Another night of fever! The sea, beating heavily upon the rocks,
prevented sleep; or worse--filled it with images of shipwreck and
storm. I sat till nigh midnight on the terrace--poor Shelley’s favourite
resting-place--watching the night as it fell, at first in gloomy
darkness, and then bright and starlit. There was no moon, but the
planets, reflected in the calm sea, were seen like tall pillars of
reddish light; and although all the details of the scenery were in
shadow, the bold outlines of the distant Apennines, and of the Ponto
Venere and the Island of Palmaria, were all distinctly marked out. The
tall masts and taper spars of the French fleet at anchor in the bay were
also seen against the sky, and the lurid glow of the fires spangled the
surface of the sea. Strange chaos of thought was mine! At one moment,
Lord Byron was before me, as, seated on the taffrail of the “Bolivar,”
with all canvass stretched, he plunged through the blue waters; his
fair brown hair spray-washed and floating back with the breeze; his lip
curled with the smile of insolent defiance; and his voice ringing
with the music of his own glorious verse. Towards midnight the weather
suddenly changed; to the total stillness succeeded a low but distant
moaning sound, which came nearer and nearer, and at last a “Levanter,”
in all its fury, broke over the sea, and rolled the mad waves in masses
towards the shore. I have seen a storm in the Bay of Biscay, and I have
witnessed a “whole gale” off the coast of Labrador, but for suddenness,
and for the wild tumult of sea and wind commingled, I never saw any
thing like this. Not in huge rolling mountains, as in the Atlantic, did
the waves move along, but in short, abrupt jets, as though impelled by
some force beneath; now, skimming each over each, and now, spiriting
up into the air, they threw foam and spray around them like gigantic
fountains. As abruptly as the storm began, so did it cease; and as the
wind fell, the waves moved more and more sluggishly; and in a space of
time inconceivably brief, nothing remained of the hurricane save the
short plash of the breakers, and at intervals some one, long, thundering
roar, as a heavier mass threw its weight upon the strand. It was just
then, ere the sea had resumed its former calm, and while still warring
with the effects of the gale, I thought I saw a boat lying keel
uppermost in the water, and a man grasping with all the energy of
despair to catch the slippery planks, which rose and sank with every
motion of the tide. Though apparently far out at sea, all was palpable
and distinct to my eyes as if happening close to where I sat. A
grey darkness was around, and yet at one moment--so brief as to be
uncountable--I could mark his features, beautifully handsome and calm
even in his drowning agony; at least so did their wan and wearied
expression strike me. Poor Shelley! I fancied you were before me; and,
long after the vision passed away, a faint, low cry, continued to ring
in my ears--the last effort of the voice about to be hushed for ever.
Then the whole picture changed, and I beheld the French fleet all
illuminated, as if for a victory; the decks and yards crowded with
seamen, and echoing with their triumphant cheers; while on the poop-deck
of the “Souverain” stood a pale and sickly youth, thoughtful and sad,
his admiral’s uniform carelessly half-buttoned, and his unbelted sword
carried negligently in his hand. This was the Prince de Joinville, as I
had seen him the day before, when visiting the fleet. I could not frame
to my mind where and over whom the victory was won; but disturbed fears
for our own naval supremacy flitted constantly across me, and every word
I had heard from the French captain who had accompanied me in my
visit kept sounding in my ears: as, for instance, while exhibiting the
Paixhan’s cannons, he added,--“Now, here is an arm your ships have not
acquired.” Such impressions must have gone deeper than, at the time, I
knew of, for they made the substance of a long and painful dream; and
when, awaking suddenly, the first object I beheld was the French fleet
resting still and tranquil in the bay, my heart expanded with a sense of
relief unspeakably delightful.
So, then, I must hence. These Levanters usually continue ten or twelve
days, and then are followed by the Tramontana, as is called the wind
from the Apennines; and this same Tramontana is all but fatal to those
as weak as I am. How puzzling--I had almost said, how impossible--to
know any thing about climate! and how invariably, on this as on most
other subjects, mere words usurp the place of ideas! It is enough to say
“Italy,” to suggest hope to the consumptive man; and yet, what severe
trials does this same boasted climate involve! These scorching autumnal
suns; and cold, cutting breezes, wherever shade is found;--the genial
warmth of summer, here; and yonder, in that alley, the piercing air of
winter;--vicissitudes that wake up the extremes of every climate, occur
each twenty-four hours. And he, whose frail system can barely sustain
the slightest shock, must now learn to accommodate itself to atmospheres
of every density; now vapour charged and heavy, now oxygenated to
a point of stimulation that, even in health, would be felt as
over-exciting.
There is something of the same kind experienced here intellectually:
the every-day tone of society is trifling and frivolous to a degree;
the topics discussed are of a character which, to our practical notions,
never rise above mere levity; and even where others of a deeper interest
are introduced, the mode of treating them is superficial and
meagre. Yet, every now and then, one meets with some high and great
intelligence, some man of wide reflection and deep research; and then,
when hearing the words of wisdom in that glorious language, which unites
Teutonic vigour with every Gallic elegance, you feel what a people this
might be who have such an interpreter for their thoughts and deeds. In
this way I remember feeling when first I heard Italian from the lips
of a truly great and eloquent speaker. He was a small old man, slightly
bowed in the shoulders--merely enough so to exhibit to more advantage
the greater elevation of a noble head, which rose like the dome of a
grand cathedral; his forehead, wide and projecting over the brows which
were heavy, and would have been almost severe in their meaning, save
for the softened expression of his large brown eyes; his hair,
originally-black, was now grey, but thick and massive, and hang in locky
folds, like the antique, on his neck and shoulders. In manner he was
simple, quiet, and retiring, avoiding observation, and seeking rather
companionship with those whose unobtrusive habits made them unlikely for
peculiar notice. When I met him he was in exile. Indeed I am not certain
if the ban of his offence be recalled; whether or not, the voice of all
Italy now invokes his return, and the name of Gioberti is associated
with the highest and the noblest views of national freedom.
Well, indeed, were it for the cause of Italy if her progress were to be
entrusted to men like this--if the great principles of reform were to
be committed to intelligences capable of weighing difficulties, avoiding
and accommodating dangers. So late as the day before last I had an
opportunity of seeing a case in point. It is but a few weeks since
the good people of Lucca, filled with new wine and bright notions of
liberty, compelled their sovereign to abdicate. There is no denying that
he had no other course open to him; for if the Grand Duke of Tuscany
could venture to accord popular privileges, supported as he was by a
very strong body of nobles, whose possessions will always assure them
a great interest in the state, the little kingdom of Lucca had few, if
any, such securities. Its sovereign must either rule or be ruled. Now,
he had not energy of character for the one--he did not like the other.
Austria refused to aid him--not wishing, probably, to add to the
complication of Ferrara; and so he abdicated. Now comes _le commencement
du fin_. The Luccese gained the day: they expelled the Duke--they
organised a national guard--they illuminated--they protested, cockaded,
and--are ruined! Without trade, or any of its resources, this little
capital, like almost all those of the German duchies, lived upon “the
Court.” The sovereign was not only the fount of honour, but of wealth!
Through his household flowed the only channel by which industry was
nurtured: it was his court and his dependants whose wants employed the
active heads and hands of the entire city. The Duke is gone--the palace
closed--the courtyard even already half grass-grown! Not an equipage is
to be heard or seen; not even a footman in a court livery rides past;
and all the recompense for this is the newly conferred privileges
of liberty, to a people who recognise in freedom, not a new bond of
obligation, but an unbridled license of action. The spirit of our times
is, however, against this. The inspired grocers, who form the Guardia
Civica, are our only guides now; it will be curious enough to see where
they will lead us.
When thinking of Italian liberty, or Unity, for that is the phrase in
vogue, I am often reminded of the Irish priest who was supposed by his
parishioners to possess an unlimited sway over the seasons, and who,
when hard-pushed to exercise it, at last declared his readiness to
procure any kind of weather that three farmers would agree upon, well
knowing, the while, how diversity of interest must for ever prevent
a common demand. This is precisely the case. An Italian kingdom to
comprise the whole Peninsula would be impossible. The Lombards have no
interests in common with the Neapolitans. Venice is less the sister than
the rival of Genoa. How would the haughty Milanese, rich in every thing
that constitutes wealth, surrender their station to the men of the
South, whom they despise and look down upon? None would consent to
become Provincial; and even the smallest states would stand up for the
prerogative of separate identity.
“A National” Guard slowly paces before the gate, within which Royalty
no longer dwells; and the banner of their independence floats over
their indigence! Truly, they have torn up their mantle to make a cap of
Liberty, and they must bear the cold how they may!
As for the Duke himself, I believe he deserves the epithet I heard
a Frenchman bestow upon him--he is a _Pauvre Sire!_ There is a fatal
consistency, certainly, about the conduct of these Bourbon Princes in
moments of trying emergency! They never will recognise danger till too
late to avert it. The Prince of Lucca, like Charles Dix, laughed
at popular menace, and yet had barely time to escape from popular
vengeance. There was a Ball at the palace on the very night when the
tumult attained its greatest importance; frequent messages were sent by
the Ministers, and more than one order to the troops given during
the progress of the entertainment. A despatch was opened at the
supper-table; and as the Crown Prince led out his fair partner--an
English beauty, by-the-by--to the _cotillon_, he whispered in her ear,
“We must keep it up late, for I fancy we shall never have another dance
in this _salle!_” And this is the way Princes can take leave of their
inheritance; and so it is, the “divine right” can be understood by
certain “Rulers of the people.”
If the defence of Monarchy depended on the lives and characters of
monarchs, how few could resist Republicanism! though, perhaps, every
thing considered, there is no station in life where the same number
of good and graceful qualities is so certain to win men’s favour and
regard. Maginn used to say, that we “admire wit in a woman as we admire
a few words spoken plain by a parrot.”
The speech was certainly not a very gallant one; but I half suspect that
our admiration of royal attainments is founded upon a similar principle.
Kings can rarely be good talkers, because they have not gone through
the great training-school of talk--which is, conversation. This is
impossible where there is no equality; and how often does it occur to
monarchs to meet each other, and when they do, what a stilted, unreal
thing, must be their intercourse! Of reigning sovereigns, the King of
Prussia is perhaps the most gifted in this way; of course, less endowed
with that shrewd appreciation of character, that intuitive perception
of every man’s bias, which marks the Monarch of the Tuileries, but
possessed of other and very different qualities, and with one especially
which never can be overvalued--an earnest sincerity of purpose in every
thing. There is no escaping from the conviction, that here is a man who
reflects and wills, and whose appeal to conscience is the daily rule
of life. The Nationality of Germany is his great object, and for it he
labours as strenuously--may it be as successfully!--as ever his “Great”
predecessor did to accomplish the opposite. What a country would it be
if the same spirit of nationality were to prevail from the Baltic to
the Black Sea, and “Germany” have a political signification as well as a
geographical one!
After all, if we have outlived the age of heroic monarchy, we have
happily escaped that of royal débauchés. A celebrated Civil Engineer
of our day is reported to have said, in his examination before a
parliamentary committee, that he regarded “rivers as intended by
Providence to supply navigable canals;” in the same spirit one might
opine certain characters of royalty were created to supply materials for
Vaudevilles.
What would become of the minor theatres of Paris if Louis XIV., and
Richelieu, and the Regency were to be interdicted? On whose memory dare
they hang so much of shameless vice and iniquitous folly? Where find
characters so degraded, so picturesque, so abandoned, so infamous, and
so amusing? What time and trouble, too, are saved by the adoption of
this era! No need of wearisome explanations and biographical details of
the _dramatis persono_. When one reads the word “Marquis,” he knows
it means a man whose whole aim in life is seduction; while “Madame la
Marquise” is as invariably the easy victim of royal artifice.
It might open a very curious view into the distinctive nature of
national character to compare the recognised class to which vice is
attributed in different countries; for while in England we select
the aristocracy always, as the natural subjects for depravity, in
the Piedmontese territory all the stage villains are derived from the
mercantile world. Instead of a Lord, as with us, the seducer is always
a Manufacturer or a Shipowner; and _vice_ a Captain of Dragoons, their
terror of domestic peace, is a Cotton-spinner or a Dealer in Hardware.
Let it not be supposed that this originates in any real depravity, or
any actual want of honesty, in the mercantile world. No! the whole is
attributable to the “Censor.” By _his_ arbitrary dictate the entire of
a piece is often re-cast, and so habituated have authors become to
the prevailing taste, that they now never think of occasioning him the
trouble of the correction. Tradesman there stands for scoundrel, as
implicitly as with us an Irishman is a blunderer and a Scotchman a
knave. Exercised as this power is, and committed to such hands as we
find it in foreign countries, it is hard to conceive any more quiet but
effectual agent for the degradation of a national taste. It is but a few
weeks back I saw a drama marked for stage representation in a city of
Lombardy, in which the words “Pope” and “Cardinal” were struck out as
irreverent to utter; but all the appeals--and most impious they were--to
the Deity were suffered to remain unmutilated.
And now I am reminded of rather a good theme for one of those little
dramatic pieces which amuse the public of the Palais Royal and the
Variétés. I chanced upon it in an old French book, called “Mémoires et
Souvenirs de Jules Auguste Prévost, premier Valet de Charge de S. A. le
Duc de Courcelles.” Printed at the Hague, anno 1742.
I am somewhat sceptical about the veraciousness of many of M. Prévost’s
recitals; the greater number are, indeed, little else than chronicles of
his losses at _Ombre_, with a certain Mdlle. Valencay, or narratives
of “_petits soupers_,” where his puce-coloured shorts and coat of ambre
velvet were the chief things worthy of remembrance. Yet here and there
are little traits that look like facts, too insignificant for fiction,
and preserving something of the character of the time to which they
are linked. The whole bears no trace of ever having been intended for
publication; and it is not difficult to see where the new touches have
been laid on over the original picture. It was in all probability a mere
commonplace book, in which certain circumstances of daily life got mixed
up with the written details of his station in the Duke’s household.
Neither its authenticity nor correctness, however, are of any moment to
my purpose, which was to jot down--from memory if I can,--the subject I
believe to be invested with dramatic material.
M. Prévost’s narrative is very brief; indeed it barely extends beyond
a full allusion to a circumstance very generally known at the time. The
events run somewhat thus, or at least should do so, in the piece. At the
close of a brilliant fête at Versailles, where every fascination that an
age of unbounded luxury could procure was assembled, the King retired
to his apartment, followed by that prince of vaudeville characters,
the Maréchal Richelieu. His Majesty was wearied and out of spirits; the
pleasures of the evening, so far from having, as usual, elevated his
spirits and awakened his brilliancy, had depressed and fatigued him. He
was tired of the unvarying repetition of what his heart had long ceased
to have any share in; and, in fact, to use the vulgar, but most fitting
phrase, he was bored!
Bored by the courtiers, whose wit was too prompt to have been
unprepared; by the homage, too servile to have any sincerity; by the
smiles of beauty, perverted as they were by jealous rivalry and subtle
intrigue; and, above all, bored by the consciousness that he had no
other identity than such as kingly trappings gave him, and that all the
love and admiration he received were accorded to the monarch and nothing
to the man.
He didn’t exactly, as novel writers would say, pour his sufferings
into Richelieu’s ear, but in very abrupt and forcible expressions he
manifested his utter weariness of the whole scene, and avowed a very
firm belief that the company was almost as tired of him as he was of the
company.
In vain the Maréchal rallies his Majesty upon successes which were wont
to be called triumphs; in vain he assures him, that never at any period
was the domestic peace of the lieges more endangered by his Majesty’s
condescensions: in fact, for once--as will happen, even with Kings now
and then--he said truth; and truth, however wholesome, is not always
palatable. Richelieu was too subtle an adversary to be easily worsted;
and after a fruitless effort to obliterate the gloomy impression of
the king, he, with a ready assurance, takes him in flank, and coolly
attributes the royal dissatisfaction to the very natural weariness at
ever seeing the same faces, however beautiful, and hearing the same
voices, however gay and sparkling their wit.
“Your Majesty will not give yourself the credit due of winning
these evidences of devotion from personal causes, rather than from
adventitious ones. Happily, a good opportunity presents itself for
the proof. Your Majesty may have heard of Madame de Vaugirarde, whose
husband was killed at La Rochelle?”
“The pretty widow who refuses to come to court?”
“The same, sire. She continues to reside at the antique château of her
late husband, alone, and without companionship; and, if report speak
truly, the brightest eyes of France are wasting their brilliancy in that
obscure retreat.”
“Well, what is to be done? You would not, surely, order her up to
Versailles by a ‘_lettre de cachet?_’”
“No, sire, the measure were too bold; nay, perhaps my counsel will
appear far bolder: it is, that since Madame de Vaugirarde will not come
to court, your Majesty should go to Madame de Vaugirarde.”
It was not very difficult to make this notion agreeable to the king. It
had one ingredient pleasurable enough to secure its good reception--it
was new--nobody had ever before dreamt of his Majesty making a tour
into the provinces _incog._ This was quite sufficient; and Richelieu had
scarcely detailed his intentions than the King burned with impatience
to begin his journey. The wily minister, however, had many things to
arrange before they set out; but of what nature he did not reveal to his
master. Certain is it that he left for Paris within an hour, hastening
to the capital with all the speed of post-horses. Arrived there, he
exchanged his court suit for a plain dress, and in a _fiacre_ drove to
the private entrance of the Théâtre Français.
“Is M. Duroset engaged?” said he, descending from the carriage.
“He is on the stage, monsieur,” said the porter, who took the stranger
for one of the better _bourgeois_ of Paris, coming to secure a good
_loge_ by personal intercession with the manager. Now, M. Duroset was at
the very moment occupied in the not very uncommon task of giving a poor
actor his _congé_ who had just presented himself for an engagement.
As was the case in those days--(we have changed since then)--the
Director, not merely content with declining the proffered services,
was actually adding some very caustic remarks on the pretension of the
applicant, whose miserable appearance and ragged costume might have
claimed exemption from his gratuitous lecture.
“Believe me, _mon cher_,” said he, “a man must have a very different air
and carriage from yours who plays ‘Le Marquis’ on the Parisian boards.
There should be something of the style and bearing of the world about
him--his address should be easy, without presumption--his presence
commanding, without severity.”
“I always played the noble parts in the provinces. I acted the
‘Régent’----”
“I’ve no doubt of it; and very pretty notions of royalty the audience
must have gained from you. There, that will do. Go back to Nancy, and
try yourself at valets’ parts for a year or two--that’s the best counsel
I can give you! Adieu! adieu!”
The poor actor retired, discomfited and distressed, at the same instant
that the graceful figure of Richelieu advanced in easy dignity.
“Monsieur Duroset,” said the Maréchal, seating himself, and speaking in
the voice so habituated to utter commands, “I would speak a few words
with you in confidence, and where we might be certain of not being
overheard.”
“Nothing could be better than the present spot, then,” said the manager,
who was impressed by the style and bearing of his visitor, without ever
guessing or suspecting his real rank. “The rehearsal will not begin for
half-an-hour. Except that poor devil that has just left me, no one has
entered this morning.”
“Sit down, then, and pay attention to what I shall say,” said the
Maréchal. The words were felt as a command, and instantly obeyed.
“They tell me, M. Duroset, that a young actress, of great beauty
and distinguished ability, is about to appear on these boards, whose
triumphs have been hitherto won only in the provinces. Well, you must
defer her _début_ for some days; and meanwhile, for the benefit of
her health, she can make a little excursion to the neighbourhood of
Fontainebleau, where, at a short distance from the royal forest, stands
a small château. This will be ready for her reception; and where a
more critical taste than even your audiences boast will decide upon her
merits.”
“There is but one man in France could make such a proposition!” said the
manager, starting back, half in amazement, half in respect.
“And I am exactly that man,” rejoined the Maréchal. “There need never be
secrets between men of sense. M. Duroset, the case is this: your beauty,
whose manners and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, must
represent the character of the widowed Countess of Vaugirarde, whose
sorrow for her late husband is all but inconsolable. The solitude of
her retreat will, however, be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a
stranger, who, accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality
of the château. Grief has not usurped every faculty and _devoir_ of
the fair Countess, who consents the following morning to receive the
respectful homage of the travellers, and even invites them, weary as
they seem by travel, to stay another day.”
“I understand--I understand,” said Duroset, hastily interrupting this
narrative, which the speaker poured forth with impetuous rapidity; “but
there are several objections, and grave ones.”
“I’m certain of it,” rejoined the other; “and now to combat them. Here
are a thousand louis; five hundred of which M. Duroset will keep--the
remainder he will expend, as his taste and judgment may dictate, in the
costume of the fair Countess.”
“But Mademoiselle Bellechasse?”
“Will accept of these diamonds, which will become her to perfection. She
is not a _blonde?_”
“No; dark hair and eyes.”
“This suite of pearls, then, will form a most graceful addition to her
toilette.”
“They are magnificent!” exclaimed the manager, who, with wondering eyes,
turned from one jewel-case to the other; “they are splendid! Nay”--then
he added, in a lower accent, and with a glance, as he spoke, of
inveterate cunning--“nay, they are a Princely present.”
“Ah, M. Duroset, _un homme d’esprit_ is always so easy to treat with!
Might I dare to ask if Mademoiselle Bellechasse is here?--if I might be
permitted to pay my respects?”
“Certainly; your Excell----”
“Nay, nay, M. Duroset, we are all incog.” said the Maréchal, smiling
good-humouredly.
“As you please, sir. I will go and make a brief explanation to
Mademoiselle, if you will excuse my leaving you. May I take these jewels
with me? Thanks.”
The explanation was, indeed, of the briefest; and he returned in a
few seconds, accompanied by a young lady, whose elegance of mien
and loveliness of form seemed to astonish even the critical gaze of
Richelieu.
“Madame la Comtesse de Vaugirarde,” said the Director, presenting her.
“_Ah, belle Comtesse!_” said the Maréchal, as he kissed the tips of her
fingers with the most profound courtesy; “may I hope that the world
has still charms to win back one whose griefs should fall like spring
showers, and only render more fragrant the soil they water!”
“I know not what the future may bring forth,” said she, with a most
gracefully-affected sadness; “but for the present, I feel as if the
solitude of my ancient château, the peaceful quiet of the country, would
best respond to my wishes: there alone, to wander in those woods, whose
paths are endeared to me----”
“Admirable!--beautiful!--perfect!” exclaimed Richelieu, in a transport
of delight; “never was the tribute of affection more touching--never a
more graceful homage rendered to past happiness! Now, when can you set
out?”
“To-morrow.”
“Why not to-day? Time is every thing here.”
“Remember, monsieur, that we have purchases to make--we visit the
capital but rarely.”
“Quite true; I was forgetting the solitude of your retreat. Such charms
might make any lapse of memory excusable.”
“Oh, monsieur! I should be, indeed, touched by this flattery, if I could
but see the face of him who uttered it.”
“Pardon me, fair Countess, if I do not respond to even the least of
your wishes; we shall both appear in our true colours one of these days.
Meanwhile, remember our proverb that says, ‘It’s not the cowl makes the
monk.’ When you shall hear this again, it will be in your château of
Vaugirarde, and----”
“Is that the _consigne_, then?” said she, laughing.
“Yes, that is the _consigne_,--don’t forget it;” and, with a graceful
salutation, the Maréchal withdrew to perfect his further arrangements.
There was a listener to this scene, that none of its actors ever guessed
at--the poor actor, who, having lost his way among forests of pasteboard
and palaces of painted canvass, at last found himself at the back of a
pavilion, from which the speakers were not more than two paces distant.
Scarcely had the Maréchal departed, than he followed his steps, and
made all haste to an obscure _auberge_ outside the barriers, where a
companion, poor and friendless as himself, awaited him. There is no need
to trace what ensued at this meeting. The farce-writer might, indeed,
make it effective enough, ending as it does in the resolve, that since
an engagement was denied them at Paris, they’d try their fortune at
Fontainebleau, by personating the two strangers, who were to arrive by a
hazard at the Château de Vaugirarde.
The whole plot is now seen. They set out, and in due time arrive at the
château. Their wardrobe and appearance generally are the very reverse of
what the fair Countess expected, but as their stage experiences supply a
certain resemblance to rank and distinction--at least to her notions
of such--she never doubts that they are the promised visitors, and is
convinced by the significant declaration, that if their wayworn looks
and strange costume seem little indicative of their actual position, yet
the Countess should remember, “It is not the cowl makes the monk.”
The constraint with which each assumes a new character forms the second
era of the piece. The lover, far from suspecting the real pretensions he
should strive to personate--the Countess, as much puzzled by the
secrecy of her guest’s conduct, and by guesses as to his actual rank and
fortune. It is while these doubts are in full conflict, and when
seated at supper, that the King and Richelieu appear, announced as two
travellers, whose carriage being overturned and broken, are fain to
crave the hospitality of the château.
The discomfiture of Richelieu and the anger of the King at finding the
ground occupied, contrast well with the patronising graces of the mock
Countess and the insolent demeanour of the lover, who whispers in her
ear that the new arrivals are strolling players, and that he has seen
them repeatedly in the provinces. All Richelieu’s endeavours to set
matters right, unobserved by the King, are abortive; while his Majesty
is scarce more fortunate in pressing his suit with the fair Countess,
by whose grace and beauty he is fascinated. In the very midst of the
insolent _badinage_ of the real actors, an officer of the household
arrives, with important despatches. Their delivery brooks no delay,
and he at once presents himself, and, kneeling, hands them to the King.
Shame, discomfiture, terror, and dismay, seize on the intruding players.
The King, however, is merciful. After a smart reproof all is forgiven;
his Majesty sagely observing, that although “the Cowl may not make the
Monk,” the Ermine has no small share in forming the Monarch.