 tion, which is a Phoenix ever resuscitating out of 
 its own ashes, but when a blow is aimed at Honour ! 
 it is always mortal ! " 
 
 " Hark ye, my young friend," rejoined the 
 stranger, placing his left hand upon Rupert's 
 shoulder, while he pointed upwards with the fore 
 finger of the other, "our good Bossuet, and Bour- 
 daloue, would tell you to look above, and I also 
 tell you to look up, around, and about you, and
 
 HIS LIFE AST) TIMES. 167 
 
 you will see that half the time, what me?i call 
 honour/ is nothing but a scarecrow, set up by them 
 to protect the immunities of self, which may, and 
 does, scare the smaller birds, and casts a shadow- 
 on the earth, but onli/ on the earth, mind; for 
 the beam and the breeze are as bright, and as free, 
 as ever for the eagle, and the gerfalcon, who dare 
 soar hicrh enouf^h to meet them." 
 
 c o 
 
 " But who can soar without wings ? and what 
 wings are to birds, wealth is to men," said the 
 young man, with a melancholy smile. 
 
 " And what call you this, pray?" retorted the 
 stranger, picking up the leathern bag (which 
 Rupert had let fall on the ground when he read 
 the Lieutenant of the Tower's letter) and tapping 
 the side of it, till the gold within returned an har- 
 monious chink, he added, " Many a great man has 
 begun the world with far less than even oie of 
 these broad pieces." 
 
 " This gold I cannot consider as lawfully mine," 
 said Rupert, " for it must of right belong to poor 
 Hallyburton's relations if he has aiiy." 
 
 " If he has any," repeated the stranger, seiz-
 
 168 molieke's teagedy. 
 
 ing upon these last words, " aye, but he has — or 
 rather had none — and his last request was, that 
 they might be given to you." 
 
 *' I can scarcely think so," said young Single- 
 ton incredulously, "for he was very poor; and 
 poor people have always hosts of still poorer 
 relations, depending upon their good offices ; for 
 on their rich ones, they know it is no use to 
 depend." 
 
 '' Oh ! then you know all about this Hally- 
 burton ? " 
 
 *'No: for I never saw him till about three 
 weeks ago, when, being obliged myself to leave 
 England, and come over into France, I engaged 
 him on the Tower wharf, to speed after me with 
 the news of my uncle's trial, oifering him fifteen 
 gold pieces for the same, and he chaffered much 
 that I should make it seventeen, being, as he 
 said, very poor." 
 
 " Of course," said the stranger, leisurely 
 untying the leathern thong of the bag, " don't 
 you know, that poverty is always placed in the 
 advanced guard, to clench a bargain ? "
 
 HIS LIFE AKD TIMES. 169 
 
 " Really sir, I — I — cannot think poor Hans 
 ever possessed so plethoric a purse ; and I much 
 fear me that your kindness, that is, your 
 generosity may lead you to — to — " 
 
 '* To convince you," interrupted the stranger, 
 not giving him time to stammer out the rest of the 
 sentence, *' that these are no monies of mine, or 
 of this realm; see^ they are all ducateans, and 
 broad Jacobus's, but as you will compliment my 
 generosity, it must e'en respond to the appeal, and 
 give you a taste of its quality. There will, from 
 the terrible scarcity of bread, be soon a collection 
 made in all the churches in France, more espe- 
 cially in those of Paris ; their Majesty's, and the 
 Queen mother themselves holding the plates at 
 Notre Dame. I like giving to the poor, at all 
 events, making the rich do so; but as I cannot 
 myself be there on that occasion, for it is two 
 months hence, I will depute z/om to be my almoner, 
 and beg you to put these into the plate as my con- 
 tribution ; but, remember, to that purpose alone 
 must you dedicate them, for young gentlemen are 
 apt to have lady loves, and you might think, per- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 chance, that they would grace a fair round arm 
 better than a church plate." And as he spoke the 
 stranger drew from his bosom a pair of costly 
 strung pearl bracelets, each pearl being consider- 
 ably larger than a white currant, and clasped with 
 a large emerald, set round widi brilliants. 
 
 " Oh ! how beautiful ! " exclaimed Rupert. 
 " In sooth they are pretty baubles enough, and 
 if charity covereth a multitude of sins, by my 
 troth ! jewels often do the same. At all events, 
 the people are craving for bread, and methinks 
 'tis a pretty conceit, and one worthy of Monsieur 
 de la Sabliere, by giving it to the boors in this 
 shape, thus literally to throw pearls before swine ! 
 But hark ye, not a syllable of these pearls being 
 in your possession to mortal, or you will have 
 cause to repent it; it is my honor, ha! ha! ha! 
 that I am intrusting to yours.'' 
 
 The sti'anger's laugh sounded suspiciously, and 
 disagreeably, in Rupert's ear. 
 
 " But sir, these really are too costly," said he, 
 instinctively drawing back. 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! a matter of 10,000 crowns, 
 not more."
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 171 
 
 " Really I would rather you gave them your- 
 self, people might wonder how I came by such 
 things," still objected the young man. 
 
 " Ah ! I see how it is," said his strange com- 
 panion, " you doubt me, because I am like, and 
 yet unlike other men ; for all other men wear a 
 mask, only my mask is different to theirs, mine 
 being of the vao^t penetrable thing in the world — 
 wax, while theirs is of the most impenetrable — 
 hypocrisy! " 
 
 Youth, at least rightly constituted youth, is 
 naturally averse from hurting the feelings of 
 others, especially if those others have been 
 apparently kind to them, so coloring deeply, 
 Rupert replied — 
 
 . " Nay sir, I can scarcely doubt one who has 
 commenced his acquaintance with me, by render- 
 ing me a signal service, as you did, in bringing 
 me this letter, and — and — " the young man 
 looked at the bag of gold, and coloured still 
 more deeply, without finishing his sentence. 
 
 •' Goodi that is something like ; great benefits, 
 they say make ingrates, while small tokens beget 
 
 I 2
 
 172 MOLli:RE'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 friendship. So take this," added he (withdrawing 
 from his own neck a small oval piece of vellum, 
 with a monogram on it, and a piece of small 
 green silk cord passed through it, like a miniature,) 
 " and wear it ever round your neck, within your 
 doublet ; it may do you good service when you 
 least expect it, but never part from it, at least, 
 while you are in France ; Oh ! I perceive," con- 
 tinued he, seeing that Rupert stared, " you are 
 doubtless a Huguenot ? and therefore have little 
 faith in reliques, but this is a famous one ! one 
 of St. Anthony's! that chivalric saint! the 
 patron of ladies, and wayfarers, in distress, and 
 who himself never travelled without several 
 changes of miracles in his valise, for the special 
 use of both. 
 
 " Aye ! San Antonio, vegghia Cavalieri,'' con- 
 cluded he, singing out in a magnificent barytone 
 voice, this refrain of an old Italian drinking song. 
 
 In order not discourteously to reject his gift of 
 the strange-looking piece of vellum, Rupert passed 
 it round his neck, and consequently cast down his 
 eyes to arrange it within his vest ; when he again
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 173 
 
 raised them, the man in the wax mask was gone ! 
 having disappeared as noiselessly and suddenly as 
 he had appeared. The young man looked round 
 for him in all directions, but there was no trace of 
 him. " Am I dreaming ?" soliloquised he. "Yet 
 no ; for here is the heavy purse, the costly brace- 
 lets, and this rag of a relique hanging round my 
 neck to authenticate the vision ! Well, there is 
 nothing like taking * the goods the gods provide 
 one,' as Master Dryden hath it;" and so saying, 
 he plunged the purse into one pocket, and the 
 bracelets into another, and then unfastening, and 
 passing his horse's bridle round his wrist, and said 
 " Click ! Come Zara, thou hast not done so badly ; 
 it is my turn now to break my fast; and as I have 
 wherewithall, the blind goddess be praised, to pay 
 for it, it will go hard with me if I do not drink 
 the Grand Monarque's health in a flask of kingly 
 Burgundy." So saying, he turned out of the Pre 
 aux Clercs, and down a narrow street on the right, 
 called at that time the Rue de L'Eepee (Sword 
 Street), probably from all the duels that were 
 fought in the adjoining meadow. Seeing a peasant
 
 174 MOLIERE^S TRAGEDY. 
 
 leading a donkey laden with melons, Rupert 
 stopt, and asked him if there was an hostelry any- 
 where near, cheap enongh for a poor scholar to put 
 up at, and rich enough to afford a substantial meal, 
 which he stood much in need of, not having eaten 
 for four-and-twenty hours. 
 
 " Eh Pardi /" replied the peasant, " I believe 
 you my master. Le Soliel Levant (the Rising Sun) 
 hard by, where you will getsowpeaux choux-verts^ 
 and a gihelotte that might content the King him- 
 self, or even a cardinal!" 
 
 " Ah ! indeed ? " said the young man, smiling, 
 " unfortunately, rabbits affect me not, nor green 
 cabbage soup either ; but still, it's always safe to 
 follow the rising sun ! So many thanks for your 
 information friend," and putting a twenty-four 
 sols piece into the countryman's hand, he continued 
 his way down the street; his eyes bent abstractedly 
 on the ground ; and the sharp echo of his horse's 
 feet upon the pointed and irregular pavement 
 making a sort of harsh accompaniment to his by 
 no means harmonious thoughts, till he came to 
 " the Soleil Levant,'"' from the wooden balcony of
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 175 
 
 the first story of which, projected an enormous 
 withered bush, which tempered the rays of the 
 magnificent rising sun beneath ! An inscription 
 underneath informed the passers, that it found 
 entertainment for man and beast ; as indeed the 
 rising sun generally does, of some kind or other. 
 At the door were mine host, Maitre Potdevin and 
 his better, at least bigger, half, Javotte, she 
 shelling peas, and throwing them into a large flat 
 basket, while a portly political economist of a pig, 
 with an eye to the proper distribution of wealth, 
 devoured the pods, and Maitre Potdevin, doubtless 
 to keep his hand in for his customers, was pluck- 
 ing a very respectable, middle-aged duck ; which 
 Rupert, thinking a great improvement upon the 
 promised gihelotte and cabbage soup, stopped, and 
 inquired if his horse could be cared for ? and him- 
 self served with that very duck and those identi- 
 cal peas (minus the pig) immediately ? Having 
 been answered in the aflirmative, with innu- 
 merable bows and curtseys into the bargain, he 
 conducted Zara to the stable, rubbed her down 
 himself, made up her litter, and having cut a few
 
 176 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 carrots into her sieve of oats, for which she not 
 only expressed her thanks by neighing and rubbing 
 her head against him, but also drank his health 
 in a pail of excellent water, which he had brought 
 her, he left her to enjoy that repose of which 
 she stood so much in need, and returning to the 
 house, entered the little inn's best, not worst, 
 room, where he found the table already laid, but 
 as he could not dine for half an hour, he ordered 
 his saddle-bags to be carried up stairs to his 
 sleeping room, and having at length succeeded in 
 making his ablutions by instalments, as travellers 
 in England as well as France were obliged to do 
 in those days, and re-dressed himself in a mourn- 
 ing suit of black velvet and jet, the cloak of 
 which was lined with purple Florence silk, which 
 well became him, and again descended ; the dinner 
 not having yet made its appearance he poured 
 out a glass of water and drank it, then, drawing 
 a long silken ringlet of fair hair from his bosom, 
 kissed it passionately, but hearing a footstep, he 
 concealed it hastily, and dashing a tear from his 
 eye, leant both his elbows on the table, and held
 
 HIS LIFE AND THIES. 1 7 7 
 
 his forehead in his hands, and as if his thoughts, 
 in their impetuous torrent, had burst all bounds, 
 be said aloud — 
 
 " No, no, it is no use ! all now is over ! even 
 she, perhaps, will shrink from me ; for who will 
 look upon me now ? " Pushing back his hair, he 
 raised his eyes, and as if Heaven had sent a 
 direct and pitying answer to his despairing ques- 
 tion ; read on the opposite wall, the inscription of 
 
 DiEU TE Regarde ! 
 
 i3
 
 178 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Armande had now been a year Madame (or as 
 actresses were always then called in France), Ma- 
 demoiselle Moliere, and Armande was happy, for 
 dress, pleasure, and admiration, were all that her 
 shallow and vapid heart required ; and of each of 
 these, she had more than enough to satisfy her. 
 Of a deep and pure affection, or even of a great 
 passion, she was incapable, — as where there is no 
 profundity of feeling, there is seldom any tenacity 
 of principle, for all good quaUties are great, and, 
 like large vessels at sea, require room, whereas 
 the small craft of ignoble ones, make better play 
 in a shallow element ; consequently Armande,
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 179 
 
 whom love could not sway, nor principle bind, 
 was a finished coquette, but as even coquettes 
 have, in the chromatic scale of their vanity, cer- 
 tain semitones of predilection, which they mis- 
 take for the harmonies of affection, she imagined 
 that she was the victim of a grande passion for the 
 captivating and worthless Dae de Lauzun. The 
 reason that she deemed herself the victim of this 
 imaginary attachment was, that although her heart 
 was unguarded, either by the seraph Love, or the 
 dragon Duty, and that she did not even feel that 
 honest canine virtue, gratitude, towards the 
 man to w^hom she owed every thing, — that is, 
 every thing she most prized, — celebrity, position 
 and independence ; yet, to do her justice, she did 
 feel the womanly leaven of pity for the heart she 
 knew her infidelity would break. As in all our 
 earthly possessions, the value of a thing is pre- 
 cisely that w^hich we set upon it ; and to the miser, 
 who hoards and hugs the smallest copper coin 
 with more devotion than a generous beggar would 
 a gold one, the copper coin becomes inestimable, 
 for more happiness has been invested in it, and
 
 180 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 more salvation staked upon it, than on the non- 
 miser's gold. Therefore, with all her vanity, Ar- 
 mande felt she v^as not worth the vast mine of 
 love Moliere had lavished on her, and not being 
 able to pay him in kind, she thought a little cha- 
 ritable deception, would be the most humane re- 
 turn she could make him ; and so she cleverly 
 tried to direct all his jealousy towards the Due de 
 Guiche, whom without remorse, she cast forth as 
 a scapegoat to her caprice for the handsome vau- 
 rien Lauzun. It so happened, that one morning, 
 after a scene between the husband and wife, the 
 former, telling her that he no longer would, or 
 could^ bear with her coquetry, and that if she 
 would not give up her danglers, she must give 
 him up, for he would not live with her, Moliere 
 lost his temper, and like all persons who do so, 
 his ground, while Armande, calm and unmoved, 
 never acted better, even at the Petit Bourhon, — 
 winding up, however, with a fainting fit, which 
 had the desired effect of converting her master 
 into her slave, who pressing one of her hands be- 
 tween both of his, as he knelt beside her, said, in
 
 niS LIFE AND TIMES. 181 
 
 a voice over whose inarticulate gaspings his very 
 soul seemed broken in fragments, — " Forgive me, 
 Armande : I am a madman and a fool." 
 
 '* Xon, mon ami, you are only cruel and unjust. 
 I will write to the Due de Guiche forbidding him 
 the house." 
 
 *' The Due de Guiche !" echoed Moliere. '* I 
 thought " 
 
 But whatever he thought he did not utter it, as 
 if he feared that a breath might give form, and 
 substance, to his already maddening, though only 
 vague suspicions. Armande perceived his sur- 
 prise and his hesitation, and knew well the name 
 he thought, but had not spoken ; and lest he 
 should do so, she clasped her hands, and raising 
 her eyes to heaven, exclaimed, " Ah ! Jean Bap- 
 tiste, you are only surprised that I should name 
 him, instead of being convinced by my doing so, 
 that my heart and my conscience acquit me, for it 
 is easy to name those whom we don't care, if we 
 never saw again." 
 
 " Yes, yes, of course, niamie^' said Moliere, 
 patting her hand as he turned away his head.
 
 182 molieke's tragedy. 
 
 frowned, and bit his lips ; and then again turning 
 towards her, he drew her up by both hands out of 
 her chair, imprinted a kiss on her forehead, and 
 said with that terrible calm of exhaustion, which 
 is the audible evidence of moral devastation, when 
 a whirlwind of anguish, and a tempest of conflict- 
 ing passions have swept across the heart, and scathed 
 with one electric flash the last green spot on which 
 Hope dwelt, " Go, Armande, I have much to do, 
 and must now be alone." 
 
 Too glad to escape all furtheraccusation on the one 
 hand, and subterfuge on the other, she obeyed, but 
 still applied her handkerchief to the corner of her 
 eyes, en victime. When Moliere closed the door 
 after her, he turned the key in it, and then for 
 some seconds remained with his arms folded, and 
 his head sunk upon his bosom. At length he mur- 
 mured in a low, hoarse voice between his set teeth, 
 till the hollow whisper of his own voice echoed 
 through the room, and seemed like hell returning 
 a confirmation of his fears. 
 
 ** De Guiche ! can it be he ? and not Lauzun, as 
 I have suspected ? Oh ! — no ! — no 1 " he added,
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 183 
 
 raising both hands to his head and grasping his 
 hair, " She has my wits on a cast and plays with 
 ray infirmity! Ah! she said truly — it is easy to 
 name those icliom ice don't care if ice never see 
 again ! The vile fair varnished sin ! She never 
 named — nay by the rood ! she never even hinted 
 at Lauzun ! Oh ! arch fool and triple idiot! that 
 T am ! — I see it all ! " and he dashed his clenched 
 hand against the wall, and then exclaimed with 
 his own George Dandin, as he clenched both his 
 hands and ground his teeth — 
 
 " T enrage I d avoir toujours tort, lorseque j'ai raisony 
 
 But his physical strength was failing him, so he 
 flung himself into a chair, and tearing off his 
 cravat, wiped the large drops from his forehead. 
 At length he said, slowly shaking his head, and 
 striking his breast, as if he had been saying a mea 
 culpa — 
 
 " Peace ! friend Moliere ; thou art a fool, and 
 the worst of fools — one of thine own making ! " 
 and then, after rocking himself to, and fro, for
 
 184 moliere's tragedy* 
 
 some time, he ended, as he always did, by making 
 excuses for Armande. 
 
 " Poor soul ; and is it all her fault ? Oh ! what 
 selfish, dastardly, false, treacherous tyrants are 
 men. Women, by nature weaker than we are, 
 from their more impressionable and susceptible 
 organisation, we make still weaker, by fettering 
 them from their birth with the swathings of inane 
 conventionalities; for we cripple our women's 
 minds, as the Chinese do their women's feet ; we 
 pen them in the narrow fold of irresponsihility , up 
 to a certain point, never allowing them to think 
 for themselves, or lean upon their own resources ; 
 denying them the wholesome mental food of 
 rational beings, we sweeten the panada of their 
 assumed inferiority, with flattery and deceit, till 
 we in reality enfeeble them down to a state of 
 moral dentition, and then we throw them into 
 that great arena of impossibilities, the world, to 
 wrestle, single-handed, and unarmed, with practised 
 gladiators, and untamed tigers ; and so it will 
 ever be, as long as we have two weights, and two 
 measures, palliation for self, and anathema for
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TIMES. 185 
 
 our neighbour. Can there be such a thing as 
 morality until the Law of Morals is immutable, 
 and the aggressor is punished at /ea^^ equally with 
 the victim ! Can there be such a thing as 
 morality ; as long as we drape our social code 
 with cobweb barriers, through which great 
 offenders break with unlacerated wings, free as 
 ever to recommence their career of depredation, 
 and lesser ones, alone, get injured and entangled in 
 their flimsy meshes ? Can there be such a thing as 
 morality as long as virtue is only preached and 
 sice is dlone practised? Certainly tzo^. Can there 
 be such a thing as morality when all ties are either 
 violated with impunity, or made the subject of a 
 ribald jest, when they belong to oMer*, and only 
 become solemn, sacred, and tragical! when simi- 
 lar ties happen to centre in, and be outraged 
 against, ourselves ? Certainly not. Oh ! monster- 
 ous and fatal ! rock of egotism, upon which the 
 great fleet of human happiness has split ever since 
 the world began, and the giant wrecks will still go 
 on multiplying, till the sermon on the mount be 
 raised as a Pharos upon that loadstone rock, and
 
 186 moliere's tragedy, 
 
 *'do unto others as you would they should 
 DO unto you "becomes the inscription on the flag 
 that flies from every human craft. And to go from 
 the universal, to the particular : look at France at 
 the present moment ; not content with the profli- 
 gacy of our court, which one might think was 
 demoralizing enough, we send our daughters to 
 have their manners formed (their morals being of 
 little consequence !) into the salons of the modern 
 Lais, and actually cabal ! for the entree for them 
 clie^ Ninon ! * With us much unholy zeal, as 
 anchorites, would exercise self denial to get to 
 
 * IMoliere "w-as justly horrified, at the moral obliquity that 
 could induce mothers to take their daughters to Ninon de 
 L'Enclos, to form their manners^ — but as far as the vicious 
 state of society -went, and the total leze morale^ we were not 
 much behind hand in virtuous England^ for Pepys, EveljTi, 
 and all the other memories of the time, mention as a matter of 
 course, Lord Brounker bringing " his Miss"" into the so- 
 ciety of very honourable ladies, and my Lord Sandwich 
 doing the same ; and moreover sending his daughters to 
 lodge with " his Miss'' at " Chelseyy It is true, that the 
 English then^ as noiv^ always evmced their own virtue, by 
 expressmg unmitigated abhorrence at the slightest derelic- 
 tion from propriety in others^ though mdeed our Cordon 
 Sanetaire was as knotted, and entangled a puzzle to the
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 187 
 
 Paradise ! and have / not, too, contributed to the 
 corruption of this great Lazar House ? Armande ! 
 my poor Armande ! have I not also cradled and 
 trained you in it ? And then, forsooth, I expect 
 that you should be bright ! and high ! and pure ! 
 as a star whose way had always been in Heaven ! 
 simply because J have chosen you as ;???/ particular 
 star. Oh ! worse than fool ! Oh ! more than 
 madman! ever to have dreamt that one poor 
 heartful of that most subtile purifier, and disin- 
 fector, love! could aught avail against this univer- 
 sal pestilence of custom! and worse than all, 
 
 uninitiated then, as it is now, serving, as in our own times, to 
 give great law breakers the whip hand over the few who 
 fear God, and not man, and so exercise it as a cat o' nine- 
 tails upon their eccentricity ; but it is doubtless a great 
 proof of our philanthropy, that we should thus devote all 
 our scrutiny and severity to the short comings of others, 
 and so totally overlook our own ; consequently, while we 
 are scandalized at the supposed demoralizing influence of 
 the confessional, we do not seem to think there is anything 
 either disgusting or vitiating, in letting our newspapers be 
 filled with trials detailing the grossest vice, and by the 
 melancholy frequency of the record, proving that we are 
 not so singularly moral a people after all !
 
 188 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 against these strange, long, crooked decisions of 
 destiny there is no appeal! Do we not often see 
 the conscientious son paying his spendthrift father's 
 debts ? and often, too, the profligate sire, shall 
 have an exemplary wife and virtuous son, 
 and this virtuous son shall doat upon his wife, 
 and yet be betrayed hy her. Strange dark 
 mystery of iniquity, which proves, beyond all 
 doubt, that * the sins of the fathers are indeed 
 visited upon the children^ and that fate is God's 
 delegate, and grim relentless Nemesis ever her 
 toll taker ! Oh ! it's all wrong — all rotten at the 
 core. We mire and poison society at its very 
 source, and then punish, and exclaim against, from 
 time to time, the few stragglers who get splashed 
 by its turbid impurities ; while the mass, who 
 plunge deep into its Stygian abominations, obtain 
 the invulnerable franchise of impunity !'* 
 
 Again Moliere rose, — again he paced the room 
 with folded arms; but as if feeling the vanity o^ words 
 against such stubborn crooked facts, he now 
 thought in silence, save when a groan occasionally 
 escaped him. As he again reached the door for
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 189 
 
 about the twentieth time, some one knocked 
 gently at it. Thinking it was Armande, he re- 
 solved to take no notice, for he would rather have 
 died than have seen her at that moment ; but the 
 knock was soon repeated more loudly, and the 
 unmistakeable voice of the poet Chapelle, whose 
 jovial and rubicund tones resembled, as Moliere 
 was wont to express it, clusters of grapes, ripened 
 by the vicinity of a volcano — for Chapelle was the 
 Sheridan of the age of Louis Quatorze, the lord 
 of wit, and the slave of wine. Like Sheridan too, 
 he abounded in the floating elements of better 
 things ; but alas ! feeble were the efforts of his 
 higher qualities to resist the force of his ruling 
 passion, so that his virtuous resolves only shared 
 the fate of Agave and Pentheus, whenever they 
 attempted to mutiny against the ruddy God. 
 
 " Ah ^a Poquelin, mon ami, open the door if 
 you are within ?" cried Chapelle. 
 
 Moliere needed no second appeal. He was 
 himself so true, and expansive, in his friendships, 
 that he never doubted that his friends were less 
 so to him ; nor for the most part were they : and
 
 190 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 as none loved him more cordially than Chapelle, 
 unless indeed it might be La Fontaine, the sound 
 of his voice now fell like balm upon Moliere's 
 chafed and wounded spirit. In La Fontaine he 
 perhaps loved the leaven of the man better ; but 
 then there was no such thing as being with La 
 Fontaine except when away from him ; yet in 
 this the honhomme reserved nothing to himself 
 that he did not share with his friends, for his own 
 identity was a great abstraction ; he was always 
 out of himself, consequently he had strong theo- 
 retical friendships, but the moment these friend- 
 ships became incarnate, and approached him in 
 tangible forms, he felt so oppressed by their cor- 
 poreal vicinity, which was to him like a condensed 
 crowd, that in this pressure he was apt to lose his 
 sympathies, and grope for them in vain, never 
 being able to comprehend, till an hour or two 
 after the 'person had left him, the joy, sorrovv, 
 hope, or fear, that he ought to have felt for, or 
 with, the poor soul I Whereas Chapelle, drunk 
 or sober, was always, hody and soul, with his 
 friends, — what was his was theirs ; and as all hu-
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TBIES. 191 
 
 man weal, and still more, all human woe, is una- 
 voidably selfish, there is nothing so attaching as 
 those friends who identify themselves with both 
 the one and the other ; for we naturally like those 
 whom we cling to, to be presetit, and not absent. 
 
 " Ah it's you ! Chapelle," said Moliere, instantly 
 opening the door, and cordially shaking his friend's 
 hand. "Always welcome! and never more wel- 
 come than now." 
 
 " Really," replied Chapelle, looking askance 
 at his companion's flushed, yet haggard face, " I 
 cannot return the compliment, and say. Ah! its 
 you Moliere ; for who would suppose that the 
 Knight of the Rueful Countenance before me was 
 Europe's greatest comic author and actor." 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Moliere evasively, "can any- 
 thing well be more wretched than to be always 
 writing and acting the follies of mankind ?" 
 
 " Yes, one thing ; for it is more foolish too, 
 which is, to fret at them." 
 
 " I don't fret at them,'' sighed Moliere. 
 
 " Then you fret at something, for I never saw 
 a man so changed. Harkee friend Poquelin, you
 
 192 MOLIERE'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 are the property of the public, and the wealth of 
 your friends ; therefore you have no right to peril 
 or squander the smallest atom of your well-being, 
 without giving a strict account of it. Every human 
 being is the best judge of their own joy, for no 
 other heart can analyse it for them, but sorrow is 
 a speck upon the eye of their existence, which it 
 requires another's eye to scrutinize, and through 
 the assistance of that other, it may often be re- 
 moved." 
 
 " I don't know," replied Moliere, with a pale 
 smile, " I fear no friendship would long hold out, 
 if we converted it into our souffre douleurs and 
 porte malheures.'" 
 
 *' Bah ! My dear Poquelin you would never 
 have put so false a sentiment, and so clumsy a 
 speech, into the mouth of o ne of your own dram- 
 atis personce. As I have often said, touching the 
 Jesuit, and Jansenists feuds, those whom religion 
 disunites are not really religious, for every faith 
 is but some separate ray of that universal halo, of 
 which Grod is the centre, and, in like manner, 
 those whom sorrow can estrange, or misfortune
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TIMES. 193 
 
 weary, are not friends^ though thej may be com- 
 panions, for friendship grafts itself alike, on weal 
 or woe, having sincerity for its radix, hitherto I 
 confess, mine has been but a parasite, entwining 
 itself around your flourishing tree of life ; at all 
 events, do the poor parasite the justice to believe 
 that it will not wither 'neath any shade, however 
 dark, that may fall from that goodly tree." 
 
 And a drop — as, alas ! was too often the case, 
 — glistened in poor Chapelle's eye, as he held 
 out his hand to his companion, who took it, and 
 pressed it within both his own. 
 
 " My dear Chapelle, your kindness has un- 
 locked my heart." 
 
 " I am glad of it, for I know no casket whose 
 treasures I would rather explore." 
 
 " Treasures ! What if you find the most 
 puerile rubbish, and the foulest toad that ever 
 eiit into a stone, and made it hideous with its 
 presence ?" 
 
 '* The simile is illogical, for your heart, my 
 good Moliere, is no stone, and therefora I am at 
 a loss to conjecture, which of its passions, or 
 
 VOL. I. K.
 
 194 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 feelings can possibly resemble that vile rep- 
 tile." 
 
 " Jealousy ! the most slimey ! subtle ! and 
 deadly ! that ever tortured, and poisoned a human 
 heart! " cried Moliere, clutching w^ith an iron, yet 
 tremulous grasp both Chapelle's shoulders, his 
 utterance almost choked between his set teeth, 
 and a momentary insanity glaring in his eyes. 
 Even Chapelle's florid face became livid, as 
 the blood receded to his heart, under the mag- 
 netic influence of the strong agony before 
 him. 
 
 " Yes," repeated Moliere, in a hollow, thin, 
 sharp whisper, as he relaxed his grasp of Cha- 
 pelle's shoulders, tottered bsck into his chair, and 
 covering his face with his hands, said, with a 
 bitter ironical laugh, " /, Moliere ! am jealous ! 
 jealous of my wife! ha ! ha ! don't you think I 
 have noiu furnished the town with more matter 
 for laughter than I ever did before ? " 
 
 *' Why 3^es, my dear Poquelin, if what you 
 say was true; but — but — it's utterly impossible ! 
 in the first place, I'm convinced you have no
 
 mS LIFE AND TIMES. 195 
 
 cause ; in the next, if you had, I'm sure your 
 broad good sense would never allow you to make 
 so serious an evil, of being merely in the fashion, 
 nav, in the very height of the fashion," stam- 
 i;.ered Chapelle, sore perplexed, between 
 the fear of seeming unfeeling, and his wish to 
 try, by treating the matter lightly, to induce 
 Moliere to conquer his misgivings. 
 
 " You are convinced I have no cause ^'' sighed 
 Moliere slowly. "Would to God ! I could be con- 
 vinced of the same. Ah ! my dear Chapelle," 
 added he, first poirfling to his head, and then to 
 his heart, ** when these two witnesses agree, the 
 evidence is conclusive." 
 
 " Nay, not always, for the one generally pre- 
 judices the other ; besides where is your strong, 
 eagle-eyed, iron minded ccmmon sense, Po- 
 quelin ? " 
 
 " Destroyed, by my folly." 
 " Well, but if a woman whom I had loved and 
 trusted, cherished ar.d worshipped, as you have 
 done your wife, played me false, by the rood ! I 
 should de.'pise her too much to fret about her." 
 
 K 2
 
 196 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " Ah ! you have never loved.** 
 
 " Then I would avenge my honor at once, by 
 repudiating what I knew had injured it." 
 
 ** It is plain you have never h.ved Chapelle." 
 
 " Yes I have, but sensibly, and soberly, as 
 befits an honest man, but I should never have 
 made so great a grief of what I suspected to be 
 so worthless, and being sure of it, I should never 
 have hesitated as you do, to pursue a decided 
 course : if you act thus on suspicion you wrong 
 your wife, and if from certainty you wrong your- 
 self, not to have the courage and the decision to 
 avenge your injuries, and I don't hesitate to tell 
 you, that I blush for you ! " 
 
 " And I envy you, for all you say, convinces 
 me that you have never loved ! despise me if you 
 will, but beware how you make others despise 
 Armande ; mine, at all events, shall not be the 
 hand to push her down the precipice ; you have 
 surprised my confidence, do not abuse it, I confide 
 it to your honor." 
 
 " You may," said Chapelle, " but from my soul 
 I grieve for you. And is it possible that you
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 197 
 
 mean to go on inflicting the voluntary martyrdom 
 on yoursslf, of acting every night with that 
 woman scenes which I now perceive you rehearse 
 in realities at home. Well may the town marvel 
 at, and applaud, the inimitable nature of your act- 
 ing, for what can be truer to nature than the real ? 
 Again I ask you, my dear friend, can you inflict 
 this voluntary, this horrible martyrdom on your- 
 self?" 
 
 Before Moliere could reply, another knock was 
 heard at the door. Previous to opening it, he 
 grasped Chapelle's hand, and said in a low voice — 
 
 "Hush ! not another word ; you shall sse that 
 any degree of martyrdom can be borne by a volun- 
 tary martyr.'' 
 
 He then said in a loud voice, ** Come in." 
 
 The intruder was Boileau, who after having 
 greeted Moliere, turned angrily to Chapelle ; for 
 Boileau was a sort of social St. Paul, who had the 
 care of all his friend's oddities, misdemeanours, 
 and peccadillos upon him. 
 
 '^ Ah ! mauvaise tete!" cried he, "You have 
 been at your old tricks, and now have the honour of
 
 198 MjLiEi^a's TRxVaaDT. 
 
 dividing the cans ire of the court, and the to.vn, 
 with Cartouche."* 
 
 " Why ?" askcjd Molie.e, affecting to laugh, and 
 not sorry that it was now Chapelle's turn to have 
 a little of that good advice, and unerring wisdom, 
 which people always have ready at the service, of 
 ^he faults, and follies of others, *' has he during one 
 his ca npaigns in Burguniy sworn allegiance to 
 Cartouche ?" 
 
 " No, not quite so bad as that. Cartouche's 
 share of notoriety is this : the old Duchesse de 
 
 * There are two celebrated robbers of this name. The 
 one above mentioned was the most notorious of the two, 
 he being supposed to have bten a younge-- branch of a noble 
 family in Languedoc, and to have served tliree years under 
 Marechal Turenne, when a disappointment in love made 
 Jjim turn bandit. The wonderful and mysterious success of 
 his burglaries, and the magnanimous acts of restitution^ 
 charity, and generosity that he occasionally performed, made 
 Imn at once the terror, the admiration, and the theme of the 
 seventeenth century. His w^hole life was a romance, and 
 he perished at the age of thirty-seven, in a highway en- 
 counter. The other Cartouche, equally celebrated for his 
 daring, his almost sleight of hand robberies, his sang froid^ 
 and his wit, who flourished from 1719 to 1743, is supposed 
 have been great nephew to the above.
 
 HIS LIFE AST) TDIES. 199 
 
 Chevereuse, who was always boasting that she 
 
 defied him, or even the d 1 himself, to rob 
 
 her — at least, of her personals, such as clothes, 
 jewels, &c. &c. — has, since the day before yester- 
 day, made Versailles ring with her lamentations; 
 as, it seems, upon rising two mornings ago, she 
 found all her jewels gone, and one of Cartouche's 
 civil notes on her toilet, expressing his happiness 
 at not having disturbed her in the night, while 
 removing those few baubles, which, if left at Ver- 
 sailles, he feared might become the prey of 
 some vulgar rapacity ! and he ended by compli- 
 menting Madame la Duchesse upon her perspi- 
 cacity, in always foretelling the safety of her 
 personalsy £ls he begged her to accept his solemn 
 word of honour, that neither he, nor any of his 
 troupe f would ever carry her off! " 
 
 While they were still laughing at this misad- 
 venture of the Duchesse de Chevereuse, Despreaux 
 said to Chapelle : 
 
 ** As for you, you don't come off with such 
 flying colours as Cartouche ; and I am so pro- 
 voked with you for flinging Fortune's gifts back
 
 200 moliere's tragi-dy. 
 
 in her face, as you do, at every turn, that I have 
 been hunting for you in every cabaret in Paris, to 
 give you the scolding you so well deserve ; though, 
 Heaven only knows, all reproofs are thrown 
 away upon you ! " 
 
 " Why, what have I been doing now ? " asked 
 Chapelle, with a sort of frightened, school-boy 
 look, that made both Moliere and Despreaux 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 " Rather, what have you not been doing, in 
 the way of gaucheries^ and manques de conve- 
 nances ? Pray allow me to ask you, had you not 
 the honour of an invitation from Monsieur le 
 Frince* to sup at Fontainebleau last Thurs- 
 day?" 
 
 ''Yes— well?" 
 
 " No — but ill, very ill. As, instead of obeying 
 it — for, you know, royal invitations are com- 
 mands — did you not meet in your after-dinner 
 walk, a set of officers and young sparks, playing 
 
 * The son of the great Conde; in reality, the Due 
 D'Knghien, but always called Monsieur le Prince during 
 his father's life-time.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 201 
 
 at bowls, near the Mail? And did you not 
 loiter there, looking at them ? And when the 
 game was ended, and the losers adjourned to a 
 neighbouring tavern, to give a collation to the 
 winners, did you not go with them, and there re- 
 main drinking, till, long before ten o'clock, in- 
 stead of being at Fontainebleau, you were under 
 the table Malheureux ! " 
 
 "Alas! yes. It is all too true! But they 
 pressed me so much to join them ; and — and — 
 you must make some allowance for the tempta- 
 tion of entreaty, and the contagion of example," 
 stammered Chapelle. 
 
 '• No, sir ; I make none for such childish weak- 
 ness in a full-grown man, who calls himself a 
 rational being ! " vociferated Despreaux, striking 
 the table with his clenched hand; and then 
 added, ** I suppose you had not even the decency 
 to oflPer an apology to M. le Prince; though, 
 indeed, I don't know what apology you could 
 make, for such a gross breach of decorum." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Chapelle, now raising his 
 drooping head, like a large poppy after a refresh- 
 
 K 3
 
 202 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 ing shower, and apparently quite sure that, this 
 time, at least, he was in the right ; ** I went the 
 very next day, and made his Royal Highness an 
 ample apology." 
 
 " And what, in the name of Silenus, did you 
 say ? " 
 
 " I said, really Monseigneur, these officers I 
 met were such good people — such excellent com- 
 pany, so easy, that I could not refuse their sup- 
 per ; and with them, at least, there was no for- 
 mality ; one was quite at one's ease."* 
 
 At this both Moliere and Boileau roared ! 
 
 *' Tiens /'* cried Chapelle, stopping in the act 
 of blowing his nose, — '* there seems to be more 
 wit in this apology than I'm aware of." 
 
 *' Or less ?" said Despreaux, going off into ano- 
 ther fit of laughter. 
 
 *' No, for Monsieur le Prince laughed just as 
 you do when I made my excuses to him." 
 
 * This tells better in Chapelle's own words : '• En 
 veritey mon Seigneur c' etaient de si bonnes gens, et bien aise' a 
 vivre, que ceux qui niontdonnt a souper: aux n:oins avec cux, 
 il n'yavait point de gene /"
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 203 
 
 *•' I've no doubt of it," rejoined Despreaux, 
 *' and I advise you to make the most of that laugh 
 from Monsieur le Prince ; for suppers inclusive, 
 depend upon it, it is all you are likely to get from 
 him r 
 
 *• You think so ?" 
 
 " I'll svi^ear it ! but come," added Despreaux, 
 looking at his watch, " it is nearly four o'clock, 
 and time Moliere should be at the Petit Bourbon ; 
 but as I have not half done with you yet, I can 
 continue my lecture in the street, as I intend to 
 walk home with you to keep you out of harm's 
 way ; so adieu, Poquelin, mon ami'' 
 
 ** Adieu," said Moliere, readjusting his cravat 
 before the glass, previous to his own departure for 
 the theatie. 
 
 •' Now, you see, my dear Chapelle," resumed 
 Despreaux, taking his friend's arm as soon as 
 they got into the street, and leaning both his 
 hands on it, ** what I say to you is wholly and 
 solely for your good. If I did not care for you, 
 and if you were not worth caring for, I assure 
 you I would not waste a single lecture upon you, 
 but let you gjo to tlie d 1 your own wav."
 
 204 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " r know it — I know it; and believe me I feel 
 grateful for it, my dear Despreaux," cried poor 
 Chapelle, with the tears in his eyes, grasping both 
 his companion's hands. 
 
 ** Because you see," continued Despreaux, 
 ** this detestable and deofradinofvice will not only 
 mar your every prospect in life, but will actually 
 drag your talents, great and brilliant as they are, 
 into the mire with you, as you will eventually 
 quench the Promethean spark, which links the 
 human with the divine ; for where the man ends 
 the brute begins." 
 
 '* Oh ! true, too true ! How deeply — how 
 keenly I feel every word you utter ; and time 
 shall convince you of the sincerity of my resolves 
 of amendment. My dear friend, I could listen to 
 you for ever ; but let us finish our conversation in 
 here, for you speak so loud, and I am so moved 
 by what you say, that we are exciting the atten- 
 tion of all the people in the street." 
 
 *' Willingly," said Despreaux, following him 
 into a cafSy which bore the propitious title of 
 " Le Cafe de La Sagesse.*' 
 
 In reply to the gardens question of what he
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIDIES. 205 
 
 should bring? Despreaux was about to order two 
 cups of coffee, but before he could speak, Cha- 
 pelle from habit called, almost mechanically, for a 
 bottle of Burgundy. Despreaux shrugged his 
 shoulders as he seated himself at a table, which 
 the poet perceiving, said, — *' Forgive me, my dear 
 friend, it was inadvertence, but you know one 
 must call for something, and we need only drink a 
 glass of it." 
 
 The wine was brought. Despreaux at first re- 
 fused to take any ; but Chapelle, who had emp- 
 tied his glass at one draught, pronounced it so 
 super-excellent, and pressed his companion so 
 urgently only to taste it, that he at length yielded. 
 
 " It is indeed first rate," assented Despreaux, 
 making a sound with his tongue very like the 
 drawing of a cork, to endorse his opinion ; ** but 
 you promise me, my dear Chapelle, that you will 
 in future abstain from this temptation V 
 
 " I promise you everything, my dear kind 
 friend, for I feel the urgent necessity of following 
 your admirable counsel," replied Chapelle, grasp - 
 i!)g his companion's hand, and at the same time re- 
 filling both their glasses.
 
 206 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 *' For I hope," resumed Despreaux, swallowing 
 the contents of his second glass as he spoke, " I 
 have convmced you not only how degradhig, but 
 how ruinous the vice of drinking is." 
 
 " Indeed ! Have you ? " 
 
 And again the glasses were replenished ; and, 
 amid good advice on the one side, and grateful 
 acknowledgments on the other, were once more 
 emptied ; till, soon, the bottle had followed their 
 example, and was empty too. 
 
 *' I think," said Despreaux, eyeing it askance, 
 but still not actually attempting to rise, "we had 
 better pay, and go." 
 
 " I think so, too," assented Chapelle. 
 
 *■ Gargon.' " 
 
 " Monsieur ?" 
 
 *• How much ? " asked Despreaux. 
 
 " Another bottle — quick ! " cried Chapelle, in 
 the same breath ; and the waiter, thinking it 
 more for the benefit of the establishment to obey 
 the second speaker's order than answer the ques- 
 tion of the first, vanished, and reappeared the 
 next moment with the second flask of nuits — 
 which followed its predecessor, embalming a
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 207 
 
 whole course of philosophy against intemperance 
 in general, and wine-bibbing in particular, till this 
 second bottle had also three successors; then, 
 indeed, not only the ideas of the two sacanta, but 
 their utterance, became less clear. Chapelle, with 
 a Jupiter on Olympus frown, seized Dcspreaux' 
 shoulder, and stammered out: 
 
 *' No, sir ! I make no allowance for such full- 
 grown weakness in a childish man ! " being a sort 
 of inverted paraphrase of Despreaux' rigorous 
 speech to him at Moliere's, half-an-hour before, 
 which he now repaid, perorating it with a dig in the 
 side, and grunting out, **Eh ? you understand ?" 
 
 " To be — be — sure," said Despreaux, majesti- 
 cally waving his hand, as he rose, tried to steady 
 himself on his feet, and then, making a clutch at 
 Chapelle's arm, and succeeding in passing his 
 own through it, said, as he began dragging him 
 out of the Cafe : 
 
 " ' Insaiuii leges, coiitrahibendi fulL.ciun.'' ' 
 
 To which, an unclassical and intercepting 
 waiter responded, holding out his hand :
 
 208 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 ** Fifteen twenty-four sol pieces, if yon please, 
 Messieurs " 
 
 Whereupon, Chapelle, who was in much too 
 exalted a state to grovel down to arithmetic, flung 
 liim a Louis d'Or, spluttering out: 
 
 " There ! as you have fifteen daughters, who 
 have twenty-four sons a-piece, I give it to you 
 this once. But, mind, you rascal ! you don't 
 spend it in drink ! a vice I especially abominate, 
 and so does the great Despreaux here ; so do we 
 all. You have only to see another man d — d — d 
 — drunk, to be disgusted ! Come, my dear 
 friend," and he, in his turn, dra^rged Despreaux 
 on, and they both reeled into the street together. 
 
 " Way ! wo — a — stop," said Chapelle, looking 
 up at the sign of the cafe, " I want to see what 
 church this is that I have given golden alms in ;" 
 and then he hiccupped out, " Ca — Cafe dela se — 
 se — sagesse.'' 
 
 " It's not a church," stammered Despreaux : 
 " de — de — don't you see it's a heathen temple ; a 
 ge — ge — ge — Gymnasia bibonum.'' 
 
 " And ye — ye — you are the high priest I
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 209 
 
 suppu — pu — pose?" said Chapelle to the waiter, 
 who stood grinning at the door. 
 
 " Yes," replied the latter, ^* and no one leaves 
 this temple on foot." So he sent for a hackney 
 coach, and having heard that one of the Bacchanals 
 was the illustrious Despreaux, had the worthy 
 academicians, who were quite unable to guide 
 themselves, safely conveyed home.* 
 
 * For the benefit of the most i^orant portion of the 
 " British public^ to ^t, the British reviewers, whose puffs 
 and blows are on a par for clumsiness and brass {both being 
 equally done to order), and totally irrelevant to the merits 
 or demerits of a book, I beg leave to state that it is not / 
 who have created the above scene, and made Boileau figure 
 in an orgy ; I have merely repeated the anecdote as history 
 has handed it down, I alone furnishing the dialogue.
 
 210 moliere's tragedy 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The sagacious reader (for all readers are saga- 
 cious, ex,cept it be reviewers ; who indeed seldom 
 read, which accounts for their ignorance, but only 
 puffor abuse " as per agreement" and in which they 
 evince the most brass and least brains, it would be im- 
 possible to decide, nor is it necessary to do so here ;) 
 Well, then, the sagacious reader has no doubt long 
 before this discovered, that Lucy Hawthorne and 
 Rupert Singleton are lovers, but how they came 
 to be such, is what he cannot possibly know with- 
 out being told. About a year previous to their 
 arrival at the " Golden Porringer," Sir Gilbert 
 Hawthorne had been very angry with his wife and
 
 HIS LLFE AND TIMES. 2 1 1 
 
 daughter, not indeed for refusing, for that was a 
 stretch of self-will that neither of them ever dared 
 be guilty of, but for entreating him with a feeling 
 of sickening horror to dispense with their pre- 
 sence at the Bear Garden ; which Sir Gilbert con- 
 sidered a truly national, and therefore an incom- 
 parable sport. Thispetition and their irrepressible 
 disgust were quite sufficient to rivet his will, and 
 make him enforce his commands ; so accordingly 
 the coach was ordered, and to the Bear Garden 
 tliey went. As they alighted at Bear Garden 
 stairs (Lucy somewhat paler than usual at the 
 anticipation of the revolting sight she was about 
 to witness), young Rupert Singleton sprang on 
 shore from a boat, he having taken water at 
 '• Chelsey,'' where his mother lived. He was not 
 going originally to the Bear Garden, but to Mistress 
 Hiram, the handsome landlady of the Bear Garden 
 Tavern, with a message from his mother to borrow 
 her ianious receipt for the preparation of what 
 was then called *' the new China drink^'' namely 
 tea, but he no sooner beheld Lucy, than forgetting 
 his mission, he followed her into the Bear Garden,
 
 212 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 and seated himself in a box immediately next to 
 her. When the horrible spectacle began, she 
 turned away her head, and shut her eyes; but as 
 there is a fascination in all horrors, she was pre- 
 sently roused by the vociferations of her father, 
 who was crying out as he clapped his hands, — 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Go it ! That's it ! Ha, ha, 
 ha ! Bruin, my Hector, that'll be but an ortalon 
 for you ! Siss — siss — siss ! High, boy ! toss 
 him, like a pancake ! " 
 
 And, opening her eyes, and for a moment 
 looking down into the amphitheatre, she beheld 
 two butchers unmuzzling a poor little King 
 Charles dog, and about to fling him to the bears. 
 
 " Oh ! Heavens ! the poor little dog will be 
 killed ! " screamed Lucy. 
 
 The words were not out of her mouth, be- 
 fore Rupert Singleton had cleared the box, and 
 sprang into the Ay*na ; where, giving the two 
 men who were unmuzzling the dog, three angels, 
 and a gold Jacobus, (of which, it must be con- 
 fessed, he did not possess too many) he bought 
 the poor little trembling animal, and, tucking it
 
 HIS LIFE AKD TIMES. 213 
 
 under one arm, he laid his other hand upon the 
 edge of the box, and vaulted lightly into it ; 
 where, taking off his hat, he said, with a low, 
 and respectful bow to Lady Hawthorne, glancing 
 but slightly at Lucy the while : 
 
 ** Perhaps the young lady will be good enough 
 to accept this poor little fellow, and then he will 
 be out of all harm's way." 
 
 *' May I, mother?" asked Lucy, timidl}'. 
 
 '* Certainly, love, since the young gentleman 
 nearly risked his life to save this poor little 
 dog's." 
 
 And the next moment. Fop, (for it was he) 
 with a beating heart, and trembling paws, was in 
 Lucy's arms, returning her caresses with interest ; 
 while the spectators clapped their hands, and 
 applauded young Singleton's gallantry, loudly 
 demanding Lucy's name, that they might toast 
 her, (!) as was the fashion of the day. Poor 
 Lucy shrank abashed, and half-dead, behind her 
 mother. But Sir Gilbert, who appeared greatly 
 elated and flattered at the honour of having his 
 daughter publicly toasted in a bear garden, at-
 
 214 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 tempted forcibly to drag her forward ; but, fail- 
 ing in the effort, he leant half out of the box, 
 and, placing his right hand, open, at the side of 
 his mouth, as if he had been hailing a man-o*-war 
 on the high seas, roared out : 
 
 '* The wench hath no cause, friends, to be 
 ashamed of her name, thof, mayhap, she makes as 
 if she had ! She's my daughter, my only daugh- 
 ter, Luce Hawthorne; and I'm Sir .Gilbert 
 Hawthorne, Knight of the Shire, of Hawthorne 
 Glen, Merton, Surrey. So, patches and whiskes ! 
 toast her, and welcome ! " 
 
 When " Pretty Mistress Lucy Haw- 
 thorne ! " had been drunk, with three rounds of 
 applause, in which Sir Gilbert joined as vehe- 
 mently as any one — for was she not his daugh- 
 ter ? — he turned to Rupert, the cause of his 
 oration, and, holding out his hand to him, said : 
 
 *' Your name, young sir ? And gen it's an 
 honest one, and no Roundheads! Here is an 
 honest man's hand for you ; and, moreover, you're 
 welcome to a seat at his board, and a flaggon of 
 his best canary, whenever you like to come to 
 Hawthorne Glen to drink it.'*
 
 HIS LIFE AXD TIMES. 215 
 
 " I am much beholden to you, sir, for your 
 courtesy, of which I shall take an early opportu- 
 nity ot" availing myself." 
 
 " Nay, nay, the earlier the better. ' A bird in 
 the hand is worth two in the bush.' Whv not 
 back and sup with us to-night ? and as there is no 
 moon, and so like to be highwayman's harvest, my 
 lady here, will give you a bed, — won t you, sweet- 
 heart ? But odds bodikins ! your name first ? I'm 
 forgetting your name ; and though your dress 
 don't much betoken it, it would never do for a 
 man of my kidney to light upon a Nottingham- 
 shire numskull, merely because he had got my 
 girl toasted at a bear g.irden. Ha! ha! ha!" 
 And Sir Gilbert Hawthorne wagged his head, 
 winked his eye, and again roared at the idea of 
 his caution being caught napping, and making 
 such a blunder. 
 
 " My name, sir, is Singleton, Rupert Single- 
 ton," replied the young man. 
 
 " Singleton, Singleton, — where have 1 heard of 
 Singleton ? Oh ! Ah ! to be sure, you ain't may- 
 hap any relation of Sir Rupert Singleton, that
 
 216 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 gallant cavalier, who fell on the right side at 
 Naseby in the year '45, * are you ?" 
 
 " His son, sir ; but I have no recollection of 
 my father, having been only a few months old 
 when he died." 
 
 " Egad then, young sir, if you come to Haw- 
 thorne Glen, you shall remember him ; for I 
 always hold a solemn fast every year in commemo- 
 ration of that rascally fourteenth of June, not 
 forgetting, however, to drink the memory of the 
 heroes of that day, which were neither Nol, nor 
 Fairfax, mind you." 
 
 Poor Rupert was in the seventh heaven ! to 
 think that he should be thus actually, beyond his 
 most sanguine expectations, and his wildest dreams, 
 asked to return home with Lucy ; nor can we 
 with truth say that she was sorry for the arrange- 
 ment ; for though she had scarcely looked at 
 young Singleton, yet, thanks to that mysterious 
 magnetism peculiar to love, every look and tone 
 of his had sank into, and glowed through, her 
 heart I for there was to her, in the beauty of his 
 
 * 1645.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 212 
 
 person, and the suavity and courteousness of his 
 bearing, a warrant, as old Herrick hath it, that 
 
 '' Now was the time, so oft by truth 
 PromLs'd should come, to crown her youth." 
 
 For his gallantry was so deferential, — his voice 
 so harmonious, — his manners so gentle, — his whole 
 deportment, in short, so distant, and so different 
 from the licentious freedom then in vogue among 
 the courtiers, and yet so free from every particle 
 of the sheepish awkwardness, and obtuse stolidity 
 of her cousin, Tom Fairlop, who, though he 
 studied them, was himself no star, that Lucy 
 Hawthorne, for the first time in her life, found 
 herself in the spiritual paradise of congeniality. 
 But Rupert Singleton was *^ the only son of his 
 mother, and she was a widow ;" therefore she had 
 unimpededly instilled into him, from his earliest 
 infancy, all those humanising iufluences which 
 are, to the mind of a man, what the edge and the 
 polish are to sword iron, giving to the rough 
 metal its temper and its value. Every age pro- 
 duces some minds in advance of it, or else the 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 
 
 world would have stood still at the end of the 
 first century ; and although Lady Singleton lived 
 in times when the nearest approach to the science 
 of ethics, even from the pulpit, was that of en- 
 joining human nature the impossible task of an- 
 nihilating its passions, instead of inculcating the 
 very possible, and all important achievement, 
 of directing and subduing them; for as God's 
 wisdom is unerring. He has given us no one pas- 
 sion which, if properly directed, is not of use; 
 but our free will being the mischievous and un- 
 ruly child, which is for ever producing fatal acci- 
 dents with these moral combustibles, the great 
 secret of education is to direct this reckless and 
 troublesome free will, to make a proper, and not 
 an improper, use of those dangerous weapons within 
 its reach. With this profound truth Lady Singleton 
 was so thoroughly embued, that the first twelve 
 years of her son's life, she devoted herself to educat- 
 ing his heart, and disposition; and though with 
 a prejudice, very natural in the widow of a ca- 
 valier, against the puritanical times of religious 
 hypocrisy in which she lived, yet being a genuinely
 
 HIS LITE AND TIMES. 219 
 
 pious woman, she early instilled into the heart of 
 her child, that there was no such thing as trifles in 
 moral delinquency, for that all small things, whe- 
 ther of good or evil, were the connecting links 
 either of our virtues or our vices, so that early, 
 Rupert was taught the self-catechism of 
 
 " Can I do this thing, and sin against God f 
 
 For in all our transactions with our fellow 
 creatures, it is God's work that we do, or that 
 we leave undone, or His commandments that we 
 violate. 
 
 This good foundation laid. Lady Singleton 
 was by no means neglectful of the external, or 
 decorative superstructure, to be raised upon it, 
 for, as she truly said, why should not the casket 
 he worthy of the gem ? And virtues in ungainly 
 vehicles, are seldom recognized, or let to take 
 precedence of more smartly, and modishly equip- 
 ped vices ; so, though much straitened in her 
 means, she resolved that Rupert should have all 
 the advantages of foreign travel, for what mother 
 is poor, where her children are concerned; and, as 
 
 L 2
 
 220 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Rupert's thouglit that no man was a finished 
 gentleman, unless he were a good linguist ; which 
 it is impossible to be, without living in foreign 
 countries, and that nothing makes people find 
 their level, and rounds their manners from all 
 insular angles, like a little cosmopolite friction ; 
 accordingly he travelled, and when he met Lucy 
 Hawthorne for the first time, at the Bear Garden, 
 he had only returned from a four years' continental 
 tour, six months before. 
 
 Finding it impossible to witness the cruelty of 
 the Bear Garden, Lucy complained of being ill 
 and faint from the heat ; which, indeed, was no 
 exaggeration, as it was a sultry day in July, so 
 that she, with her mother, obtained leave to ad- 
 journ into the Bear Tavern, and as Rupert had 
 his mother's message ^to deliver to Mrs. Hiram, 
 the handsome landlady, thither he accompanied 
 them, and having installed Lady Hawthorne and 
 Lucy in the bay-window of its best parlour, over- 
 looking the Thames, and gorgeous with scarlet 
 and white balsams, he got the receipt for the con- 
 coction of the fragrant shrub, and begged Mrs.
 
 HIS LIFE AND THIES. 22 L 
 
 Hiram to send for a pound of tea, to Frewin the 
 Chemist's, at the Galen's Head, opposite the 
 May-Pole, in the Strand, which, having obtained, 
 he wrote a hasty letter to his mother, telling her 
 of his invitation to the Hawthornes, and not to 
 expect him ; and, as he was in the habit of 
 turning his heart inside out to her, he also told her 
 what he thought of Lucy ; adding " and oh ! 
 mother, if I can but get her to like me ; I don't 
 care if she has not a Carolus, and when you know 
 her, I'm sure neither will you. I know what you'll 
 say with your quiet kind smile, that would take 
 the wrinkles out of even a miser's heart, that we 
 must live, and that Love alone don't do to go to 
 market with ; but mother ! remember Prince 
 Rupert is my God-father, and, although he has 
 never done anything for me yet, but give me a 
 set of tennis balls, and once let me bowl him out 
 at a match, still, surely he will do something for 
 me then ; for his interest is good," 
 
 And having sealed up these golden certainties 
 — for the hopes of youth are always such — he 
 gave the waterman who had brought him half-a-
 
 222 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Grown, to make all haste in returning to"Chelsey/* 
 and deliver into his mother's hand his letter and 
 the medicinal packet, as tea was then considered- 
 From that day, for the next eight months, 
 Rupert Singleton was a constant guest at Haw- 
 thorne Glen, andthe result may be easily imagined. 
 His mother and Lady Hawthorne also became 
 great friends, and the former loved Lucy as well 
 as if she had been her own daughter ; while Lady 
 Hawthorne believed, that if there was such a thing 
 as human perfection, it was centred in young 
 Singleton. Neither did Sir Gilbert escape his 
 influence, for Rupert was a capital shot, an accom- 
 plished rider, generally victor at a match, whether 
 on the river, or the turf; and could, as we have seen, 
 beat the great tennis player of the day. Prince 
 Rupert, whose heavy German phlegm ill brooked 
 the defeat, which he took care should be a solitary 
 one ; and to crown all, while Lucy knew how ex- 
 quisitely he could sing an Italian nocturnay or 
 serenade. Sir Gilbert was roused to enthusiasm 
 by the verve with which he sang all the cavalier 
 songs, and was wont to declare that notwithstand-
 
 HIS LITE AND TIDIES. 223 
 
 ing he was such a spruce gallant, such a prince of 
 fops (and hence the little dog's name), he was the 
 best fellow anywhere ; and as manly as if he had 
 *' been horn in a kennel, and weaned on Audit ale,"" 
 But with all this, it never entered Sir Gilbert 
 Hawthorne's head, that he, or any other man 
 would presume to fall in love with his daughter, 
 without first asking his leave, so that when 
 Rupert did ask his leave : not indeed to fall in love 
 with her, for that he had done entirely on his own 
 responsibility ; but to marry her. The knight 
 was rather taken aback, for sooth to say, he had 
 certain visions about Luce — as he called her — 
 marrying a great Lord, and becoming a great lady 
 at Court — and whatever greatness Fate had de- 
 creed as the portion of Rupert Singleton, the 
 young man had yet to achieve, for that which the 
 world calls great, is not what we are ; but where 
 we are, and what we have. Still, Sir Gilbert 
 liked Rupert, for he had become one of his 
 habits, and therefore he did not like the discomfort 
 of throwing him ofi"; and as there was no one of 
 more singleness of purpose than the Knight, as he 
 never in any transaction thought of but one per-
 
 224 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 son, and tliat one was himself ^ he neither positively 
 refused, nor positively accepted young Singleton's 
 proposals for his daughter, whom he knew was 
 quite rich enough to please herself, and marry a 
 man without a doit, if she, or rather if he pleased 
 it: so all he said was, — 
 
 " Odds boddikins ! What, in love with my 
 girl Luce ? Well, bide a while boy, bide a while, 
 and we'll see about it — thof — Marry come up ! 
 it's no bad notion either, for nothing, to move to a 
 matter of £30,000." 
 
 " I don't want a Jacobus with Mistress Lucy, 
 I do assure you sir," said the young man, while all 
 the blood in his body rushed into his face to repel 
 the supposition. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! then more fool you, my spruce 
 Gallantile ; but bide a while boy, bide a while, 
 and we'll see about it." 
 
 And so poor Rupert continued for two months 
 longer, to saturate his heart in Lucy's eyes, till 
 his love for her became ingrain, and never to be 
 effaced ; when unluckily one day, when he and 
 his mother were dining with the Hawthornes at 
 Chatelins, the French house in Covent Garden
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 225 
 
 (the only one, where people could have private 
 roorasj, in order to go to the King's playhouse 
 after, to see a play that all the town were flocking 
 to, entitled — 
 " If You Know Not Me, You Know Nobody ; 
 
 OB, 
 
 The Troubles of Queen Elizabeth." 
 One of the waiters (who in those days with the 
 barbers, supplied the place of one of our modern 
 necessities, a daily newspaper), announced that 
 Sir Henry Vane, and the rest of the conspirators, 
 had been that morning sent to the Tower, and he 
 feared it would fare badly with them ; whereupon 
 he left the room. 
 
 " My poor brother I " exclaimed Lady Single- 
 ton, covering her face with her hands, and sobbing 
 aloud. 
 
 " What madam ! " roared Sir Gilbert, thumping 
 the table with his clenched hand, till the glasses 
 and flaggons danced again. " Sir Henry Vane 
 your brother ! and your uncle, young master, and 
 yet for either of you to dare to think of my 
 daughter, Luce Hawthorne ! or to suppose that 
 
 l3
 
 226 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 if even the wench was so lost to all shame (for 
 there is no knowing where the folly of women- 
 kind begins or ends) ; if, I say, she was so lost to 
 all shame, as to marry the nephew of a traitor 
 and a regicide, do you think that / would allow 
 any traitor's blood to creep into the veins of the 
 Hawthornes ? Come, I say trudge ! let us be- 
 gone on the instant! A fine escape we have 
 had truly, Luce girl ; kneel down, and thank God 
 for it." 
 
 But poor Lucy had thrown her arms round 
 Lady Singleton's neck, and was now^ lying in a 
 dead swoon on her shoulder, while Rupert, in an 
 agony, regardless alike of Sir Gilbert's brutally 
 issued commands, and of the publicity of the 
 place, which rendered them liable every minute 
 to some intrusion, hung over her, calling her his 
 Lucy, for his she should be, even if he, like his 
 uncle, were to perish on the scaffold for it. 
 
 This unlucky speech inflamed the anger of Sir 
 Gilbert beyond all bounds ; so forcibly seizing 
 poor Lucy's unconscious hand, he positively 
 wrenched it out of Rupert's,
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 227 
 
 " Stand back, I say," cried the latter, glaring 
 on him like a tiger ; " were you twenty times her 
 father, I would spurn and defy you." 
 
 " Rupert ! Rupert ! for shame ! you forget he 
 is our dear Lucy's father." 
 
 No mother, but he forgets it." 
 
 " You'll see I don't, young Jackanapes," voci- 
 ferated Sir Gilbert, insolently snapping his fingers 
 in Rupert's face, as he brutally tore his still faint- 
 ing child off Lady Singleton's neck ; exasperated 
 to madness at this, Rupert forcibly seized her, 
 with his left arm, and with preternatural strength, 
 pushed Sir Gilbert aside with the other, who seized 
 a glass of wine, and flung it in Rupert's face, 
 panting out. 
 
 " There ! there ! fancy it is some of your 
 uncle's traitor's blood, and let go the girl I say." 
 
 " Nay, I must need's fancy it a coward's blood ! 
 and your own, old man, for none hut cowards, 
 offer insults that cannot be avenged, and are you 
 not her father ?" 
 
 *' Silence! Rupert, for heaven's sake, or you 
 will drive me mad !" cried his mother, and then
 
 228 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 flinging herself distractedly at Sir Gilbert's feet, 
 and convulsively clutching his cloak, passionately 
 exclaimed, " Good Sir Gilbert, sweet Sir Gilbert, 
 for pity's sake pardon that rash boy, and hear me ; 
 it is indeed my misfortune, my hitter, sad mis- 
 fortune, that my brother should be, as you justly 
 say, a traitor, but surely, surely, it is not my 
 fault, still less is it Rupert's ; and you know how 
 staunch a Royalist Us father was, and that he has 
 been brought up in the same principles, so much 
 so, that my brother, would never even see him, 
 or me," 
 
 " Mayhap my Lady Singleton, it would have 
 been more befitting true and loyal subjects, if the 
 ban had come from you and your son, and you 
 and he had refused to see Sir Harry Vane, in- 
 stead of his taking the matter with a high hand, 
 and forbidding you his sight." 
 
 " Alas ! my good Sir Gilbert, Rupert was but a 
 child, and his nephew, and I was his sister, and 
 with women, the ties of nature are stronger than 
 political opinions." 
 
 " Ah ! like enough, like enough ; for women
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES, 229 
 
 are fools all through the piece ; but once for all, 
 no daughter of mine shall wed with the kinsman 
 of a traitor, were he fifty times removed, let alone 
 own nephew to him. No offence to you, my lady 
 Singleton, who are a worthy creditable gentlewo- 
 man as ever I desire to see, and for a looman, have 
 brought up your malapert of a son yonder uncom- 
 mon well, and not too great a milk-sop neither ; 
 but mark me, for first and last, and to make an 
 end on't. I have no fancy to quarter a scaffold 
 rampant, and an axe sinister, with my arms ; so 
 no traitor's nephew for me. I've no particklar 
 fancy for Frenchmen, as all the world knows ; but 
 still justice is justice, and they at least are not re- 
 gicides ;* and the King of France is a king, and 
 can make, and unmake, laws as he pleases without 
 being hectored by his parliament, and twitted by 
 his people ; and moreover, he can seize upon the 
 lands of one man that offends him, and give them 
 to another that pleases him ; and hang me if I 
 don't take my girl to Paris, and marry her to 
 
 * Not at that time.
 
 230 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 some great French nobleman, who has the run of 
 the court, and the ear of the king." 
 
 Luckily poor Lucy had neither seen nor heard 
 all that had past ; but now coming to, and finding 
 herself in Rupert's arms, she transferred herself 
 to those of her mother, with only a vague recol- 
 lection that something terrible had happened. 
 Sir Gilbert forcibly snatching his cloak from Lady 
 Singleton's grasp, now put on his hat, and told 
 the drawer, who had just returned with a dish of 
 Spanish flummery, and a pupton of Ripston pip- 
 pens in golden syrup, to tell his coach to draw up, 
 placing in his hand a gold Jacobus to defray the 
 reckoning, telling him to keep the change. " And 
 now Luce," added he, turning to his daughter, 
 " bid my Lady Singleton a last good bye, and 
 think no more of her son, if so be you ever did 
 think of him, for I've other views for you." 
 
 And so saying, he pushed her out of the room, 
 and strutted majestically after her, no more doubt- 
 ing her obedience than he would have done that 
 of his coachman, had he, in the course of a morn- 
 ing's drive, suddenly changed his mind, and told
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 231 
 
 him to turn about and go in another direction. 
 Two months after the above scene, the Haw- 
 thornes drove into the court-yard of the Hotel de 
 VEcuelle d'Or at Paris. How Rupert came to be 
 so accurately informed, and to keep pace so 
 exactly with their movements, will be seen in 
 another chapter.
 
 232 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 When Sir Gilbert Hawthorne left the French 
 ordinary it was three o'clock, and therefore he 
 proceeded to the king's house alone, to witness 
 " the troubles of Queen Elizabeth," which he 
 conceived were nothing to his own, as Lucy was 
 so ill that Lady Hawthorne, for the first time in 
 her life, resisted his authority, and refused to ac- 
 company him, as she insisted upon returning home 
 with her poor child. As for Rupert, he was like 
 a madman. He would listen to nothing, not even 
 to his mother's voice, telling him to take patience, 
 and await the issue of his uncle's trial, who might 
 be honourably acquitted, and then Sir Gilbert
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 233 
 
 would be got to listen to reason ; but as Lady 
 Singleton well knew that reason is always like 
 fuel to phrenzy, she did not obtrude any more of 
 it upon him then, unhinged as his mind was, but 
 having sent for a hackney coach as soon as the 
 Hawthornes had departed, and told the coachman 
 to drive to Pym's, the tailor's, at the Flower Pot 
 in Seething Lane, she threw her arm round Ru- 
 pert's neck, and said : 
 
 " Now, listen to me, Rupert. Don't be rash 
 and foolish for Lucy's sake, or you will spoil all ; 
 and I have a plan in my head by which you shall 
 learn all that goes on at Hawthorne Glen ; and if 
 that obstinate old mule. Sir Gilbert, does really 
 take his family to Paris, I promise you, even if I 
 sell your poor father's jewel-hiltcd sword for it, 
 which the late king gave him, you shall follow 
 them, on condition that you give me your solemn 
 promise, that you will not attempt to carry off 
 Lucy by force, or even to marry her against her 
 father's consent ; but trust to time, the issue of 
 God's providence, (which, believe me, smoulders 
 in apparent evil, quite as intensely as it shines out
 
 234 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 in palpable good) and your own conduct, to bring 
 Sir Gilbert round." 
 
 Dearest mother ! what do you mean ?" cried 
 Rupert, hugging her, as his heart with the elasti- 
 city of youth, now bounded from the lowest depths 
 of despair, into the highest regions of hope, and 
 sparkled in his eyes. 
 
 " Listen, and you shall hear. You know Master 
 Tom Pepys of Hatcham, near Epsom ; he who 
 travels backwards and forwards to Paris for the 
 modes for Pym, and his own uncle the tailor?" 
 
 " Aye. What of him ? How can he help me ? 
 unless, indeed, as a tailor, he being used to press 
 suits with a goose, you deem him the most suit- 
 able ambassador to send to Sir Gilbert," said the 
 young man with a bitter smile. 
 
 " Perhaps," rejoined his mother, too happy to 
 think that she had succeeded in bringing back a 
 smile to his face. " My plan is this, — the other 
 day, when he brought home your Lincoln green 
 suit, he shewed me a new riding coat that Pym 
 was making for Lucy, on the model of one of 
 Mademoiselle de Montpensier's, that he had
 
 HIS LIPE AST> TIxMES. 235 
 
 brought from Paris. This riding coat he was to 
 take to Merton tc-morrow. Honest Tom Pepys, 
 has often expressed his great regard for you, be- 
 cause you had been kind to him when he was a 
 sizar at Cambridge, and said he would give any- 
 thing to serve you ; but though people might 
 fancy he was in the way of it, from his relationship 
 to my Lord Sandwich, and his cousin being Secre- 
 tary of the Admiralty, yet it was a melancholy 
 fact, nearly as old as the world, that relations were 
 the very last people to serve, however prompt and 
 expert they might be at injuring one ; but this 
 last time that I saw him, he was fain to con- 
 gratulate me upon its being all the talk, that it 
 was to be a match between you and the great 
 beauty, and heiress. Mistress Lucy Hawthorne, 
 and that when it came off, it should not be his 
 fault, if the King of France had a finer suit than 
 your wedding one should be. I thanked him, and 
 said that as yet it was only talk, for there was 
 nothing settled about it. Now, I 'm sure," con- 
 cluded Lady Singleton, *' if I ask him. Master 
 Pepys would bring us almost daily tidings from 
 Hawthorne Glen."
 
 236 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " Ah ! dear mother, if that is all we have to 
 trust to," said Rupert, his countenance as suddenly 
 over-casting as it had previously illumined, *' the 
 prospect is dark indeed." 
 
 " All we have to trust to, — fie ! Rupert. To 
 fear is unmanly, for necessity should develop 
 strength, and disappointment exercise it ; but to 
 despair is unchristian like. What says our good 
 friend. Sir Thomas Browne, in his * Religio, 
 Medici,' of which you are so fond ? Does he not 
 say that * Light which makes things seen, makes 
 things invisible. Were it not for darkness and the 
 shadow of the earth, the noblest part of creation 
 had remained unseen, and the stars in heaven as invi- 
 sible as on the fourth day, when they were created 
 above the horizon with the sun, and there was not 
 an eye to behold them. The greatest mystery of 
 religion is expressed by adumberation ; and in 
 the noblest part of the Jewish types, we find the 
 Cherubim shadowing the Mercy Seat. Life itself 
 is but the shadow of death, and souls departed 
 but the shadows of the living. All things fall 
 under this name. The sun itself is but the dark
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 237 
 
 simulachrum, and its light but the shadow of 
 God.' And he might have added, that that was 
 the only shadow that will never be less, since its 
 very denseness is love." 
 
 That, at all events, I cannot doubt ; since he 
 has left me you to prove it. Forgive me," dear 
 mother," said he, embracing her, " and if I seem 
 weak at first, I will be strong at last ; but it is 
 terrible," added the young man, biting his under 
 lip nearly through, " thus at the very onset of life, 
 to have all one's hopes crushed and scattered by a 
 fool's caprice." 
 
 " Hush ! " whispered Lady Singleton, kissing 
 his forehead as the coach stopped at the Flower 
 Pot, in Seething Lane, ** bow your head, when 
 the Cherubim shadow the Mercy Seat, and the light 
 will return, ichen the shadow has subdued you.'' 
 
 Tom Pepys, the traveller of Mr. Pym's estab- 
 lishment, was seated at a high desk in the back 
 shop, in the very act of inditing a French letter 
 to their correspondents, Messieurs Cosau\un 
 Freres, Rue du Petit St. Thomas, Paris, when 
 the mother and son arrived.
 
 238 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 " Ah ! my good Master Pepys," said Lady Sin- 
 gleton, " I feared we should not find you, it being 
 long past three" 
 
 " Your Ladyship need not have been alarmed, 
 for we never close before six," replied Pepys, 
 descending with alacrity from his perch, sticking 
 his pen behind his right ear, and rubbing his 
 hands as if he had been performing one of those 
 * few, and far between' ablutions, which his cousin, 
 the Secretary, has handed down to posterity as 
 invariably giving him cold ; doubtless from the 
 rarity of their occurrence, while this friction of 
 the hands, honest Tom accompanied by a pro- 
 fusion of the most respectful bows. 
 
 " No, I was aware you did not close till six, 
 but I thought you might be away at the King's 
 House, or perhaps at the Duke's, to see * Sir 
 Martin Marall,' which I do hear much commended, 
 especially Marshall in the part of Mr. Warner, 
 and Nelly Gwynne, as Dorothy Drawwater, the 
 Cambridge vintner's pretty daughter." 
 
 "Ah madam!" rejoined Tom Pepys, closing 
 his eyes, it might be a little affectedly ; but still
 
 HIS LIFE Am) TIMES. 239 
 
 with infinite sincerity. '* I have had the ^ood, or 
 perhaps, I ought to say, the bad fortune, of going 
 frequently to Paris, where I have the signal honor 
 of knowing, indeed I may say without boasting, 
 of bein^T intimate with the great Moliere, and 
 of going night after night to The Petit Bourbon, 
 that is acting, or rather it is not acting ; but 
 nature — perfect nature ; for though it istrue, 
 there is much that is unnatural in all civi- 
 lized states, yet on the French stage, the unna- 
 tural in actual life is never exaggerated into coarse 
 caricature as with us, w^here all, from the scenes 
 to the acting, is too painfully candid, and makes 
 no attempt at illusion ; even Betterton himself, 
 though by far our nearest approach to a good 
 actor, I find too much given, as old Will Shak- 
 speare expresses it in one of his plays, to ' tearing 
 a passion to tatters.' And then the way our court 
 ladies conduct, or rather misconduct, themselves 
 in public, is, I must say, ofiensive ; when one has 
 seen the decorum of the French Theatre, andhow 
 the court behaves there." 
 " Why, you surprise me," said Lady Singleton,
 
 240 moltere's tragedy. 
 
 with a slight twinge of nationality, " much as the 
 license of our court is to be deplored, I always 
 understood that, that of Versailles was by no means 
 behind hand with Whitehall." 
 
 " Doubtless not, Madam, in reality ; but I am 
 only talking of 'public decency, which it never 
 violates. Poor Madame de La Valiere ! long be- 
 fore she went last month to the Carmelites, always 
 comported herself with the modesty of a cloistered 
 nun ; and even her imperious successor, Madame 
 de Montespan, only seems what she would like to 
 be in reality, a haughty Queen ; whereas, look at 
 the disgusting demonstrations to which the public 
 here, are treated by our king, with my Lady Cas- 
 tlemain. Mistress Middleton, and Mistress Stew- 
 art ; nor are the Duke of York's public conjuga- 
 lities one whit less offensive ; what women in other 
 countries at least have the grace to be ashamed of 
 being, our English ladies seem never to be satis- 
 fied till they have proclaimed to the whole world ; 
 for I take it, that from his Majesty downwards, 
 the. most graceless gallant going, would scarcely 
 dare to compromise them as they compromise
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 241 
 
 themselves, and as for my Ladj Castlemaine, I 
 protest that the other day at the Puppet Show, at 
 Bartholomew Fair, Orange Moll could not have 
 comported herself less like a gentlewoman. Of 
 course, your Ladyship has heard of what the 
 Duke of Buckingham said one day last week to the 
 Comte de Comminges, the French Ambassador?" 
 
 " No," said Lady Singleton, *' thank Heaven, 
 I seldom hear any of the sayings, or doings at 
 Whitehall now a-days. What was it ? " 
 
 " Why, Monsieur de Comminges had begged 
 of his Grace of Bucks to take him to the Duke's 
 house to see the play, called * The Custom of the 
 Country f as he thought from the title, it would 
 be a picture of our national manners ; but the 
 Duke wishing to see Knipp in * Flora's Vagary's,' 
 what does he do, but take him to the King's house; 
 and pointing to the King, who was kissing Lady 
 Castlemaine's shoulder, though the Queen was on 
 the other side; and to Tom Killegrew in another 
 box on his knees, pretending to make love to the 
 old Duchess of Newcastle, while one of her velvet 
 footmen was giving her sliced oranges and sack. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 * There ! Monsieur L'Amhassadeur,' cried he, 
 bursting into a loud laugh, * there are The Cus- 
 toms of the Country »^ " 
 
 " Is it possible ! " said Monsieur de Comminges, 
 turning up his eyes,* 
 
 " Quite, as you perceive," said the Duke, " car 
 pe n'est quen France qu'on est assez galafit de 
 faire V impossible pour plaire aux dames" 
 
 " But surely," said Lady Singleton, rescuing 
 the only brand she could from the burning, 
 "Mistress Stewart, La Belle Stewart^ is very 
 correct ! At least, I've always heard she is ; so 
 my good Master Pepys you should not include 
 her in your list." 
 
 * It was probably such exhibitions as these, and those 
 at the Bear Garden, and the scene Monsieur de Com- 
 minges describes in one of his letters to Monsieur de 
 Lionne, as having taken place between the Duke of 
 Buckingham and the Duke of Buckingham's valet, that 
 induced the Comte to end his letter with these words : — 
 " Fb?/ez Monsieur, ge que c'est que L'Angleterre ! Quand je 
 viens a faire reyiexion que cette terre ne produiu niloups, ni betes 
 venineuses, je w!en ^tonne pas, les hommes y sont hien plus m^chants, 
 etphs dangereux, et s'll/allait se garder de tout, avec precaution, le 
 meilleur serait de Vabandonner."
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 243 
 
 " I firmly believe she is, then the more pity she 
 should do herself such grievous wrong, as by 
 allowing the King to include her in his public 
 laisser oiler to furnish spurs for the evil tongues." 
 " Alas ! in this world, I fear there is no finding 
 bridles for them ; but good Master Pepys," added 
 Lady Singleton, who dreaded lest he should again 
 mount his theatrical hobby, or further jade his 
 Rosinante of court gossip, 
 
 " My son would speak a word with you pri- 
 vately, and I will await his return here." For 
 his mother justly conjectured that Rupert would 
 prefer negotiating his own business. 
 
 '* Certainly, by all means," said Tom Pepys, 
 but this way, pray, my Lady Singleton, into this 
 room," and he placed a chair for her, as he added, 
 " I doubt your ladyship's caring for such fooleries ; 
 but here is Playford's new catch book, that hath a 
 world of merry conceits in it, perchance it may 
 beguile the time till Master Rupert's return ; or 
 here, if you prefer it, is the ^ Grand Cyrus,' but 
 / have that book in abhorrence, for, good lack ! to 
 hear how Madame Pepys, my cousin, Sam's wife, 
 
 m2
 
 244 moli^re's tragedy. 
 
 do split one's ears with mutilated passages and 
 broken similies, to say nothing of bruised senti- 
 ments out of it, till she do make * Grand Cyrus ' 
 appear the veriest pigmy that ever sprang from a 
 toadstool." 
 
 " Thank you," said Lady Singleton, with a 
 quiet smile, accepting the ponderous splendours of 
 *^ Grand Cyrus," not to appear ungracious, but 
 quite sufficiently pre-occupied with her own 
 thoughts not to need any other employment. 
 
 When Tom Pepys took Rupert up stairs, the 
 latter, after swearing his humble friend to the most 
 masonic secresy, revealed to him his morning's 
 disappointment, and explained the nature of the 
 services he required from him. Tom, listening 
 most attentively, and alternately evincing sym- 
 pathy, regret, and surprise, as the narration pro- 
 ceeded, and, finally, at its conclusion, stamping 
 his foot with indignation at Sir Gilbert's heartless 
 cruelty, and exclaiming : 
 
 "The old Griffin! but we'll be even with him. 
 I do remember me at college, reading — in the 
 Roman history— that upon one occasion, when
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 245 
 
 they were sacrificing bulls to Jupiter, the High 
 Priest cried out with horror, that no heart was to 
 be found in one of the animals, to which the 
 Emperor Aureiian did exclaim : * It is not in 
 nature that such a thing should be; meuy in 
 truth, are sometimes without hearts, but animals 
 never.' Good lack ! one would think he had 
 known this Sir Gibert Hawthorne ; but courage, 
 don't fret Master Rupert, ^ Faint heart never 
 won fair lady ;' " added Pepys, walking over 
 to a large oak press, and taking from one of its 
 linen-covered shelves a forest-green velvet-braided 
 with gold and lined with white Florence silk, Mont- 
 ^emiQX juste-aU'Corps and petticoat, in fact, what 
 would now be called a riding habit, and bringing 
 it over to Rupert, he held up the jacket, showing 
 him an interior side pocket. 
 
 "Do you see thisy Master Singleton ? " 
 " Alas! yes, but shall I ever again see its lovely 
 owner? " 
 
 " And do you see these r"' re-interrogated Tom, 
 as he opened a moveable writing-desk, and placed 
 pens, ink, and paper before his companion.
 
 246 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 '* Now, methinks a letter would travel marvel- 
 lously well to Merton inside this little tafFety 
 envelope ; and as I must bring it back again to 
 make some alteration in the lappels, mayhap you 
 may still find a letter in it on its return ; and I 
 suppose you're not particular to a sentence, that it 
 should be the same letter ?" 
 
 " Oh ! my dear Tom, you are indeed the very 
 hest fellow in the whole world," cried Rupert, 
 shaking him by both hands, after which he flung 
 off his hat and gloves, and seating himself at the 
 table, the pen began to " gallop apace" like a 
 " fiery-footed steed" over the paper. 
 
 To judge by Lady Singleton's impatience at 
 the duration of her son's absence, Rupert must 
 have written something more like a volume than 
 a letter, for the shades of evening were closing 
 in, when he at length rejoined her in " the hack 
 parlour ;'* but if the sky had grown darker, not 
 so Rupert's countenance, and therefore his mother 
 was well satisfied to have waited as long as she had 
 done. Two days after (for though lovers had much 
 more of the electric fluid in them then, than they
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 247 
 
 have in these calculating machine times of ours ; 
 yet, alas ! there being neither electric telegraphs 
 nor railroads, it was a work of time even to get 
 to Merton from London and back ; so it teas two 
 days after), Rupert again found himself in Pym's 
 shop, where, without this time vacating his oflS- 
 cial seat, Tom, with a respectful bow, and a 
 flourish of the hand over the rail, presented him 
 with a letter, which one or two bystanders of 
 course concluded was his " little account;" and 
 so indeed it was, not being half the amount he 
 had hoped for, as it was but three lines from Lucy. 
 It was in fear that she wrote those ; but a thou- 
 sand, she assured him, could only repeat, that 
 though she might never be allowed to see him 
 again, she should never cease to love him, and no 
 human power should ever compel her to marry 
 any one else. At all events this was like obtain- 
 ing a reprieve ; and these few kind words of 
 Lucy's shone out like a star amid the surrounding 
 darkness of his heart and his prospects. Tom 
 Pepys was as good as his word, and contrived to 
 get him almost daily bulletins from Hawthorne
 
 248 molieke's tragedy. 
 
 Glen; and when he had ascertained beyond a 
 doubt that Sir Gilbert was going to France, he 
 arranged with Captain Browne of the Rose Bush, 
 who was to convey the Hawthornes to Calais, to 
 make two trips, and take Rupert there, some three 
 days before ; furnishing the latter, as we have 
 seen, with a letter of introduction to Moliere, to 
 take which letter Rupert had dressed himself with 
 the intention of presenting it after his repast at the 
 Soleil Levant ; but in all things, whether great 
 or apparently small (for nothing is small, at least 
 unimportant, in reality), Man proposes, but God 
 disposes. Before the dinner arrived, he was 
 attacked with a violent fever and ague, the result 
 of a fortnight's fasting, and riding night and day, 
 so as to keep up with the Hawthornes without 
 being seen by them ; for Lucy even was not aware 
 of his proximity, and hence her alarm when, on 
 the morning of her arrival, as she stood in the 
 inn-yard, she thought she saw his phantom gallop 
 past on Zara, for she had no idea that it was Ru- 
 pert in flesh and blood.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIIVIES. 249 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 This intermitting fever kept Rupert chained to 
 his bed for nearly a month ; but fortunately for 
 him, the thorough breeding of Zara, and the ir- 
 reproachable cut of his clothes (for which latter 
 agrement he was again indebted to Tom Pepys), 
 had so fully impressed Mattre Potdevin with an 
 idea of his consequence, that the former, on his 
 guest's illness, had sent for the best, — at all events 
 for the physician then the most in vogue in Paris, 
 — namely. Dr. Rohault, who happened to be a 
 friend, or at least an acquaintance of Moliere's ; 
 for, as it may be supposed, their relentless sati- 
 riser had few friends in that profession. Had 
 
 M 3
 
 250 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Rupert been a lover of the nineteenth instead of 
 the seventeenth century, (I beg pardon — I mean 
 a suitor, for this age is by far too wise, and too 
 take care of number oneish, to be guilty of the 
 folly of loving anything but self) ; that is, had he 
 lived in these our times, he v^ould have been well 
 at least ten days sooner ; but to tell the truth, as 
 I am bound to do to you, dear reader, he got a 
 relapse, and all through his own folly — and this 
 was the way of it : — The first day that he was 
 able to leave his bed, and that his physician had 
 given him permission to sit at the casement, and 
 inhale as much fresh air and sunshine as came fil- 
 tered through the broad green leaves and cluster- 
 ing grapes of a most redundant vine, which formed 
 a natural drapery to the window, he tired himself 
 by writing a long letter to his mother, assuring 
 her that he was now quite well. After this, he 
 was obliged to lie down ; but towards evening, 
 without Dr. Rohault's leave, he rose to take his 
 letter to the post, which then left Paris twice a 
 week ! and the English courier was to start on the 
 morrow. Once out, although he was so weak that
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 251 
 
 the air made him reel like a tipsy man, he could 
 not resist the temptation of going on to the Rue 
 de V Universite ; so he got into a hackney coach,— 
 for to walk he was not able, — and leaving it at the 
 bridge, he alighted and crawled on foot as far as 
 VEcuelle d'Or, whither he brought night with him, 
 for the shades of evening were now fast closing 
 in, as it was past nine o'clock. Thank heaven, an 
 hostelry is free to all, was Rupert's reflection as 
 he boldly walked into the court-yard, which was 
 now deserted save by one or two marmitons and a 
 stray postilion, who were enjoying a little al-fresco 
 gossip in the cool of the evening at the kitchen 
 door. The offices were on the right side of the 
 court on entering, — so Rupert kept to that side. 
 Turlupin, the black and white poodle of the hotel, 
 came up and sniffed him very civilly. This made 
 Singleton resolve at once to reward his civility, 
 and secure his friendship ; for which reason he 
 stopped before the kitchen window, which was 
 open, and the cAe/" standing at it reading, by the 
 light of one of the kitchen lamps, a yard and a 
 half of the three sous street edition of the melan-
 
 252 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 choly suicide of his illustrious contemporary and 
 brother artiste^ Vatel, the king's cook, embellished 
 by a wood-cut of a striking likeness of the re- 
 tarded Turbot, which had caused the tragedy. 
 
 " Pardon," said young Singleton, civilly inter- 
 rupting his studies, — *' can you tell me if an Eng- 
 lish family of the name of Hawthorne are staying 
 at this hotel ?" 
 
 " Mais oui Monsieur, there is a Milor's family 
 of that name staying here, but I rather think they 
 are out ; however, if Monsieur will give himself 
 the trouble of inquiring at the house, any of the 
 waiters will be better able to inform him," re- 
 plied the cook, civilly taking oflf his white cap. 
 
 " Much obliged to you — I will. Ah ! poor 
 fellow, — what a fine dog. He seems to have 
 taken quite a fancy to me," said Rupert, stooping 
 down and patting the poodle ; — " What is its 
 
 name r 
 
 '^ Turlupin, Monsieur, cest un vrai farceur, and 
 fetches and carries to a miracle." 
 
 '* Ah ! indeed ! I must cultivate his acquaint- 
 ance. Do you happen to have such a thing as 
 half a pullet by you ?"
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 253 
 
 " Yes, I should think so," said the chef, calling 
 to one of his aides, who immediately brought it; 
 and Rupert having presented it to Turlupin (who 
 needed no pressing, but accepted this agreeable 
 courtesy with the same frankness it was offered), 
 next gave the cook a six livres piece for his pou- 
 let and his politesse ; and the cook, having as 
 much savoir vivre as the dog, took it without 
 ceremony, bowing his thanks, while the dog bow 
 wow'd his, and Rupert proceeded to the house, 
 followed by his new friend, and having been given 
 to understand that they were out, boldly inquired 
 of a waiter (who was carrying up supper to the 
 Bear ; that is, to an English actor of the name of 
 Allen, who was domiciled in a chamber called the 
 bear, at the top of the house), " if the Haw- 
 thornes were at home ?" 
 
 " Non Monsieur; that is. Milady and Sare 
 Bon ton are out. They sup chez Madame la Ma- 
 rechale de Turenne, whither la Marquise de Se- 
 vigne has just carried them. 3Iademoiselle indeed 
 would not go, for she complained of a headache ; 
 but then she is gone to bed, at least to her 
 room."
 
 254 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Rupert was selfish enough to feel a thrill of 
 delight that Lucy was not out amusing herself, 
 more especially as for headache he read heart- 
 ache. Seeing that he still lingered, the obse- 
 quious waiter (regardless that the Bear's supper 
 was cooling, which, on so sultry a night, he per- 
 haps thought would be an improvement to it) 
 asked, 
 
 " If he would like to walk in and wait till Sare 
 Bon ton returned ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! it is so desperately close," replied 
 Rupert. 
 
 *' Perhaps then Monsieur would like to take a 
 turn in the garden ?" suggested the obliging 
 waiter, lifting up his knee so as to make an im- 
 promptu table to rest the tray upon containing 
 Mr. Allen's suspended supper, as he reached 
 down the key of the garden, which formed one of 
 a long row of many others, and handed it to Ru- 
 pert, saying, — " If Monsieur likes to let himself 
 out on the other side on the quay by the river, he 
 can leave the key with the porter." 
 
 *' Thank you," said Rupert, his eyes sparkling
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 255 
 
 with delight ; for at all events Lucy had walked in 
 that garden, and would do so again ; and possessed 
 of this unexpected open sesame^ as he resolved 
 not to return it till he had had another made like 
 it, he slipped into the waiter's hand a broad piece, 
 more than sufficient to defray the expense of a 
 new one, should he not be able to return it imme- 
 diately ; a proceeding which so whetted the wait- 
 er's civihty, that spying a slip-shod frotteur,^ 
 whom he evidently thought quite good enough to 
 carry food to a bear, he called to him to take Mr. 
 Allen's supper up stairs, and then offered to go a 
 step further in his wish to oblige, and shew Ru- 
 pert the way to the garden — an offer which the 
 latter thankfully accepted. 
 
 " Eh ! And Sare Bon ton^ who shall I say is 
 waiting for him ? " asked the waiter, as he turned 
 the key in the garden gate, a ponderous iron- 
 railed one, of very handsome design, with the 
 Duchesse D'Estampe's initials, A. D. P., in a 
 handsomely gilt monogram in the centre of it, as 
 the hotel had once belonged to that celebrated 
 
 * A man who polishes the inlaid floors in France.
 
 256 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 Mistress of Francis the First; and hence, its re- 
 mains of former splendour. 
 
 " Oh ! " hesitated Rupert, a little taken aback 
 at this question, ** I don't think I can stay to- 
 night; but will return to-morrow or the next day. 
 So you may say Mr. Smith from England was 
 enquiring for him." 
 
 " Bien, Monsieur Smeete de L'Angleterre," 
 repeated the waiter, ** but shall I not say from 
 what part of England, sir? " 
 
 " No ; Smith is a name so universally known 
 in England, that there is no necessity," said Ru- 
 pert, with a smile, as he thought of the specific 
 address, he was leaving for Sir Gilbert. 
 
 ** Bien Monsieur" replied the waiter, as he 
 opened wide the garden gate, and giving Rupert 
 the key, added, " the garden is large, sir, and when 
 you have made the tour of it, you will find some 
 large wooden gates at the other end, and a porter's 
 lodge without them, where, have the goodness to 
 leave the key, when you go." 
 
 The garden was indeed large, and well-stocked 
 with fruit and flowers, while above, innumerable
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 257 
 
 Stars gemmed the heavens without a moon ; Rupert 
 gazed at them for a few second?, and then looking 
 down, beheld two almost equally brilliant lumi- 
 naries, it was the two large eyes, looking like 
 balls of fire in the dark, of Turlupin, the poodle, 
 who had followed him. 
 
 "Ah ! bright Canis ! it is you, is it ? " said he, 
 patting the dog's head, "well then, lead on, and 
 
 rii follow." 
 
 And the animal, in obedience to this command 
 (for dogs are good linguists, and " have the gift 
 of tongues)," gave a little low whine of delight, 
 wagged his tail, and bounded forward ; presently 
 turning round a charmillef they came out opposite 
 the back of the hotel ; some of the windows of 
 which were quite dark, as if death was holding a 
 conge d'elire within, while through others, the 
 lights were seen flitting to and fro with all the 
 activity of busy life, and in some again, they were 
 stationary, like those in a well regulated mind, 
 and only occasionally a faint shadow would flit 
 across the white curtains, which the evening 
 breeze, with its balmy freight of an emute of fra-
 
 258 molieke's tragedy. 
 
 grant odours, from the garnen below, but faintly 
 stirred. Rupert folded his arms, and leaning 
 against a large magnolia tree, looked wistfully and 
 intently at all the windows, wondering which, or 
 if any of them were Lucy's ; for it might be that 
 her room looked out into the court at the front of 
 the house ! At all events, thought he, moving 
 back more completely into the shade of the tree, 
 I can but risk it, and if she is at this side of the 
 house, it will bring her to the window. And he 
 began in a low voice at first, which however, the 
 stillness of the night made perfectly distinct, 
 singing the following song, to an Italian air, that 
 he used to sing at Hawthorne Glen, and which had 
 been an especial favourite with Lucy. Although 
 the words he now put to it, were his own and 
 improvisee for the occasion ; he took care not to 
 mention her name in them, least he should be 
 overheard by other ears than hers. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 As tlie glance of day declining, 
 
 Before the queen of night, 
 So seem thy deep eyes shining 
 
 From out their liquid light.
 
 HIS LIFE A>T) TIMES. 259 
 
 "While a halo plays aroiind thee, 
 
 Of tenderness and grace, 
 As tho' love had newly found thee 
 
 For his sweetest resting place. 
 
 And thy sighs steal on the air, 
 
 Like the perfumed breath of flowers, 
 
 "When the south wind lingers there, 
 To kiss the summer hours. 
 
 And such a sweet persuading seems 
 
 To mingle with thy beauty, 
 That the heart's decision deems. 
 
 To love thee ! is a duty. 
 
 Sweet lady, this fair country boasts, 
 
 To every saint a shrine ; 
 But none can claim such eager hosts, 
 
 Of worshippers as thine. 
 
 All the time that Rupert sang, he kept looking 
 from one to the other of the windows, and had 
 scarcely concluded the first stanza, when behind 
 the curtain of a window on the ground floor, he 
 saw the silhouette of a slight female figure with a 
 little dog in its arms. Oh, joy ! could it be 
 Lucy ? and so completely within reach ? Turlupin 
 saw the shadows, too and, apparently, recognised 
 them as belonging to substances of his acquaint-
 
 260 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 ance, for he ran forward to the window, and after 
 one dash at the casement, which made it rattle 
 loudly, he continued to stand on his hind paws, 
 vigorously scratching and whining ; but no notice 
 was taken of his appeal as long as Rupert con- 
 tinued singing, which perceiving, he ceased, 
 whereupon, Turlupin gave an angry and impa- 
 tient bark, as he again violently shook the window 
 by the prestissimo scratching of his paws ; the 
 bark was immediately answered from within by a 
 shrill canine falsetto^ and presently, the window 
 was gently opened, turning noiselessly on its 
 hinges, while Turlupin^ to expedite the process, 
 poked his nose in and forcibly pushed it back, at 
 which, the other long-eared gentleman within 
 barked so furiously that his mistress, after one or 
 two unheeded sort of eider-down taps upon his 
 silken ears, was fain to banish him into an inner 
 closet, and close the door upon him ; when, re- 
 turning to the window, Rupert saw that lucky dog, 
 Turlupin, kissed and patted on the head, while a 
 voice — whose every tone sank deep into his heart 
 and caused the blood to rush in happy tumults to
 
 HIS LIFE A2n) TIMES. 261 
 
 his no longer pale cheeks — said, *^So, poor Turlu- 
 pin — good doggy — how d'ye do, poor fellow ! 
 yes, well, it was a very clever dog, and a nice- 
 mannered doggy," added she, as Turlupin kept 
 lifting up his right paw out of her hand, only to 
 replace it, in it immediately, '* and I must see 
 if there are not some hon-hons for him ; but 
 clever as he is, I don't think it was mon petit Tur- 
 lupin who was singing just now ; poor fellow, you 
 Httle know how miserable I am, but it's not your 
 fault, is it poor Turlu ? " and taking the dog's 
 shaggy head with both her hands, she bent her 
 face down upon it, and burst into a passion of 
 tears. It required almost a superhuman effort of 
 self-command in Rupert, not to rush forward and 
 throw himself at Lucy's feet ; but although he 
 felt how dangerous so sudden a shock might be 
 to her, it was more his want of physical strength 
 than his prudence, which restrained him, for he 
 was himself so overpowered by this sudden vision 
 of Lucy — looking, indeed, paler and thinner, but 
 a thousand times lovelier, in his estimation, on 
 that account — that had he not put up both his
 
 262 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 arms and leant against the trunk of the tree, he 
 must have fallen to the ground ; but, though 
 riveted to the spot, the power that had deserted 
 his limbs, seemed to have centered in his eyes, for 
 while he was himself concealed by the darkness, 
 Lucy, on the contrary, stood out in bold relief by 
 the light from within the room, and seemed 
 attached to Rupert's gaze, as a needle to a load- 
 stone ; and without much stretch of imagination, 
 she might have been mistaken for one of those 
 creations of impalpable loveliness, with which 
 the poets, and the superstitions of all ages, and of 
 every country, have peopled the air — for, about 
 to retire for the night, though Winifred had left 
 her to read, Lucy was habited in a soft white 
 Indian muslin Peignoir^ the sleeves of which were 
 looped up on account of the intense heat, and 
 showed her beautifully rounded and polished 
 ivory arms, and although her bust was covered to 
 the throat, the delicately soft and clinging texture 
 of the muslin only added the graceful and almost 
 artistic folds of drapery to the symmetrical contour 
 of her willowy and elastic figure. Her long fair
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 263 
 
 hair floated like a golden veil over her shoulders, 
 descending nearly to her feet, while those two 
 small witcheries were cased in little sky blue 
 tafiety slippers, covered with Valenciennes lace, 
 with rosettes of the same, that might have be- 
 longed to Titania herself. 
 
 When Lucy raised her head from Turlupin's, and 
 he had sympathised with her sorrow in all the 
 canine sincerity of his honest heart, she put one 
 little foot without the window on the one step 
 that led to the garden, and looked cautiously and 
 timorously around ; then putting both her hands 
 to her head, she murmured— 
 
 " Surely I must have dreamt those sounds, or 
 am I indeed going mad ? Oh ! no, no, there is 
 an insanity of heart which never has the mercy to 
 lose itself in the head, but keeps fearfully aloof in 
 its own appalling, isolated identity." 
 
 While she spoke, Turlupin kept his luminous 
 eyes fixed steadily, and anxiously up at her face, 
 making a little plaintive whine as he first moved 
 his head from one side, then to the other, and also 
 his paws, which were trembling the while with
 
 264 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 agitation. Lucy drew a chair to the open window, 
 and sat down. The dog put his head on her lap ; 
 she patted it mechanically as she looked silently 
 and sadly upwards at the innumerable stars, and 
 then said, with a deep sigh, — 
 
 " L'impossihilite ne me detourne pas" Ah ! 
 that is a very pretty motto for a seal, but impos- 
 sibilities, alas ! seal everything with some unfor- 
 tunates." 
 
 Lucy's thoughts were running in their usual 
 channel upon Rupert ; and she here made allu- 
 wsion to a jacynth ring that he used to wear, the 
 device of which was : a moth flying after a star, 
 and the motto, " L'impossibilite ne me detourne 
 pas'^ " Go ; poor Turlupin,'^ said she, after a 
 moment's pause, *' as if she did not like breathing 
 her lover's name even before that dumb auditor, — 
 " Go ; there's a good doggy, and here is a rose for 
 him to play with ; and she took one out of her 
 girdle and flung it to some distance on the gravel 
 walk, the dog immediately darting after it. He 
 was no sooner gone, than covering her face with 
 her hands, and rocking herself distractedly to and 
 fro, she exclaimed :
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 265 
 
 " Oh ! Rupert, Rupert, have they murdered 
 you too ! and has your spirit come to wail out 
 that air we loved so much, as its last farewell r"' 
 And again Lucy Hawthorne wept as if her very 
 soul had dissolved, and flowed away in that bitter 
 burning flood of tears. 
 
 Rapid as Turlupins movements were, the rose 
 having fallen at the foot of the magnolia tree, 
 Rupert had seized it, passionately kissed it, and 
 concealed it in his bosom before the dog could 
 reach the spot ; and when he did, and put up his 
 two fore paws upon Rupert's arm, as if demanding 
 a restitution of his property, the young man took 
 ofi* one of his gloves, passed one of the fingers of 
 it through the ring which bore the device of the 
 moth and the star, and placing the glove in the 
 dog's mouth, patted him and whispered : — 
 " Va ! Turlupin mon brave ! portez gela a Made- 
 moiselle" 
 
 He had no sooner uttered the words, and let 
 go the dog's head, than the latter set off" swift as 
 lightning, and in triumph arrived before Lucy, 
 jumping from one side to the other, till at length 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 he laid liis prize on her lap and barked out joy- 
 ously, as much as to say, — *' See what I have 
 brought you." Lucy involuntarily put out her 
 hands behind her vpith a look of dread, and was 
 about to let the glove fall from her knee as if it 
 had been a toad that Turlupin had begged her to 
 accept, when she suddenly spied the well known 
 ring. Seizing the glove, or rather gauntlet, with 
 both her hands, and trembling convulsively, she 
 tottered to the table to examine it by the light, 
 which she had no sooner done, than she shrieked 
 out: 
 
 " His ! Rupert's !" and would have fallen to the 
 ground had not Rupert, who, from the moment 
 the dog had set off with the glove, watched all 
 his and Lucy's movements, and stealthily advanced 
 to the window, now caught her in his arms. 
 
 *' Yes Lucy ! mine ! mijie own / In spite of 
 all do I not bear out my motto ? Impossibilities 
 cannot deter me. Oh ! Lucy, there is but one 
 impossibility on earth for me, and that is to cease 
 to love you ; and you don't — oh ! tell me jou 
 don't wish me to conquer that one, do you ?"
 
 HIS LITE AND TDIES. 267 
 
 Lucy did not scream again ; neither did she 
 faint ; — nay, she did not even blush ; but for two 
 minutes she lay with her head on Rupert's shoul- 
 der, and her arms round his neck, and then put- 
 ting back his hair with both her hands, she said, — 
 " But how pale you are. Oh ! tell me — tell me 
 all — all that has happened since that cruel, cruel 
 day ; and above all, how you knew I was here, 
 and how you got into the garden ? or, — or is it all 
 a frightful dream ?" added she, grasping both 
 Rupert's shoulders, and standing at a little dis- 
 tance from him. 
 
 " No, Lucy — dear, dear Ijucy !" cried he, again 
 pressing her to his heart, and transmuting all the 
 sighs and tears, — all the fears and tortures of the 
 last two months of their lives, into one long, all- 
 atoning kiss, — " it is no dream, for love like our's 
 is the ONE solitary reality that remains of the 
 primeval world, all the rest is indeed a night- 
 mare." 
 
 Here Fop, hearing Rupert's voice, began whining 
 and scratched furiously at the door of the closet to 
 get out. This roused Lucy, who exclaimed (letting
 
 268 molieee's tragedy. 
 
 Fop out, who flew round and round his former 
 deliverer, barking frantically with delight), — 
 " Heavens ! you must not stay here. What if 
 they should return home, and my mother comes 
 in and finds you ? She, dear soul, would be re- 
 joiced ; but then, my father. 
 
 '* You are right, my own Lucy, I ought not 
 to stay here," said he, looking wistfully round the 
 room, where everything spoke of her, and where 
 even the dress she had worn that day, lay across 
 the foot of the little snowy canopied bed, with its 
 blue and white damask curtains, where Winifred 
 had thrown it, till she returned from her supper ; 
 •* but," added he, putting his arm round Lucy's 
 waist, and drawing her towards the w^indow, "you 
 won't refuse to take one turn in the garden with 
 me — dearest, to talk over our plans, will you ? " 
 
 " Our plans ! " echoed poor Lucy, willingly 
 suffering herself to be led into the air. " Ah 1 
 Rupert, will they ever be our's again ? " 
 
 " If they ever cease to be our's, it will be your 
 fault, and not mine Lucy ; yet, just Heaven, I 
 never thought of that I Perhaps you also renounce
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 269 
 
 me ? Perhaps, since my poor uncle has paid the 
 forfeit of his political creed on the scaffold, you 
 too spurn me, as having the blood of a traitor in 
 my veins ? " said he, gloomily, nay, almost 
 savagely, suddenly relaxing his grasp of her waist, 
 and clasping, and twisting his hands convulsively. 
 
 " Oh Rupert ! " said she, wounded by this 
 doubt of his, out of all reserve, and only feeling 
 that her love for him was stronger than all else, 
 as she flung her arm round his neck ; " I care not 
 what blood is in your veins, as long as the same 
 kind, true, generous heart that I have ever known 
 beats in your bosom." 
 
 ** Lucy ! Lucy ! what an angel you are ! An 
 angel come direct from Heaven, to raise me to 
 it ; yes," added he, passionately kissing her hair, 
 eyes, lips, and hands, " my heart is kind, true, 
 generous, and noble, for does it not contain you, 
 and you only ? And where a divinity dwells, the 
 atmosphere must needs be pure." 
 
 " Nay, now you talk tropes and figures, / must 
 talk reason, though I fear I've little left, to have 
 been so forward as I've been to-night ; but as it 
 
 N 3
 
 270 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 is the last time we may meet, for Rupert I will 
 not disobey my father, truth was stronger than 
 seeming — and — and — 
 
 ** What Lucy ? My own Lucy ? " 
 
 " Where it was perhaps wrong, even to listen, 
 I did worse, and spoke." 
 
 " Worse ! oh ! Lucy — my own dear, dear, angel 
 love ! if indeed, out of the fullness of the heart 
 the mouth speaketh, may that lovely mouth never 
 be silent, except" — 
 
 But the exception was not uttered by Rupert, 
 and after a short pause, he gave a deep sigh, and 
 Lucy was the first to speak. 
 
 ** Do you know," said she, " I have grown quite 
 nervous and superstitious ; for the very first day 
 we arrived here, I saw such a vision — a phantom 
 of you and Zara, gallopping past as quick as 
 lightning, it was only for an instant; but in that 
 instant, I beheld you as distinctly as ever I did in 
 my life." 
 
 '* It was no phantom love, but Zara and I in 
 person ; for did you suppose that wherever you 
 are, we, at least I, could be far ofi*? and then
 
 HIS LIFE AND TBIES. 271 
 
 Rupert gave her a resume of his journey from 
 England ; Hans Hallyburton's being shot by the 
 robbers ; his strange meeting with the man in the 
 wax mask at the Pre aux Clercs ; his illness, and 
 his letter of introduction to Moliere, which he 
 had not yet presented ; and his good fortune in 
 meeting with the waiter, who had given him the 
 key of the garden, when his most sanguine hope 
 had been to look upon the house that contained 
 her; and finally, TurlwpirCs admirable Ciceroni- 
 ship, to which he was so much indebted : " and 
 only think," concluded he, " now that I have got 
 the key, I can always get into the garden." 
 
 " Oh ! no, Rupert, on no account, I dare not 
 — indeed I dare not — meet you here again." 
 
 " You mistake me ; I would not for worlds 
 so compromise you, but — but occasionally I might 
 bring you a letter, and you leave one for me under 
 a flower pot outside your window.*' 
 
 *'No, Rupert," said Lucy firmly, " I will neither 
 write to you, nor receive letters from you; for 
 that would be worse than simply disobeying my 
 father, it would be deceiving him. I am not to
 
 272 moliere's tragedy'. 
 
 blame for meeting you to-night, though I may be, 
 for thus prolonging the meeting ; but though we 
 may be far a? the Poles asunder, as I have told 
 you only too often, I shall never cease to love you 
 — even I fear if you should no longer love me," 
 faltered Lucy. 
 
 . " Oh ! then I am safe for eternity," exclaimed 
 Rupert, folding her in his arms ; '* but surely, 
 surely, you won't be so cruel as to forbid me the 
 poor consolation of hovering near you ? if I give 
 you my solemn word of honour that I will never 
 attempt to encroach upon the boon." 
 
 Instead of replying directly to this question, 
 Lucy said, as she pressed his arm with a slight 
 shudder, " Good heavens ! to think you should 
 have been so ill, and alone in that poor hostelry, 
 and none of us to have known it." 
 
 ** And would you have come to me if you had 
 known it, Lucy ?" asked he, with that insatiable 
 vanity of heart which makes love always crave for 
 the ovation of a sacrifice. 
 
 I 'm sure my mother would have gone to you," 
 said Lucy ; " and surely there be could no harm
 
 HIS LITE .VND TIMES. 273 
 
 in ray going where she went ; and dear Lady 
 Singleton," added she, hastily, blushing at what 
 she had just said, from the additional force that 
 Rupert's rapturous and grateful embrace gave to 
 her words, " do give my affectionate love to her 
 when you, write ; for you'll tell her of this meet- 
 ing, won't you, Rupert ?" 
 
 "Certainly. I never concealed anything from 
 her in my life, especially anything that would 
 give her pleasure to hear, which this will ; for she 
 loves you dearly, my Lucy." 
 
 " But, Rupert, what do you mean to do ?" 
 
 *' Why, if Sir GiVaext persists in keeping you 
 here, take service in France." 
 
 Lucy, whose only idea of service was military 
 service, made a faint exclamation of dread, as she 
 thought of the wholesale butchery, which Turenne 
 and Conde had made the fashion, and christened 
 Glory 
 
 " No, not that, my Lucy ; I could scarcely take 
 up arms in a foreign country under an alien king, 
 with the chance of being compelled at any moment 
 to turn them against my own ; your father might
 
 274 moliere's tragedy. 
 
 with reason call me traitor then, and I should 
 think myself one, which would be worse. But 
 the Queen Mother,* has I am told, gentlemen of 
 all nations in her body-guard; perhaps Moliere 
 can help me in this matter, as Rohault, my doctor, 
 tells me he has the ear of the king, and better 
 still, of Colbert, whom I think the greater man of 
 the two ; and I have a strong faith in reaUy great 
 men, I don't mean Popinjays perched in high 
 places, but men whose great renown is but the 
 shadow of their greater minds, and higher hearts, 
 as I believe Colbert's to be ; one in fact, of the few 
 horn statesmen, hewn out of the rock of ages for 
 all times, and not a mere political adventurer, 
 having self at the helm and ambition at the stern, 
 laquered with the reputation of local expediency. 
 And if the worst comes to the worst, and Moliere 
 cannot aid me (though I have much more depen- 
 dance upon him as a stranger, than upon any of 
 those whom I have what is called a claim upon), 
 yet still, as a pis aller, I can but appeal to Prince 
 
 * Anne of Austria, Louis the Fourteenth's mother.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TDIES. 275 
 
 Rupert, to hansel his godfathership by for the 
 nonce exerting his interest in my behalf, and when 
 I have cleft myself a way, and made myself a name, 
 which none but courage and perseverance shall be 
 sponsors to, then^ perhaps. Sir Gilbert Hawthorne 
 may be convinced that I am neither a traitor, nor 
 what he deems equally atrocious, a fifth monarchy 
 man ; but even should we never meet again till 
 then, oh! Lucy, let me once more have your as- 
 surance, for I never can hear it too often, that 
 neither force, nor fraud, shall ever make you marry 
 another ? " 
 
 And as he said this, the tears trembled in his 
 eyes and voice ; they had now arrived at the other 
 end of the garden, by the great gates opening on 
 the quay. Young Singleton stood with his back 
 against them, opposite to Lucy, and as he took 
 both her hands and pressed them in his own, he 
 added — 
 
 ** Promise me Lucy, that through good report, 
 and ill report, through time and trial, and even 
 through absence, which is the greatest of all trials, 
 this little hand that I now hold, and the heart you 
 have given me shall still he mine.'"
 
 276 MOLIERE S TRAGEDY. 
 
 " Look here, Rupert," said Lucy, extricating 
 her hands from his, and gathering a rose, some of 
 the leaves of which she plucked and laid upon 
 his hand, from whence the night wind instantly 
 scattered them, — " I have been told that men's 
 love, and lover's vows, are like those leaves, turned 
 aside by a breath, and carried away by every wind 
 that blows ; but now look up there, at yonder 
 fixed star, a thousand years hence it will still move 
 in the same orbit; a thousand years hence, we 
 shall be in heaven I hope ; but even therey my 
 love for you Rupert I feel will be the samef for it 
 is at once the centre and the essence of my being ; 
 therefore, wherever I am, it must be, for I am it, 
 and it is me." 
 
 " Oh ! Lucy ! Lucy ! how happy, how grateful, how 
 dauntless you make me !" cried Rupert extatically, 
 flinging himself at her feet, and covering both 
 them and her hands with kisses, "let Fate come 
 on now, backed by her monster legion of ten 
 thousand trials ; I have courage for them all ! " 
 
 Here the two dogs, who had followed them 
 most peaceably, and amicably, now pricked up
 
 HIS LITE AKD TIMES. 277 
 
 their ears, and uttered a low growl, which Fop 
 gradually ascended into a shrill bark. 
 
 " Down Fop ; be quiet, sir." *' Hush," added 
 Lucy, ** I thought I heard some one call." 
 
 '* Ho ! Luce, Luce, I say ; where art thou ? Is 
 the wench dead, or deaf? Luce I say," boomed 
 Sir Gilbert's stentorian voice through the garden, 
 or what Madame de Sevigne so politely termed 
 his helle voix de chasse. 
 
 " Oh ! Heavens," faltered Lucy, breathlessly, 
 as she tremblingly grasped Rupert's arm. " My 
 father! we are lost!" 
 
 " No, no, dearest, I have the key of this gate 
 and now good bye, God ever bless you." And 
 with one hasty kiss, he opened the ponderous 
 gates, and the next moment they had closed 
 upon him. 
 
 *' Luce, if jou are above ground, answer me 
 girl ! re-roared Sir Gilbert, his voice now growing 
 nearer. 
 
 " My dear child, how very imprudent to be 
 out at this hour," said Lady Singleton, as Lucy 
 now came running towards her. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 278 MOLIERE'S TKAGEDY. 
 
 ** Oh ! dear mother, it was so very sultry, I 
 could not stay in the house." 
 
 " Good lack ! you look like Mad Moll of Moor- 
 iields, with your hair down to your heels, in that 
 way ; but I'm afraid you'll be closer still, if you 
 complain of the heat down here. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 for I feel the heat so in the front of the house, 
 that I can't get a wink of sleep ; so I'm going to 
 change roosts with you girl, and see how I shall 
 get on at this side of the house, to night."* said 
 Sir Gilbert. 
 
 Of course, even had she been inclined, which she 
 was not, Lucy would not have dared to make any 
 
 * Sir Gilbert Hawthorne in this arrangement, evinced 
 no uncommon, or unusual degree of ungallant selfishness 
 when it is recollected how coolly even the good, and pious, 
 Evelyn, relates as a matter of course, that on his return 
 from Italy, arriving at a Swiss Inn, and dreadmg damp 
 sheets, he ordered the landlady's daughter, who was ill in 
 led! to be removed into another bed; while he got into 
 her warm place ! ! the result of which was, that he caught 
 the small-pox, the malady from which the Inn-keeper's 
 daughter had been suffering. So that a little less selfish- 
 ness, and a little more hienseance^ even to a woman, ^aight,^ 
 have saved him this fearful complaint.
 
 HIS LIFE AND TIMES. 279 
 
 demur at her father's fiat, but as it was, she was 
 only too thankful that the fancy to change rooms 
 with her, had not taken him on the preceding 
 night, for then she would have missed seeing 
 Rupert, so that although she lay down that night 
 in a room that was suffocatingly close, and, more- 
 over, in an atmosphere, whose anti-ambrosial par- 
 ticles, were composed of the fumes of defunct 
 beer, and tobacco, Lucy Hawthorne, as she 
 offered up her heart in gratitude to the Giver of 
 all good, whether He sends his blessings in 
 trials, or in triumphs, was more than ever con- 
 vinced, that 
 
 '• There is a Divinity doth shape our ends 
 Rough-hew them as we will I " 
 
 END OF VOL. I.