“Ah,” said Bolingbroke, “her Grace does me too much honour: I must

not neglect to acknowledge her courtesy;” and, leaning over the box,

Bolingbroke watched his opportunity till the Duchess of Marlborough, who

sat opposite to him, and who was talking with great and evidently joyous

vivacity to a tall, thin man, beside her, directed her attention, and

that of her whole party, in a fixed and concentrated stare, to the

imperilled minister. With a dignified smile Lord Bolingbroke then put

his hand to his heart, and bowed profoundly; the Duchess looked a little

abashed, but returned the courtesy quickly and slightly, and renewed her

conversation.

“Faith, my Lord,” cried the young gentleman who had before spoken, “you

managed that well! No reproach is like that which we clothe in a smile,

and present with a bow.”

“I am happy,” said Lord Bolingbroke, “that my conduct receives the grave

support of a son of my political opponent.”

“_Grave_ support, my Lord! you are mistaken: never apply the epithet

grave to anything belonging to Philip Wharton. But, in sober earnest,

I have sat long enough with you to terrify all my friends, and must now

show my worshipful face in another part of the house. Count Devereux,

will you come with me to the Duchess’s?”

“What! the Duchess’s immediately after Lord Bolingbroke’s!--the Whig

after the Tory: it would be as trying to one’s assurance as a change

from the cold bath to the hot to one’s constitution.”

“Well, and what so delightful as a trial in which one triumphs? and a

change in which one does not lose even one’s countenance?”

“Take care, my Lord,” said Bolingbroke, laughing; “those are dangerous

sentiments for a man like you, to whom the hopes of two great parties

are directed, to express so openly, even on a trifle and in a jest.”

“‘Tis for that reason I utter them. I like being the object of hope and

fear to men, since my miserable fortune made me marry at fourteen, and

cease to be aught but a wedded thing to the women. But sup with me at

the Bedford,--you, my Lord, and the Count.”

“And you will ask Walpole, Addison, and Steele,* to join us, eh?” said

Bolingbroke. “No, we have other engagements for to-night; but we shall

meet again soon.”

* All political opponents of Lord Bolingbroke.

And the eccentric youth nodded his adieu, disappeared, and a minute

afterwards was seated by the side of the Duchess of Marlborough.

“There goes a boy,” said Bolingbroke, “who, at the age of fifteen,

has in him the power to be the greatest man of his day, and in all

probability will only be the most singular. An obstinate man is sure of

doing well; a wavering or a whimsical one (which is the same thing) is

as uncertain, even in his elevation, as a shuttlecock. But look to the

box at the right: do you see the beautiful Lady Mary?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Trefusis, who was with us, “she has only just come to

town. ‘Tis said she and Ned Montagu live like doves.”

“How!” said Lord Bolingbroke; “that quick, restless eye seems to have

very little of the dove in it.”

“But how beautiful she is!” said Trefusis, admiringly. “What a pity that

those exquisite hands should be so dirty! It reminds me” (Trefusis loved

a coarse anecdote) “of her answer to old Madame de Noailles, who made

exactly the same remark to her. ‘Do you call my hands dirty?’ cried Lady

Mary, holding them up with the most innocent _naivete_. ‘Ah, Madame, _si

vous pouviez voir mes pieds!_’”

“_Fi donc_,” said I, turning away; “but who is that very small, deformed

man behind her,--he with the bright black eye?”

“Know you not?” said Bolingbroke; “tell it not in Gath!--‘tis a rising

sun, whom I have already learned to worship,--the young author of the

‘Essay on Criticism,’ and ‘The Rape of the Lock.’ Egad, the little poet

seems to eclipse us with the women as much as with the men. Do you mark

how eagerly Lady Mary listens to him, even though the tall gentleman

in black, who in vain endeavours to win her attentions, is thought the

handsomest gallant in London? Ah, Genius is paid by smiles from all

females but Fortune; little, methinks, does that young poet, in his

first intoxication of flattery and fame, guess what a lot of contest

and strife is in store for him. The very breath which a literary man

respires is hot with hatred, and the youthful proselyte enters that

career which seems to him so glittering, even as Dame Pliant’s brother

in the ‘Alchemist’ entered town,--not to be fed with luxury, and diet on

pleasure, but ‘to learn to quarrel and live by his wits.’”

The play was now nearly over. With great gravity Lord Bolingbroke

summoned one of the principal actors to his box, and bespoke a play for

the next week; leaning then on my arm, he left the theatre. We hastened

to his home, put on our disguises, and, without any adventure worth

recounting, effected our escape and landed safely at Calais.

CHAPTER IV.

PARIS.--A FEMALE POLITICIAN AND AN ECCLESIASTICAL ONE.--SUNDRY OTHER

MATTERS.

THE ex-minister was received both at Calais and at Paris with the

most gratifying honours: he was then entirely the man to captivate

the French. The beauty of his person, the grace of his manner, his

consummate taste in all things, the exceeding variety and sparkling

vivacity of his conversation, enchanted them. In later life he has grown

more reserved and profound, even in habitual intercourse; and attention

is now fixed to the solidity of the diamond, as at that time one was too

dazzled to think of anything but its brilliancy.

While Bolingbroke was receiving visits of state, I busied myself in

inquiring after a certain Madame de Balzac. The reader will remember

that the envelope of that letter which Oswald had brought to me at

Devereux Court was signed by the letters C. de B. Now, when Oswald

disappeared, after that dreadful night to which even now I can scarcely

bring myself to allude, these initials occurred to my remembrance, and

Oswald having said they belonged to a lady formerly intimate with my

father, I inquired of my mother if she could guess to what French

lady such initials would apply. She, with an evident pang of jealousy,

mentioned a Madame de Balzac; and to this lady I now resolved to address

myself, with the faint hope of learning from her some intelligence

respecting Oswald. It was not difficult to find out the abode of one

who in her day had played no inconsiderable role in that ‘Comedy

of Errors,’--the Great World. She was still living at Paris: what

Frenchwoman would, if she could help it, live anywhere else? “There are

a hundred gates,” said the witty Madame de Choisi to me, “which lead

into Paris, but only two roads out of it,--the convent, or (odious

word!) the grave.”

I hastened to Madame Balzac’s hotel. I was ushered through three

magnificent apartments into one which to my eyes seemed to contain a

throne: upon a nearer inspection I discovered it was a bed. Upon a large

chair, by a very bad fire--it was in the month of March--sat a tall,

handsome woman, excessively painted, and dressed in a manner which to my

taste, accustomed to English finery, seemed singularly plain. I had sent

in the morning to request permission to wait on her, so that she was

prepared for my visit. She rose, offered me her cheek, kissed mine, shed

several tears, and in short testified a great deal of kindness towards

me. Old ladies who have flirted with our fathers always seem to claim a

sort of property in the sons!

Before she resumed her seat she held me out at arm’s length.

“You have a family likeness to your brave father,” said she, with a

little disappointment; “but--”

“Madame de Balzac would add,” interrupted I, filling up the sentence

which I saw her _bienveillance_ had made her break off, “Madame de

Balzac would add that I am not so good-looking. It is true: the likeness

is transmitted to me within rather than without; and if I have not my

father’s privilege to be admired, I have at least his capacities to

admire,” and I bowed.

Madame de Balzac took three large pinches of snuff. “That is very

well said,” said she, gravely: “very well indeed! not at all like your

father, though, who never paid a compliment in his life. Your clothes,

by the by, are in exquisite taste: I had no idea that English people had

arrived at such perfection in the fine arts. Your face is a little too

long! You admire Racine, of course? How do you like Paris?”

All this was not said gayly or quickly: Madame de Balzac was by no

means a gay or a quick person. She belonged to a peculiar school of

Frenchwomen, who affected a little languor, a great deal of stiffness,

an indifference to forms when forms were to be used by themselves, and

an unrelaxing demand of forms when forms were to be observed to them

by others. Added to this, they talked plainly upon all matters, without

ever entering upon sentiment. This was the school she belonged to; but

she possessed the traits of the individual as well as of the species.

She was keen, ambitious, worldly, not unaffectionate nor unkind; very

proud, a little of the devotee,--because it was the fashion to be

so,--an enthusiastic admirer of military glory, and a most prying,

searching, intriguing schemer of politics without the slightest talent

for the science.

“Like Paris!” said I, answering only the last question, and that not

with the most scrupulous regard to truth. “Can Madame de Balzac think

of Paris, and not conceive the transport which must inspire a person

entering it for the first time? But I had something more endearing than

a stranger’s interest to attach me to it: I longed to express to my

father’s friend my gratitude for the interest which I venture to believe

she on one occasion manifested towards me.”

“Ah! you mean my caution to you against that terrible De Montreuil. Yes,

I trust I was of service to you _there_.”

And Madame de Balzac then proceeded to favour me with the whole history

of the manner in which she had obtained the letter she had sent me,

accompanied by a thousand anathemas against those _atroces Jesuites_ and

a thousand eulogies on her own genius and virtues. I brought her from

this subject so interesting to herself, as soon as decorum would allow

me; and I then made inquiry if she knew aught of Oswald or could suggest

any mode of obtaining intelligence respecting him. Madame de Balzac

hated plain, blunt, blank questions, and she always travelled through

a wilderness of parentheses before she answered them. But at last I did

ascertain her answer, and found it utterly unsatisfactory. She had never

seen nor heard anything of Oswald since he had left her charged with her

commission to me. I then questioned her respecting the character of the

man, and found Mr. Marie Oswald had little to plume himself upon in that

respect. He seemed, however, from her account of him, to be more a rogue

than a villain; and from two or three stories of his cowardice, which

Madame de Balzac related, he appeared to me utterly incapable of a

design so daring and systematic as that of which it pleased all persons

who troubled themselves about my affairs to suspect him.

Finding at last that no further information was to be gained on this

point, I turned the conversation to Montreuil. I found, from Madame de

Balzac’s very abuse of him, that he enjoyed a great reputation in the

country and a great favour at court. He had been early befriended by

Father la Chaise, and he was now especially trusted and esteemed by the

successor of that Jesuit Le Tellier,--Le Tellier, that rigid and bigoted

servant of Loyola, the sovereign of the king himself, the destroyer of

the Port Royal, and the mock and terror of the bedevilled and persecuted

Jansenists. Besides this, I learned what has been before pretty clearly

evident; namely, that Montreuil was greatly in the confidence of the

Chevalier, and that he was supposed already to have rendered essential

service to the Stuart cause. His reputation had increased with every

year, and was as great for private sanctity as for political talent.

When this information, given in a very different spirit from that in

which I retail it, was over, Madame de Balzac observed, “Doubtless you

will obtain a private audience with the king?”

“Is it possible, in his present age and infirmities?”

“It ought to be, to the son of the brave Marshal Devereux.”

“I shall be happy to receive Madame’s instructions how to obtain the

honour: her name would, I feel, be a greater passport to the royal

presence than that of a deceased soldier; and Venus’s cestus may obtain

that grace which would never be accorded to the truncheon of Mars!”

Was there ever so natural and so easy a compliment? My Venus of fifty

smiled.

“You are mistaken, Count,” said she; “I have no interest at court: the

Jesuits forbid that to a Jansenist, but I will speak this very day to

the Bishop of Frejus; he is related to me, and will obtain so slight a

boon for you with ease. He has just left his bishopric; you know how

he hated it. Nothing could be pleasanter than his signing himself, in a

letter to Cardinal Quirini, ‘Fleuri, Eveque de Frejus par l’indignation

divine.’ The King does not like him much; but he is a good man on the

whole, though jesuitical; he shall introduce you.”

I expressed my gratitude for the favour, and hinted that possibly the

relations of my father’s first wife, the haughty and ancient house of

La Tremouille, might save the Bishop of Frejus from the pain of exerting

himself on my behalf.

“You are very much mistaken,” answered Madame de Balzac: “priests point

the road to court as well as to Heaven; and warriors and nobles have as

little to do with the former as they have with the latter, the unlucky

Duc de Villars only excepted,--a man whose ill fortune is enough to

destroy all the laurels of France. _Ma foi_! I believe the poor Duke

might rival in luck that Italian poet who said, in a fit of despair,

that if he had been bred a hatter, men would have been born without

heads.”

And Madame de Balzac chuckled over this joke, till, seeing that

no further news was to be gleaned from her, I made my adieu and my

departure.

Nothing could exceed the kindness manifested towards me by my father’s

early connections. The circumstance of my accompanying Bolingbroke,

joined to my age, and an address which, if not animated nor gay, had not

been acquired without some youthful cultivation of the graces, gave me a

sort of _eclat_ as well as consideration. And Bolingbroke, who was only

jealous of superiors in power, and who had no equals in anything else,

added greatly to my reputation by his panegyrics.

Every one sought me; and the attention of society at Paris would, to

most, be worth a little trouble to repay. Perhaps, if I had liked it, I

might have been the rage; but that vanity was over. I contented myself

with being admitted into society as an observer, without a single wish

to become the observed. When one has once outlived the ambition of

fashion I know not a greater affliction than an over-attention; and the

Spectator did just what I should have done in a similar case, when he

left his lodgings “because he was asked every morning how he had slept.”

In the immediate vicinity of the court, the King’s devotion, age,

and misfortunes threw a damp over society; but there were still some

sparkling circles, who put the King out of the mode, and declared that

the defeats of his generals made capital subjects for epigrams. What a

delicate and subtle air did hang over those _soirees_, where all that

were bright and lovely, and noble and gay, and witty and wise, were

assembled in one brilliant cluster! Imperfect as my rehearsals must

be, I think the few pages I shall devote to a description of these

glittering conversations must still retain something of that original

piquancy which the _soirees_ of no other capital could rival or

appreciate.

One morning, about a week after my interview with Madame de Balzac,

I received a note from her requesting me to visit her that day, and

appointing the hour.

Accordingly I repaired to the house of the fair politician. I found her

with a man in a clerical garb, and of a benevolent and prepossessing

countenance. She introduced him to me as the Bishop of Frejus; and he

received me with an air very uncommon to his countrymen, namely, with an

ease that seemed to result from real good-nature, rather than artificial

grace.

“I shall feel,” said he, quietly, and without the least appearance of

paying a compliment, “very glad to mention your wish to his Majesty; and

I have not the least doubt but that he will admit to his presence one

who has such hereditary claims on his notice. Madame de Maintenon, by

the way, has charged me to present you to her whenever you will give me

the opportunity. She knew your admirable mother well, and for her sake

wishes once to see you. You know perhaps, Monsieur, that the extreme

retirement of her life renders this message from Madame de Maintenon an

unusual and rare honour.”

I expressed my thanks; the Bishop received them with a paternal rather

than a courtier-like air, and appointed a day for me to attend him to

the palace. We then conversed a short time upon indifferent matters,

which I observed the good Bishop took especial pains to preserve clear

from French politics. He asked me, however, two or three questions about

the state of parties in England,--about finance and the national debt,

about Ormond and Oxford; and appeared to give the most close attention

to my replies. He smiled once or twice, when his relation, Madame de

Balzac, broke out into sarcasms against the Jesuits, which had nothing

to do with the subjects in question.

“Ah, _ma chere cousine_,” said he: “you flatter me by showing that you

like me not as the politician, but the private relation,--not as the

Bishop of Frejus, but as Andre de Fleuri.”

Madame de Balzac smiled, and answered by a compliment. She was a

politician for the kingdom, it is true, but she was also a politician

for herself. She was far from exclaiming, with Pindar, “Thy business, O

my city, I prefer willingly to my own.” Ah, there is a nice distinction

between politics and policy, and Madame de Balzac knew it. The

distinction is this. Politics is the art of being wise for others:

policy is the art of being wise for one’s self.

From Madame de Balzac’s I went to Bolingbroke. “I have just been offered

the place of Secretary of State by the English king on this side of the

water,” said he; “I do not, however, yet like to commit myself so fully.

And, indeed, I am not unwilling to have a little relaxation of pleasure,

after all these dull and dusty travails of state. What say you to

Boulainvilliers to-night? you are asked?”

“Yes! all the wits are to be there,--Anthony Hamilton, and Fontenelle,

young Arouet, Chaulieu, that charming old man. Let us go, and polish

away the wrinkles of our hearts. What cosmetics are to the face wit

is to the temper; and, after all, there is no wisdom like that which

teaches us to forget.”

“Come then,” said Bolingbroke, rising, “we will lock up these papers,

and take a melancholy drive, in order that we may enjoy mirth the better

by and by.”

CHAPTER V.

A MEETING OF WITS.--CONVERSATION GONE OUT TO SUPPER IN HER DRESS OF

VELVET AND JEWELS.

BOULAINVILLIERS! Comte de St. Saire! What will our great-grandchildren

think of that name? Fame is indeed a riddle! At the time I refer to,

wit, learning, grace--all things that charm and enlighten--were supposed

to centre in one word,-_Boulainvilliers_! The good Count had many

rivals, it is true, but he had that exquisite tact peculiar to his

countrymen, of making the very reputations of those rivals contribute

to his own. And while he assembled them around him, the lustre of their

_bons mots_, though it emanated from themselves, was reflected upon him.

It was a pleasant though not a costly apartment in which we found

our host. The room was sufficiently full of people to allow scope and

variety to one group of talkers, without being full enough to permit

those little knots and _coteries_ which are the destruction of literary

society. An old man of about seventy, of a sharp, shrewd, yet polished

and courtly expression of countenance, of a great gayety of manner,

which was now and then rather displeasingly contrasted by an abrupt

affectation of dignity, that, however, rarely lasted above a minute,

and never withstood the shock of a _bon mot_, was the first person who

accosted us. This old man was the wreck of the once celebrated Anthony

Count Hamilton!

“Well, my Lord,” said he to Bolingbroke, “how do you like the weather

at Paris? It is a little better than the merciless air of London; is

it not? ‘Slife!--even in June one could not go open breasted in those

regions of cold and catarrh,--a very great misfortune, let me tell

you, my Lord, if one’s cambric happened to be of a very delicate and

brilliant texture, and one wished to penetrate the inward folds of a

lady’s heart, by developing to the best advantage the exterior folds

that covered his own.”

“It is the first time,” answered Bolingbroke, “that I ever heard so

accomplished a courtier as Count Hamilton repine, with sincerity, that

he could not bare his bosom to inspection.”

“Ah!” cried Boulainvilliers, “but vanity makes a man show much that

discretion would conceal.”

“_Au diable_ with your discretion!” said Hamilton, “‘tis a vulgar

virtue. Vanity is a truly aristocratic quality, and every way fitted to

a gentleman. Should I ever have been renowned for my exquisite lace and

web-like cambric, if I had not been vain? Never, _mon cher_! I should

have gone into a convent and worn sackcloth, and from _Count Antoine_ I

should have thickened into _Saint Anthony_.”

“Nay,” cried Lord Bolingbroke, “there is as much scope for vanity in

sackcloth as there is in cambric; for vanity is like the Irish ogling

master in the ‘Spectator,’ and if it teaches the play-house to ogle by

candle-light, it also teaches the church to ogle by day! But, pardon me,

Monsieur Chaulieu, how well you look! I see that the myrtle sheds its

verdure, not only over your poetry, but the poet. And it is right that,

to the modern Anacreon, who has bequeathed to Time a treasure it will

never forego, Time itself should be gentle in return.”

“Milord,” answered Chaulieu, an old man who, though considerably past

seventy, was animated, in appearance and manner, with a vivacity

and life that would have done honour to a youth,--“Milord, it was

beautifully said by the Emperor Julian that Justice retained the Graces

in her vestibule. I see, now, that he should have substituted the word

_Wisdom_ for that of Justice.”

“Come,” cried Anthony Hamilton, “this will never do: compliments are the

dullest things imaginable. For Heaven’s sake, let us leave panegyric to

blockheads, and say something bitter to one another, or we shall die of

_ennui_.”

“Right,” said Boulainvilliers; “let us pick out some poor devil to begin

with. Absent or present?--Decide which.”

“Oh, absent,” cried Chaulieu, “‘tis a thousand times more piquant to

slander than to rally! Let us commence with his Majesty: Count Devereux,

have you seen Madame Maintenon and her devout infant since your

arrival?”

“No! the priest must be petitioned before the miracle is made public.”

“What!” cried Chaulieu, “would you insinuate that his Majesty’s piety is

really nothing less than a miracle?”

“Impossible!” said Boulainvilliers, gravely,--“piety is as natural to

kings as flattery to their courtiers: are we not told that they are made

in God’s own image?”

“If that were true,” said Count Hamilton, somewhat profanely,--“if that

were true, I should no longer deny the impossibility of Atheism!”

“Fie, Count Hamilton,” said an old gentleman, in whom I recognized the

great Huet, “fie: wit should beware how it uses wings; its province is

earth, not Heaven.”

“Nobody can better tell what wit is _not_ than the learned Abbe Huet!”

answered Hamilton, with a mock air of respect.

“Pshaw!” cried Chaulieu, “I thought when we once gave the rein to satire

it would carry us _pele-mele_ against one another. But, in order to

sweeten that drop of lemon-juice for you, my dear Huet, let me turn to

Milord Bolingbroke, and ask him whether England can produce a scholar

equal to Peter Huet, who in twenty years wrote notes to sixty-two

volumes of Classics,* for the sake of a prince who never read a line in

one of them?”

* The Delphin Classics.

“We have some scholars,” answered Bolingbroke; “but we certainly have no

Huet. It is strange enough, but learning seems to me like a circle:

it grows weaker the more it spreads. We now see many people capable of

reading commentaries, but very few indeed capable of writing them.”

“True,” answered Huet; and in his reply he introduced the celebrated

illustration which is at this day mentioned among his most felicitous

_bons mots_. “Scholarship, formerly the most difficult and unaided

enterprise of Genius, has now been made, by the very toils of the first

mariners, but an easy and commonplace voyage of leisure. But who would

compare the great men, whose very difficulties not only proved their

ardour, but brought them the patience and the courage which alone are

the parents of a genuine triumph, to the indolent loiterers of the

present day, who, having little of difficulty to conquer, have nothing

of glory to attain? For my part, there seems to me the same difference

between a scholar of our days and one of the past as there is between

Christopher Columbus and the master of a packet-boat from Calais to

Dover!”

“But,” cried Anthony Hamilton, taking a pinch of snuff with the air of

a man about to utter a witty thing, “but what have we--we spirits of

the world, not imps of the closet,” and he glanced at Huet--“to do with

scholarship? All the waters of Castaly, which we want to pour into our

brain, are such as will flow the readiest to our tongue.”

“In short, then,” said I, “you would assert that all a friend cares for

in one’s head is the quantity of talk in it?”

“Precisely, my dear Count,” said Hamilton, seriously; “and to that maxim

I will add another applicable to the opposite sex. All that a mistress

cares for in one’s heart is the quantity of love in it.”

“What! are generosity, courage, honour, to go for nothing with our

mistress, then?” cried Chaulieu.

“No: for she will believe, if you are a passionate lover, that you have

all those virtues; and if not, she will never believe that you have

one.”

“Ah! it was a pretty court of love in which the friend and biographer of

Count Grammont learned the art!” said Bolingbroke.

“We believed so at the time, my Lord; but there are as many changes

in the fashion of making love as there are in that of making dresses.

Honour me, Count Devereux, by using my snuff-box and then looking at the

lid.”

“It is the picture of Charles the Second which adorns it; is it not?”

“No, Count Devereux, it is the diamonds which adorn it. His Majesty’s

face I thought very beautiful while he was living; but now, on my

conscience, I consider it the ugliest phiz I ever beheld. But I directed

your notice to the picture because we were talking of love; and Old

Rowley believed that he could make it better than any one else. All his

courtiers had the same opinion of themselves; and I dare say the _beaux

garcons_ of Queen Anne’s reign would say that not one of King Charley’s

gang knew what love was. Oh! ‘tis a strange circle of revolutions, that

love! Like the earth, it always changes, and yet always has the same

materials.”

“_L’amour, l’amour, toujours l’amour_, with Count Anthony Hamilton!”

said Boulainvilliers. “He is always on that subject; and, _sacre bleu_!

when he was younger, I am told he was like Cacus, the son of Vulcan, and

breathed nothing but flames.”

“You flatter me,” said Hamilton. “Solve me now a knotty riddle, my Lord

Bolingbroke. Why does a young man think it the greatest compliment to be

thought wise, while an old man thinks it the greatest compliment to be

told he has been foolish?”

“Is love foolish then?” said Lord Bolingbroke.

“Can you doubt it?” answered Hamilton; “it makes a man think more of

another than himself! I know not a greater proof of folly!”

“Ah! _mon aimable ami_,” cried Chaulieu; “you are the wickedest witty

person I know. I cannot help loving your language, while I hate your

sentiments.”

“My language is my own; my sentiments are those of all men,” answered

Hamilton: “but are we not, by the by, to have young Arouet here

to-night? What a charming person he is!”

“Yes,” said Boulainvilliers. “He said he should be late; and I

expect Fontenelle, too, but _he_ will not come before supper. I found

Fontenelle this morning conversing with my cook on the best manner of

dressing asparagus. I asked him the other day what writer, ancient or

modern, had ever given him the most sensible pleasure? After a little

pause, the excellent old man said, ‘Daphnus.’ ‘Daphnus!’ repeated

I, ‘who the devil is he?’ ‘Why,’ answered Fontenelle, with tears of

gratitude in his benevolent eyes, ‘I had some hypochondriacal ideas

that suppers were unwholesome; and Daphnus is an ancient physician, who

asserts the contrary; and declares,--think, my friend, what a charming

theory!--that the moon is a great assistant of the digestion!’”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the Abbe de Chaulieu. “How like Fontenelle! what

an anomalous creature ‘tis! He has the most kindness and the least

feeling of any man I ever knew. Let Hamilton find a pithier description

for him if he can!”

Whatever reply the friend of the _preux Grammont_ might have made was

prevented by the entrance of a young man of about twenty-one.

In person he was tall, slight, and very thin. There was a certain

affectation of polite address in his manner and mien which did not

quite become him; and though he was received by the old wits with great

cordiality, and on a footing of perfect equality, yet the inexpressible

air which denotes birth was both pretended to and wanting. This,

perhaps, was however owing to the ordinary inexperience of youth;

which, if not awkwardly bashful, is generally awkward in its assurance.

Whatever its cause, the impression vanished directly he entered into

conversation. I do not think I ever encountered a man so brilliantly,

yet so easily, witty. He had but little of the studied allusion, the

antithetical point, the classic metaphor, which chiefly characterize

the wits of my day. On the contrary, it was an exceeding and naive

simplicity, which gave such unrivalled charm and piquancy to his

conversation. And while I have not scrupled to stamp on my pages some

faint imitation of the peculiar dialogue of other eminent characters,

I must confess myself utterly unable to convey the smallest idea of his

method of making words irresistible. Contenting my efforts, therefore,

with describing his personal appearance,--interesting, because that

of the most striking literary character it has been my lot to meet,--I

shall omit his share in the remainder of the conversation I am

rehearsing, and beg the reader to recall that passage in Tacitus in

which the great historian says that, in the funeral of Junia, “the

images of Brutus and Cassius outshone all the rest, from the very

circumstance of their being the sole ones excluded from the rite.”

The countenance, then, of Marie Francois Arouet (since so celebrated

under the name of Voltaire) was plain in feature, but singularly

striking in effect; its vivacity was the very perfection of what Steele

once happily called “physiognomical eloquence.” His eyes were blue,

fiery rather than bright, and so restless that they never dwelt in the

same place for a moment:* his mouth was at once the worst and the most

peculiar feature of his face; it betokened humour, it is true; but it

also betrayed malignancy, nor did it ever smile without sarcasm. Though

flattering to those present, his words against the absent, uttered by

that bitter and curling lip, mingled with your pleasure at their wit

a little fear at their causticity. I believe no one, be he as bold, as

callous, or as faultless as human nature can be, could be one hour with

that man and not feel apprehension. Ridicule, so lavish, yet so true

to the mark; so wanton, yet so seemingly just; so bright, that while it

wandered round its target, in apparent though terrible playfulness, it

burned into the spot, and engraved there a brand, and a token indelible

and perpetual,--this no man could witness, when darted towards another,

and feel safe for himself. The very caprice and levity of the jester

seemed more perilous, because less to be calculated upon, than a

systematic principle of bitterness or satire. Bolingbroke compared him,

not unaptly, to a child who has possessed himself of Jupiter’s bolts,

and who makes use of those bolts in sport which a god would only have

used in wrath.

* The reader will remember that this is a description of Voltaire as a

very young man. I do not know anywhere a more impressive, almost a more

ghastly, contrast than that which the pictures of Voltaire, grown old,

present to Largilliere’s picture of him at the age of twenty-four; and

he was somewhat younger than twenty-four at the time of which the Count

now speaks.--ED.

Arouet’s forehead was not remarkable for height, but it was nobly and

grandly formed, and, contradicting that of the mouth, wore a benevolent

expression. Though so young, there was already a wrinkle on the surface

of the front, and a prominence on the eyebrow, which showed that the

wit and the fancy of his conversation were, if not regulated, at least

contrasted, by more thoughtful and lofty characteristics of mind. At the

time I write, this man has obtained a high throne among the powers of

the lettered world. What he may yet be, it is in vain to guess: he may

be all that is great and good, or--the reverse; but I cannot but believe

that his career is only begun. Such men are born monarchs of the mind;

they may be benefactors or tyrants: in either case, they are greater

than the kings of the physical empire, because they defy armies and

laugh at the intrigues of state. From themselves only come the balance

of their power, the laws of their government, and the boundaries

of their realm. We sat down to supper. “Count Hamilton,” said

Boulainvilliers, “are we not a merry set for such old fellows? Why,

excepting Arouet, Milord Bolingbroke, and Count Devereux, there is

scarcely one of us under seventy. Where but at Paris would you see _bons

vivans_ of our age? _Vivent la joie, la bagatelle, l’amour_!”

“_Et le vin de Champagne_!” cried Chaulieu, filling his glass; “but what

is there strange in our merriment? Philemon, the comic poet, laughed at

ninety-seven. May we all do the same!”

“You forget,” cried Bolingbroke, “that Philemon died of the laughing.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton; “but if I remember right, it was at seeing an ass

eat figs. Let us vow, therefore, never to keep company with asses!”

“Bravo, Count,” said Boulainvilliers, “you have put the true moral on

the story. Let us swear by the ghost of Philemon that we will never

laugh at an ass’s jokes,--practical or verbal.”

“Then we must always be serious, except when we are with each other,”

cried Chaulieu. “Oh, I would sooner take my chance of dying prematurely

at ninety-seven than consent to such a vow!”

“Fontenelle,” cried our host, “you are melancholy. What is the matter?”

“I mourn for the weakness of human nature,” answered Fontenelle, with an

air of patriarchal philanthropy. “I told your cook three times about the

asparagus; and now--taste it. I told him not to put too much sugar,

and he has put none. Thus it is with mankind,--ever in extremes,

and consequently ever in error. Thus it was that Luther said, so

felicitously and so truly, that the human mind was like a drunken

peasant on horseback: prop it on one side, and it falls on the other.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” cried Chaulieu. “Who would have thought one could have

found so much morality in a plate of asparagus! Taste this _salsifis_.”

“Pray, Hamilton,” said Huet, “what _jeu de mot_ was that you made

yesterday at Madame d’Epernonville’s which gained you such applause?”

“Ah, repeat it, Count,” cried Boulainvilliers; “‘t was the most

classical thing I have heard for a long time.”

“Why,” said Hamilton, laying down his knife and fork, and preparing

himself by a large draught of the champagne, “why, Madame d’Epernonville

appeared without her _tour_; you know, Lord Bolingbroke, that _tour_

is the polite name for false hair. ‘Ah, sacre!’ cried her brother,

courteously, ‘ma soeur, que vous etes laide aujourd’hui: vous n’avez pas

votre tour!’ ‘Voila pourquoi elle n’est pas si-belle (Cybele),’ answered

I.”

“Excellent! famous!” cried we all, except Huet, who seemed to regard

the punster with a very disrespectful eye. Hamilton saw it. “You do not

think, Monsieur Huet, that there is wit in these _jeux de mots_: perhaps

you do not admire wit at all?”

“Yes, I admire wit as I do the wind. When it shakes the trees it is

fine; when it cools the wave it is refreshing; when it steals over

flowers it is enchanting: but when, Monsieur Hamilton, it whistles

through the key-hole it is unpleasant.”

“The very worst illustration I ever heard,” said Hamilton, coolly. “Keep

to your classics, my dear Abbe. When Jupiter edited the work of Peter

Huet, he did with wit as Peter Huet did with Lucan when he edited

the classics: he was afraid it might do mischief, and so left it out

altogether.”

“Let us drink!” cried Chaulieu; “let us drink!” and the conversation was

turned again.

“What is that you say of Tacitus, Huet?” said Boulainvilliers.

“That his wisdom arose from his malignancy,” answered Huet. “He is

a perfect penetrator* into human vices, but knows nothing of human

virtues. Do you think that a good man would dwell so constantly on what

is evil? Believe me--no. A man cannot write much and well upon virtue

without being virtuous, nor enter minutely and profoundly into the

causes of vice without being vicious himself.”

* A remark similar to this the reader will probably remember in the

“Huetiana,” and will, I hope, agree with me in thinking it showy and

untrue.--ED.

“It is true,” said Hamilton; “and your remark, which affects to be so

deep, is but a natural corollary from the hackneyed maxim that from

experience comes wisdom.”

“But, for my part,” said Boulainvilliers, “I think Tacitus is not so

invariably the analyzer of vice as you would make him. Look at the

‘Agricola’ and the ‘Germania.’”

“Ah! the ‘Germany,’ above all things!” cried Hamilton, dropping a

delicious morsel of _sanglier_ in its way from hand to mouth, in his

hurry to speak. “Of course, the historian, Boulainvilliers,

advocates the ‘Germany,’ from its mention of the origin of the feudal

system,--that incomparable bundle of excellences, which Le Comte

de Boulainvilliers has declared to be _le chef d’oeuvre de l’esprit

humain_; and which the same gentleman regrets, in the most pathetic

terms, no longer exists in order that the seigneur may feed upon _des

gros morceaux de boeuf demi-cru_, may hang up half his peasants _pour

encourager les autres_, and ravish the daughters of the defunct _pour

leur donner quelque consolation._”

“Seriously though,” said the old Abbe de Chaulieu, with a twinkling eye,

“the last mentioned evil, my dear Hamilton, was not without a little

alloy of good.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “if it was only the daughters; but perhaps the

seigneur was not too scrupulous with regard to the wives.”

“Ah! shocking, shocking!” cried Chaulieu, solemnly. “Adultery is,

indeed, an atrocious crime. I am sure I would most conscientiously cry

out with the honest preacher, ‘Adultery, my children, is the blackest of

sins. I do declare that I would rather have _ten_ virgins in love with

me than _one_ married woman!’”

We all laughed at this enthusiastic burst of virtue from the chaste

Chaulieu. And Arouet turned our conversation towards the ecclesiastical

dissensions between Jesuits and Jansenists that then agitated the

kingdom. “Those priests,” said Bolingbroke, “remind me of the nurses of

Jupiter: they make a great clamour in order to drown the voice of their

God.”

“Bravissimo!” cried Hamilton. “Is it not a pity, Messieurs, that my Lord

Bolingbroke was not a Frenchman? He is almost clever enough to be one.”

“If he would drink a little more, he would be,” cried Chaulieu, who was

now setting us all a glorious example.

“What say you, Morton?” exclaimed Bolingbroke; “must we not drink these

gentlemen under the table for the honour of our country?”

“A challenge! a challenge!” cried Chaulieu. “I march first to the

field!”

“Conquest or death!” shouted Bolingbroke. And the rites of Minerva were

forsaken for those of Bacchus.

CHAPTER VI.

A COURT, COURTIERS, AND A KING.

I THINK it was the second day after this “feast of reason” that Lord

Bolingbroke deemed it advisable to retire to Lyons till his plans of

conduct were ripened into decision. We took an affectionate leave of

each other; but before we parted, and after he had discussed his own

projects of ambition, we talked a little upon mine. Although I was a

Catholic and a pupil of Montreuil, although I had fled from England

and had nothing to expect from the House of Hanover, I was by no means

favourably disposed towards the Chevalier and his cause. I wonder

if this avowal will seem odd to Englishmen of the next century!

To Englishmen of the present one, a Roman Catholic and a lover of

priestcraft and tyranny are two words for the same thing; as if we could

not murmur at tithes and taxes, insecurity of property or arbitrary

legislation, just as sourly as any other Christian community. No!

I never loved the cause of the Stuarts,--unfortunate, and therefore

interesting, as the Stuarts were; by a very stupid and yet uneffaceable

confusion of ideas, I confounded it with the cause of Montreuil, and

I hated the latter enough to dislike the former: I fancy all party

principles are formed much in the same manner. I frankly told

Bolingbroke my disinclination to the Chevalier.

“Between ourselves be it spoken,” said he, “there is but little to

induce a wise man in _your_ circumstances to join James the Third. I

would advise you rather to take advantage of your father’s reputation at

the French court, and enter into the same service he did. Things wear a

dark face in England for you, and a bright one everywhere else.”

“I have already,” said I, “in my own mind, perceived and weighed the

advantages of entering into the service of Louis. But he is old: he

cannot live long. People now pay court to parties, not to the king.

Which party, think you, is the best,--that of Madame de Maintenon?”

“Nay, I think not; she is a cold friend, and never asks favours of Louis

for any of her family. A bold game might be played by attaching yourself

to the Duchesse d’Orleans (the Duke’s mother). She is at daggers-drawn

with Maintenon, it is true, and she is a violent, haughty, and coarse

woman; but she has wit, talent, strength of mind, and will zealously

serve any person of high birth who pays her respect. But she can do

nothing for you till the king’s death, and then only on the chance of

her son’s power. But--let me see--you say Fleuri, the Bishop of Frejus,

is to introduce you to Madame de Maintenon?”

“Yes; and has appointed the day after to-morrow for that purpose.”

“Well, then, make close friends with him: you will not find it

difficult; he has a delightful address, and if you get hold of his

weak points you may win his confidence. Mark me: Fleuri has no

_faux-brillant_, no genius, indeed, of very prominent order; but he is

one of those soft and smooth minds which, in a crisis like the present,

when parties are contending and princes wrangling, always slip silently

and unobtrusively into one of the best places. Keep in with Frejus: you

cannot do wrong by it; although you must remember that at present he

is in ill odour with the king, and you need not go with _him twice_ to

Versailles. But, above all, when you are introduced to Louis, do

not forget that you cannot please him better than by appearing

awe-stricken.”

Such was Bolingbroke’s parting advice. The Bishop of Frejus carried

me with him (on the morning we had appointed) to Versailles. What a

magnificent work of royal imagination is that palace! I know not in any

epic a grander idea than terming the avenues which lead to it the roads

“to Spain, to Holland,” etc. In London, they would have been the roads

to Chelsea and Pentonville!

As we were driving slowly along in the Bishop’s carriage, I had ample

time for conversation with that personage, who has since, as the

Cardinal de Fleuri, risen to so high a pitch of power. He certainly has

in him very little of the great man; nor do I know anywhere so striking

an instance of this truth,--that in that game of honours which is played

at courts, we obtain success less by our talents than our tempers.

He laughed, with a graceful turn of _badinage_, at the political

peculiarities of Madame de Balzac; and said that it was not for the

uppermost party to feel resentment at the chafings of the under one.

Sliding from this topic, he then questioned me as to the gayeties I had

witnessed. I gave him a description of the party at Boulainvilliers’. He

seemed much interested in this, and showed more shrewdness than I should

have given him credit for in discussing the various characters of the

_literati_ of the day. After some general conversation on works of

fiction, he artfully glided into treating on those of statistics and

politics, and I then caught a sudden but thorough insight into the

depths of his policy. I saw that, while he affected to be indifferent to

the difficulties and puzzles of state, he lost no opportunity of

gaining every particle of information respecting them; and that he made

conversation, in which he was skilled, a vehicle for acquiring that

knowledge which he had not the force of mind to create from his own

intellect, or to work out from the written labours of others. If this

made him a superficial statesman, it made him a prompt one; and there

was never so lucky a minister with so little trouble to himself.*

* At his death appeared the following pnnning epigram:--

“_Floruit_ sine fructu;

_Defloruit_ sine luctu.”

“He flowered without fruit, and faded without regret.”--ED.

As we approached the end of our destination, we talked of the King. On

this subject he was jealously cautious. But I gleaned from him,

despite of his sagacity, that it was high time to make all use of one’s

acquaintance with Madame de Maintenon that one could be enabled to do;

and that it was so difficult to guess the exact places in which power

would rest after the death of the old King that supineness and silence

made at present the most profound policy.

As we alighted from the carriage and I first set my foot within the

palace, I could not but feel involuntarily yet powerfully impressed with

the sense of the spirit of the place. I was in the precincts of that

mighty court which had gathered into one dazzling focus all the rays of

genius which half a century had emitted,--the court at which time had

passed at once from the morn of civilization into its full noon

and glory,--the court of Conde and Turenne, of Villars and of

Tourville,--the court where, over the wit of Grammont, the profusion of

Fouquet, the fatal genius of Louvois (fatal to humanity and to France),

Love, real Love, had not disdained to shed its pathos and its truth, and

to consecrate the hollow pageantries of royal pomp, with the tenderness,

the beauty, and the repentance of La Valliere. Still over that scene

hung the spells of a genius which, if artificial and cold, was also

vast, stately, and magnificent,--a genius which had swelled in the

rich music of Racine, which had raised the nobler spirit and the freer

thought of Pierre Corneille,* which had given edge to the polished

weapon of Boileau, which had lavished over the bright page of

Moliere,--Moliere, more wonderful than all--a knowledge of the humours

and the hearts of men, which no dramatist, save Shakspeare, has

surpassed. Within those walls still glowed, though now waxing faint and

dim, the fame of that monarch who had enjoyed, at least till his later

day, the fortune of Augustus unsullied by the crimes of Octavius. Nine

times, since the sun of that monarch rose, had the Papal Chair received

a new occupant! Six sovereigns had reigned over the Ottoman hordes! The

fourth emperor since the birth of the same era bore sway over Germany!

Five czars, from Michael Romanoff to the Great Peter, had held, over

their enormous territory, the precarious tenure of their iron power!

Six kings had borne the painful cincture of the English crown;** two of

those kings had been fugitives to that court; to the son of the last it

was an asylum at that moment.

* Rigidly speaking, Corneille belongs to a period later than that

of Louis XIV., though he has been included in the era formed by that

reign.--ED.

** Besides Cromwell; namely, Charles I., Charles II., James II., William

and Mary, Anne, George I.

What wonderful changes had passed over the face of Europe during that

single reign! In England only, what a vast leap in the waste of events,

from the reign of the first Charles to that of George the First! I still

lingered, I still gazed, as these thoughts, linked to one another in

an electric chain, flashed over me! I still paused on the threshold of

those stately halls which Nature herself had been conquered to rear!

Where, through the whole earth, could I find so meet a symbol for the

character and the name which that sovereign would leave to posterity as

this palace itself afforded? A gorgeous monument of regal state raised

from a desert; crowded alike with empty pageantries and illustrious

names; a prodigy of elaborate artifice, grand in its whole effect, petty

in its small details; a solitary oblation to a splendid selfishness, and

most remarkable for the revenues which it exhausted and the poverty by

which it is surrounded!

Fleuri, with his usual urbanity--an urbanity that, on a great scale,

would have been benevolence--had hitherto indulged me in my emotions: he

now laid his hand upon my arm, and recalled me to myself. Before I could

apologize for my abstraction, the Bishop was accosted by an old man of

evident rank, but of a countenance more strikingly demonstrative of

the little cares of a mere courtier than any I ever beheld. “What news,

Monsieur le Marquis?” said Fleuri, smiling.

“Oh! the greatest imaginable! the King talks of receiving the Danish

minister on _Thursday_, which, you know, is his day of _domestic

business_! What _can_ this portend? Besides,” and here the speaker’s

voice lowered into a whisper, “I am told by the Duc de la Rochefoucauld

that the king intends, out of all ordinary rule and practice, to take

physic to-morrow: I can’t believe it; no, I positively can’t; but don’t

let this go further!”

“Heaven forbid!” answered Fleuri, bowing, and the courtier passed on to

whisper his intelligence to others. “Who’s that gentleman?” I asked.

“The Marquis de Dangeau,” answered Fleuri; “a nobleman of great quality,

who keeps a diary of all the king says and does. It will perhaps be

a posthumous publication, and will show the world of what importance

nothings can be made. I dare say, Count, you have already, in England,

seen enough of a court to know that there are some people who are as

human echoes, and have no existence except in the noise occasioned by

another.”

I took care that my answer should not be a witticism, lest Fleuri should

think I was attempting to rival him; and so we passed on in an excellent

humour with each other.

We mounted the grand staircase, and came to an ante-chamber, which,

though costly and rich, was not remarkably conspicuous for splendour.

Here the Bishop requested me to wait for a moment. Accordingly, I amused

myself with looking over some engravings of different saints. Meanwhile,

my companion passed through another door, and I was alone.

After an absence of nearly ten minutes, he returned. “Madame de

Maintenon,” said he in a whisper, “is but poorly to-day. However, she

has eagerly consented to see you; follow me!”

So saying, the ecclesiastical courtier passed on, with myself at

his heels. We came to the door of a second chamber, at which Fleuri

_scraped_ gently. We were admitted, and found therein three ladies, one

of whom was reading, a second laughing, and a third yawning, and entered

into another chamber, where, alone and seated by the window in a large

chair, with one foot on a stool, in an attitude that rather reminded

me of my mother, and which seems to me a favourite position with all

devotees, we found an old woman without _rouge_, plainly dressed, with

spectacles on her nose and a large book on a little table before her.

With a most profound salutation, Frejus approached, and taking me by the

hand, said,--

“Will Madame suffer me to present to her the Count Devereux?”

Madame de Maintenon, with an air of great meekness and humility, bowed

a return to the salutation. “The son of Madame la Marechale de Devereux

will always be most welcome to me!” Then, turning towards us, she

pointed to two stools, and, while we were seating ourselves, said,--

“And how did you leave my excellent friend?”

“When, Madame, I last saw my mother, which is now nearly a year ago, she

was in health, and consoling herself for the advance of years by

that tendency to wean the thoughts from this world which (in her own

language) is the divinest comfort of old age!”

“Admirable woman!” said Madame de Maintenon, casting down her eyes;

“such are indeed the sentiments in which I recognize the Marechale. And

how does her beauty wear? Those golden locks, and blue eyes, and that

snowy skin, are not yet, I suppose, wholly changed for an adequate

compensation of the beauties within?”

“Time, Madame, has been gentle with her; and I have often thought,

though never perhaps more strongly than at this moment, that there is in

those divine studies, which bring calm and light to the mind, something

which preserves and embalms, as it were, the beauty of the body.”

A faint blush passed over the face of the devotee. No, no,--not even at

eighty years of age is a compliment to a woman’s beauty misplaced! There

was a slight pause. I thought that respect forbade me to break it.

“His Majesty,” said the Bishop, in the tone of one who is sensible that

he encroaches a little, and does it with consequent reverence, “his

Majesty, I hope, is well?”

“God be thanked, yes, as well as we can expect. It is now nearly the

hour in which his Majesty awaits your personal inquiries.”

Fleuri bowed as he answered,--

“The King, then, will receive us to-day? My young companion is very

desirous to see the greatest monarch, and, consequently, the greatest

man, of the age.”

“The desire is natural,” said Madame de Maintenon; and then, turning to

me, she asked if I had yet seen King James the Third.

I took care, in my answer, to express that even if I had resolved to

make that stay in Paris which allowed me to pay my respects to him at

all, I should have deemed that both duty and inclination led me, in the

first instance, to offer my homage to one who was both the benefactor of

my father and the monarch whose realms afforded me protection.

“You have not, then,” said Madame de Maintenon, “decided on the length

of your stay in France?”

“No,” said I,--and my answer was regulated by my desire to see how far I

might rely on the services of one who expressed herself so warm a friend

of that excellent woman, Madame la Marechale,--“no, Madame. France is

the country of my birth, if England is that of my parentage; and could

I hope for some portion of that royal favour which my father enjoyed,

I would rather claim it as the home of my hopes than the refuge of my

exile. But”--and I stopped short purposely.

The old lady looked at me very earnestly through her spectacles for

one moment, and then, hemming twice with a little embarrassment, again

remarked to the Bishop that the time for seeing the King was nearly

arrived. Fleuri, whose policy at that period was very like that of the

concealed Queen, and who was, besides, far from desirous of introducing

any new claimants on Madame de Maintenon’s official favour, though he

might not object to introduce them to a private friend, was not slow in

taking the hint. He rose, and I was forced to follow his example.

Madame de Maintenon thought she might safely indulge in a little

cordiality when I was just on the point of leaving her, and accordingly

blessed me, and gave me her hand, which I kissed very devoutly. An

extremely pretty hand it was, too, notwithstanding the good Queen’s

age. We then retired, and, repassing the three ladies, who were now all

yawning, repaired to the King’s apartments.

“What think you of Madame?” asked Fleuri.

“What can I think of her,” said I, cautiously, “but that greatness seems

in her to take its noblest form,--that of simplicity?”

“True,” rejoined Fleuri; “never was there so meek a mind joined to so

lowly a carriage! Do you remark any trace of former beauty?”

“Yes, indeed, there is much that is soft in her countenance, and much

that is still regular in her features; but what struck me most was the

pensive and even sad tranquillity that rests upon her face when she is

silent.”

“The expression betrays the mind,” answered Fleuri; “and the curse of

the great is _ennui_.”

“Of the great in station,” said I, “but not necessarily of the great in

mind. I have heard that the Bishop of Frejus, notwithstanding his

rank and celebrity, employs every hour to the advantage of others, and

consequently without tedium to himself.”

“Aha!” said Fleuri, smiling gently and patting my cheek: “see now if

the air of palaces is not absolutely prolific of pretty speeches.” And,

before I could answer, we were in the apartments of the King.

Leaving me a while to cool my heels in a gallery, filled with the

butterflies who bask in the royal sunshine, Frejus then disappeared

among the crowd; he was scarcely gone when I was agreeably surprised by

seeing Count Hamilton approach towards me.

“_Mort diable_!” said he, shaking me by the hand _a l’Anglaise_; “I am

really delighted to see any one here who does not insult my sins with

his superior excellence. Eh, now, look round this apartment for a

moment! Whether would you believe yourself at the court of a great

king or the _levee_ of a Roman cardinal! Whom see you chiefly? Gallant

soldiers, with worn brows and glittering weeds? wise statesmen with ruin

to Austria and defiance to Rome in every wrinkle? gay nobles in costly

robes, and with the bearing that so nicely teaches mirth to be dignified

and dignity to be merry? No! cassock and hat, rosary and gown, decking

sly, demure, hypocritical faces, flit, and stalk, and sadden round us.

It seems to me,” continued the witty Count, in a lower whisper, “as if

the old king, having fairly buried his glory at Ramilies and Blenheim,

had summoned all these good gentry to sing psalms over it! But are you

waiting for a private audience?”

“Yes, under the auspices of the Bishop of Frejus.”

“You might have chosen a better guide: the King has been too much teased

about him,” rejoined Hamilton; “and now that we are talking of him, I

will show you a singular instance of what good manners can do at court

in preference to good abilities. You observe yon quiet, modest-looking

man, with a sensible countenance and a clerical garb; you observe how

he edges away when any one approaches to accost him; and how, from his

extreme disesteem of himself, he seems to inspire every one with the

same sentiment. Well, that man is a namesake of Fleuri, the Prior

of Argenteuil; he has come here, I suppose, for some particular and

temporary purpose, since, in reality, he has left the court. Well,

that worthy priest--do remark his bow; did you ever see anything so

awkward?--is one of the most learned divines that the Church can boast

of; he is as immeasurably superior to the smooth-faced Bishop of Frejus

as Louis the Fourteenth is to my old friend Charles the Second. He has

had equal opportunities with the said Bishop; been preceptor to the

princes of Conti and the Count de Vermandois; and yet I will wager

that he lives and dies a tutor, a bookworm--and a prior; while t’ other

Fleuri, without a particle of merit but of the most superficial order,

governs already kings through their mistresses, kingdoms through the

kings, and may, for aught I know, expand into a prime minister and ripen

into a cardinal.”

“Nay,” said I, smiling, “there is little chance of so exalted a lot for

the worthy Bishop.”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Hamilton, “I am an old courtier, and look

steadily on the game I no longer play. Suppleness, united with art, may

do anything in a court like this; and the smooth and unelevated craft

of a Fleuri may win even to the same height as the deep wiles of the

glittering Mazarin, or the superb genius of the imperious Richelieu.”

“Hist!” said I, “the Bishop has reappeared. Who is that old priest with

a fine countenance and an address that will, at least, please you better

than that of the Prior of Argenteuil, who has just stopped our episcopal

courtier?”

“What! do you not know? It is the most celebrated preacher of the

day,--the great Massillon. It is said that that handsome person goes

a great way towards winning converts among the court ladies; it is

certain, at least, that when Massillon first entered the profession he

was to the soul something like the spear of Achilles to the body; and,

though very efficacious in healing the wounds of conscience, was equally

ready in the first instance to inflict them.”

“Ah,” said I, “see the malice of wit; and see, above all, how much

more ready one is to mention a man’s frailties than to enlarge upon his

virtues.”

“To be sure,” answered Hamilton, coolly, and patting his snuff-box, “to

be sure, we old people like history better than fiction; and frailty is

certain, while virtue is always doubtful.”

“Don’t judge of all people,” said I, “by your experience among the

courtiers of Charles the Second.”

“Right,” said Hamilton. “Providence never assembled so many rascals

together before without hanging them. And he would indeed be a bad judge

of human nature who estimated the characters of men in general by the

heroes of Newgate and the victims of Tyburn. But your Bishop approaches.

Adieu!”

“What!” said Fleuri, joining me and saluting Hamilton, who had just

turned to depart, “what, Count Antoine! Does anything but whim bring you

here to-day?”

“No,” answered Hamilton; “I am only here for the same purpose as the

poor go to the temples of Caitan,--_to inhale the steam of those good

things which I see the priests devour_.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the good-natured Bishop, not in the least

disconcerted; and Count Hamilton, congratulating himself on his _bon

mot_, turned away.

“I have spoken to his Most Christian Majesty,” said the Bishop; “he is

willing, as he before ordained, to admit you to his presence. The Duc de

Maine is with the King, as also some other members of the royal family;

but you will consider this a private audience.”

I expressed my gratitude: we moved on; the doors of an apartment were

thrown open; and I saw myself in the presence of Louis XIV.

The room was partially darkened. In the centre of it, on a large sofa,

reclined the King; he was dressed (though this, if I may so speak,

I rather remembered than noted) in a coat of black velvet, slightly

embroidered; his vest was of white satin; he wore no jewels nor orders,

for it was only on grand or gala days that he displayed personal pomp.

At some little distance from him stood three members of the royal

family; them I never regarded: all my attention was bent upon the King.

My temperament is not that on which greatness, or indeed any external

circumstances, make much impression; but as, following at a little

distance the Bishop of Frejus, I approached the royal person, I must

confess that Bolingbroke had scarcely need to have cautioned me not to

appear too self-possessed. Perhaps, had I seen that great monarch in his

_beaux jours_; in the plenitude of his power, his glory, the dazzling

and meridian splendour of his person, his court, and his renown,--pride

might have made me more on my guard against too deep, or at least too

apparent, an impression; but the many reverses of that magnificent

sovereign,--reverses in which he had shown himself more great than in

all his previous triumphs and early successes; his age, his infirmities,

the very clouds round the setting sun, the very howls of joy at the

expiring lion,--all were calculated, in my mind, to deepen respect into

reverence, and tincture reverence itself with awe. I saw before me not

only the majesty of Louis le Grand, but that of misfortune, of weakness,

of infirmity, and of age; and I forgot at once, in that reflection, what

otherwise would have blunted my sentiments of deference, namely, the

crimes of his ministers and the exactions of his reign. Endeavouring to

collect my mind from an embarrassment which surprised myself, I lifted

my eyes towards the King, and saw a countenance where the trace of the

superb beauty for which his manhood had been celebrated still lingered,

broken, not destroyed, and borrowing a dignity even more imposing

from the marks of encroaching years and from the evident exhaustion of

suffering and disease.

Fleuri said, in a low tone, something which my ear did not catch. There

was a pause,--only a moment’s pause; and then, in a voice, the music

of which I had hitherto deemed exaggerated, the King spoke; and in that

voice there was something so kind and encouraging that I felt reassured

at once. Perhaps its tone was not the less conciliating from the evident

effect which the royal presence had produced upon me.

“You have given us, Count Devereux,” said the King, “a pleasure which

we are glad, in person, to acknowledge to you. And it has seemed to us

fitting that the country in which your brave father acquired his fame

should also be the asylum of his son.”

“Sire,” answered I, “Sire, it shall not be my fault if that country is

not henceforth my own; and in inheriting my father’s name, I inherit

also his gratitude and his ambition.”

“It is well said, Sir,” said the King; and I once more raised my eyes,

and perceived that his were bent upon me. “It is well said,” he repeated

after a short pause; “and in granting to you this audience, we were

not unwilling to hope that you were desirous to attach yourself to our

court. The times do not require” (here I thought the old King’s voice

was not so firm as before) “the manifestation of your zeal in the same

career as that in which your father gained laurels to France and to

himself. But we will not neglect to find employment for your abilities,

if not for your sword.”

“That sword which was given to me, Sire,” said I, “by your Majesty,

shall be ever drawn (against all nations but one) at your command; and,

in being your Majesty’s petitioner for future favours, I only seek some

channel through which to evince my gratitude for the past.”

“We do not doubt,” said Louis, “that whatever be the number of the

ungrateful we may make by testifying our good pleasure on your behalf,

_you_ will not be among the number.” The King here made a slight but

courteous inclination and turned round. The observant Bishop of Frejus,

who had retired to a little distance and who knew that the King never

liked talking more than he could help it, gave me a signal. I obeyed,

and backed, with all due deference, out of the royal presence.

So closed my interview with Louis XIV. Although his Majesty did not

indulge in prolixity, I spoke of him for a long time afterwards as the

most eloquent of men. Believe me, there is no orator like a king; one

word from a royal mouth stirs the heart more than Demosthenes could have

done. There was a deep moral in that custom of the ancients, by which

the Goddess of Persuasion was always represented _with a diadem on her

head_.

CHAPTER VII.

REFLECTIONS.--A SOIREE.--THE APPEARANCE OF ONE IMPORTANT IN THE

HISTORY.--A CONVERSATION WITH MADAME DE BALZAC HIGHLY SATISFACTORY AND

CHEERING.--A RENCONTRE WITH A CURIOUS OLD SOLDIER.--THE EXTINCTION OF A

ONCE GREAT LUMINARY.

I HAD now been several weeks at Paris; I had neither eagerly sought

nor sedulously avoided its gayeties. It is not that one violent sorrow

leaves us without power of enjoyment; it only lessens the power, and

deadens the enjoyment: it does not take away from us the objects of

life; it only forestalls the more indifferent calmness of age. The blood

no longer flows in an irregular but delicious course of vivid and wild

emotion; the step no longer spurns the earth; nor does the ambition

wander, insatiable, yet undefined, over the million paths of existence:

but we lose not our old capacities; they are quieted, not extinct. The

heart can never utterly and long be dormant: trifles may not charm it

any more, nor levities delight; but its pulse has not yet ceased to

beat. We survey the scene that moves around, with a gaze no longer

distracted by every hope that flutters by; and it is therefore that we

find ourselves more calculated than before for the graver occupations

of our race. The overflowing temperament is checked to its proper level,

the ambition bounded to its prudent and lawful goal. The earth is no

longer so green, nor the heaven so blue, nor the fancy that stirs within

us so rich in its creations; but we look more narrowly on the living

crowd, and more rationally on the aims of men. The misfortune which

has changed us has only adapted us the better to a climate in which

misfortune is a portion of the air. The grief that has thralled our

spirit to a more narrow and dark cell has also been a change that has

linked us to mankind with a strength of which we dreamed not in the day

of a wilder freedom and more luxuriant aspirings. In later life, a new

spirit, partaking of that which was our earliest, returns to us. The

solitude which delighted us in youth, but which, when the thoughts that

make solitude a fairy land are darkened by affliction, becomes a fearful

and sombre void, resumes its old spell, as the more morbid and urgent

memory of that affliction crumbles away by time. Content is a hermit;

but so also is Apathy. Youth loves the solitary couch, which it

surrounds with dreams. Age, or Experience (which is the mind’s age),

loves the same couch for the rest which it affords; but the wide

interval between is that of exertion, of labour, and of labour among

men. The woe which makes our _hearts_ less social, often makes our

_habits_ more so. The thoughts, which in calm would have shunned the

world, are driven upon it by the tempest, even as the birds which

forsake the habitable land can, so long as the wind sleeps and the

thunder rests within its cloud, become the constant and solitary

brooders over the waste sea: but the moment the storm awakes and the

blast pursues them, they fly, by an overpowering instinct, to some

wandering bark, some vestige of human and social life; and exchange,

even for danger from the hands of men, the desert of an angry Heaven and

the solitude of a storm.

I heard no more either of Madame de Maintenon or the King. Meanwhile, my

flight and friendship with Lord Bolingbroke had given me a consequence

in the eyes of the exiled Prince which I should not otherwise have

enjoyed; and I was honoured by very flattering overtures to enter

actively into his service. I have before said that I felt no enthusiasm

in his cause, and I was far from feeling it for his person. My ambition

rather directed its hope towards a career in the service of France.

France was the country of my birth, and the country of my father’s fame.

There no withering remembrances awaited me; no private regrets were

associated with its scenes, and no public penalties with its political

institutions. And although I had not yet received any token of Louis’s

remembrance, in the ordinary routine of court favours expectation as yet

would have been premature; besides, his royal fidelity to his word was

proverbial; and, sooner or later, I indulged the hope to profit by the

sort of promise he had insinuated to me. I declined, therefore, with all

due respect, the offers of the Chevalier, and continued to live the life

of idleness and expectation, until Lord Bolingbroke returned to Paris,

and accepted the office of secretary of state in the service of the

Chevalier. As he has publicly declared his reasons in this step, I do

not mean to favour the world with his private conversations on the same

subject.

A day or two after his return, I went with him to a party given by

a member of the royal family. The first person by whom we were

accosted--and I rejoiced at it, for we could not have been accosted by a

more amusing one--was Count Anthony Hamilton.

“Ah! my Lord Bolingbroke,” said he, sauntering up to us; “how are

you?--delighted to see you again. Do look at Madame la Duchesse

d’Orleans! Saw you ever such a creature? Whither are you moving, my

Lord? Ah! see him, Count, see him, gliding off to that pretty duchess,

of course; well, he has a beautiful bow, it must be owned; why, you are

not going too?--what would the world say if Count Anthony Hamilton were

seen left to himself? No, no, come and sit down by Madame de Cornuel:

she longs to be introduced to you, and is one of the wittiest women in

Europe.”

“With all my heart! provided she employs her wit ill-naturedly, and uses

it in ridiculing other people, not praising herself.”

“Oh! nobody can be more satirical; indeed, what difference is there

between wit and satire? Come, Count!”

And Hamilton introduced me forthwith to Madame de Cornuel. She received

me very politely; and, turning to two or three people who formed the

circle round her, said, with the greatest composure, “Messieurs, oblige

me by seeking some other object of attraction; I wish to have a private

conference with my new friend.”

“I may stay?” said Hamilton.

“Ah! certainly; you are never in the way.”

“In that respect, Madame,” said Hamilton, taking snuff, and bowing very

low, “in that respect, I must strongly remind you of your excellent

husband.”

“Fie!” cried Madame de Cornuel; then, turning to me, she said, “Ah!

Monsieur, if you _could_ have come to Paris some years ago, you would

have been enchanted with us: we are sadly changed. Imagine the fine old

King thinking it wicked not to hear plays, but to hear _players_ act

them, and so making the royal family a company of comedians. _Mon

Dieu!_ how villanously they perform! but do you know why I wished to be

introduced to you?”

“Yes! in order to have a new listener: old listeners must be almost as

tedious as old news.”

“Very shrewdly said, and not far from the truth. The fact is, that I

wanted to talk about all these fine people present to some one for whose

ear my anecdotes would have the charm of novelty. Let us begin with

Louis Armand, Prince of Conti; you see him.”

“What, that short-sighted, stout, and rather handsome man, with a

cast of countenance somewhat like the pictures of Henri Quatre, who is

laughing so merrily?”

“_O Ciel_! how droll! No! that handsome man is no less a person than

the Duc d’Orleans. You see a little ugly thing like an anatomized

ape,--there, see,--he has just thrown down a chair, and, in stooping

to pick it up, has almost fallen over the Dutch ambassadress,--that is

Louis Armand, Prince of Conti. Do you know what the Duc d’Orleans said

to him the other day? ‘_Mon bon ami_,’ he said, pointing to the prince’s

limbs (did you ever see such limbs out of a menagerie, by the by?) ‘_mon

bon ami_, it is a fine thing for you that the Psalmist has assured us

“that the Lord delighteth not in any man’s legs.”’ Nay, don’t laugh, it

is quite true!”

It was now for Count Hamilton to take up the ball of satire; he was not

a whit more merciful than the kind Madame de Cornuel. “The Prince,” said

he, “has so exquisite an awkwardness that, whenever the King hears a

noise, and inquires the cause, the invariable answer is that ‘the Prince

of Conti has just tumbled down’! But, tell me, what do you think of

Madame d’Aumont? She is in the English headdress, and looks _triste a la

mort_.”

“She is rather pretty, to my taste.”

“Yes,” cried Madame de Cornuel, interrupting the gentle Antoine (it did

one’s heart good to see how strenuously each of them tried to talk more

scandal than the other), “yes, she is thought very pretty; but I think

her very like a _fricandeau_,--white, soft, and insipid. She is always

in tears,” added the good-natured Cornuel, “after her prayers, both at

morning and evening. I asked why; and she answered, pretty simpleton,

that she was always forced to pray to be made good, and she feared

Heaven would take her at her word! However, she has many worshippers,

and they call her the evening star.”

“They should rather call her the Hyades!” said Hamilton, “if it be true

that she sheds tears every morning and night, and her rising and setting

are thus always attended by rain.”

“Bravo, Count Antoine! she shall be so called in future,” said Madame de

Cornuel. “But now, Monsieur Devereux, turn your eyes to that hideous old

woman.”

“What! the Duchesse d’Orleans?”

“The same. She is in full dress to-night; but in the daytime you

generally see her in a riding habit and a man’s wig; she is--”

“Hist!” interrupted Hamilton; “do you not tremble to think what she

would do if she overheard you? she is such a terrible creature at

fighting! You have no conception, Count, what an arm she has. She knows

her ugliness, and laughs at it, as all the rest of the world does. The

King took her hand one day, and said smiling, ‘What could Nature have

meant when she gave this hand to a German princess instead of a Dutch

peasant?’ ‘Sire,’ said the Duchesse, very gravely, ‘Nature gave this

hand to a German princess for the purpose of boxing the ears of her

ladies in waiting!’”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said Madame de Cornuel, laughing; “one is never at a loss

for jokes upon a woman who eats _salade au lard_, and declares that,

whenever she is unhappy, her only consolation is ham and sausages! Her

son treats her with the greatest respect, and consults her in all his

amours, for which she professes the greatest horror, and which she

retails to her correspondents all over the world, in letters as long as

her pedigree. But you are looking at her son, is he not of a good mien?”

“Yes, pretty well; but does not exhibit to advantage by the side of

Lord Bolingbroke, with whom he is now talking. Pray, who is the third

personage that has just joined them?”

“Oh, the wretch! it is the Abbe Dubois; a living proof of the folly of

the French proverb, which says that Mercuries should _not_ be made _du

bois_. Never was there a Mercury equal to the Abbe,--but, do look at

that old man to the left,--he is one of the most remarkable persons of

the age.”

“What! he with the small features, and comely countenance, considering

his years?”

“The same,” said Hamilton; “it is the notorious Choisi. You know that he

is the modern Tiresias, and has been a woman as well as man.”

“How do you mean?”

“Ah, you may well ask!” cried Madame de Cornuel. “Why, he lived for

many years in the disguise of a woman, and had all sorts of curious

adventures.”

“_Mort Diable_!” cried Hamilton; “it was entering your ranks, Madame, as

a spy. I hear he makes but a sorry report of what he saw there.”

“Come, Count Antoine,” cried the lively de Cornuel, “we must not turn

our weapons against each other; and when you attack a woman’s sex you

attack her individually. But what makes you look so intently, Count

Devereux, at that ugly priest?”

The person thus flatteringly designated was Montreuil; he had just

caught my eye, among a group of men who were conversing eagerly.

“Hush! Madame,” said I, “spare me for a moment;” and I rose, and mingled

with the Abbe’s companions.

“So, you have only arrived to-day,” I heard one of them say to him.

“No, I could not despatch my business before.”

“And how are matters in England?”

“Ripe! if the life of his Majesty (of France) be spared a year longer,

we will send the Elector of Hanover back to his principality.”

“Hist!” said the companion, and looked towards me. Montreuil ceased

abruptly: our eyes met; his fell. I affected to look among the group as

if I had expected to find there some one I knew, and then, turning away,

I seated myself alone and apart. There, unobserved, I kept my looks on

Montreuil. I remarked that, from time to time, his keen dark eye glanced

towards me, with a look rather expressive of vigilance than anything

else. Soon afterwards his little knot dispersed; I saw him converse for

a few moments with Dubois, who received him I thought distantly; and

then he was engaged in a long conference with the Bishop of Frejus,

whom, till then, I had not perceived among the crowd.

As I was loitering on the staircase, where I saw Montreuil depart with

the Bishop, in the carriage of the latter, Hamilton, accosting me,

insisted on my accompanying him to Chaulieu’s, where a late supper

awaited the sons of wine and wit. However, to the good Count’s great

astonishment, I preferred solitude and reflection, for that night, to

anything else.

Montreuil’s visit to the French capital boded me no good. He possessed

great influence with Fleuri, and was in high esteem with Madame de

Maintenon, and, in effect, very shortly after his return to Paris, the

Bishop of Frejus looked upon me with a most cool sort of benignancy; and

Madame de Maintenon told her friend, the Duchesse de St. Simon, that

it was a great pity a young nobleman of my birth and prepossessing

appearance (ay! my prepossessing appearance would never have occurred to

the devotee, if I had not seemed so sensible of her own) should not

only be addicted to the wildest dissipation, but, worse still, to

Jansenistical tenets. After this there was no hope for me save in the

King’s word, which his increasing infirmities, naturally engrossing his

attention, prevented my hoping too sanguinely would dwell very acutely

on his remembrance. I believe, however, so religiously scrupulous was

Louis upon a point of honour that, had he lived, I should have

had nothing to complain of. As it was--but I anticipate! Montreuil

disappeared from Paris, almost as suddenly as he had appeared there.

And, as drowning men catch at a straw, so, finding my affairs at a very

low ebb, I thought I would take advice, even from Madame de Balzac.

I accordingly repaired to her hotel. She was at home, and, fortunately,

alone.

“You are welcome, _mon fils_,” said she; “suffer me to give you that

title: you are welcome; it is some days since I saw you.”

“I have numbered them, I assure you, Madame,” said I, “and they have

crept with a dull pace; but you know that business has claims as well as

pleasure!”

“True!” said Madame de Balzac, pompously: “I myself find the weight of

politics a little insupportable, though so used to it; to your young

brain I can readily imagine how irksome it must be!”

“Would, Madame, that I could obtain your experience by contagion; as

it is, I fear that I have profited little by my visit to his Majesty.

Madame de Maintenon will not see me, and the Bishop of Frejus (excellent

man!) has been seized with a sudden paralysis of memory whenever I

present myself in his way.”

“That party will never do,--I thought not,” said Madame de Balzae, who

was a wonderful imitator of the fly on the wheel; “_my_ celebrity, and

the knowledge that _I_ loved you for your father’s sake, were, I fear,

sufficient to destroy your interest with the Jesuits and their tools.

Well, well, we must repair the mischief we have occasioned you. What

place would suit you best?”

“Why, anything diplomatic. I would rather travel, at my age, than remain

in luxury and indolence even at Paris!”

“Ah, nothing like diplomacy!” said Madame de Balzac, with the air of a

Richelieu, and emptying her snuff-box at a pinch; “but have you, my son,

the requisite qualities for that science, as well as the tastes? Are

you capable of intrigue? Can you say one thing and mean another? Are you

aware of the immense consequence of a look or a bow? Can you live like

a spider, in the centre of an inexplicable net--inexplicable as well as

dangerous--to all but the weaver? That, my son, is the art of politics;

that is to be a diplomatist!”

“Perhaps, to one less penetrating than Madame de Balzac,” answered I, “I

might, upon trial, not appear utterly ignorant of the noble art of state

duplicity which she has so eloquently depicted.”

“Possibly!” said the good lady; “it must indeed be a profound

dissimulator to deceive _me_.”

“But what would you advise me to do in the present crisis? What party to

adopt, what individual to flatter?”

Nothing, I already discovered and have already observed, did the

inestimable Madame de Balzac dislike more than a downright question: she

never answered it.

“Why, really,” said she, preparing herself for a long speech, “I am

quite glad you consult me, and I will give you the best advice in my

power. _Ecoutez donc_; you have seen the Duc de Maine?”

“Certainly!”

“Hum! ha! it would be wise to follow him; but--you take me--you

understand. Then, you know, my son, there is the Duc d’Orleans, fond of

pleasure, full of talent; but you know--there is a little--what do

you call it? you understand. As for the Duc de Bourbon, ‘tis quite a

simpleton; nevertheless we must consider: nothing like consideration;

believe me, no diplomatist ever hurries. As for Madame de Maintenon, you

know, and I know too, that the Duchesse d’Orleans calls her an old

hag; but then--a word to the wise--eh?--what shall we say to Madame the

Duchess herself?--what a fat woman she is, but excessively clever,--such

a letter writer!--Well--you see, my dear young friend, that it is a very

difficult matter to decide upon,--but you must already be fully aware

what plan I should advise.”

“Already, Madame?”

“To be sure! What have I been saying to you all this time?--did you not

hear me? Shall I repeat my advice?”

“Oh, no! I perfectly comprehend you now; you would advise me--in

short--to--to--do--as well as I can.”

“You have said it, my son. I thought you would understand me on a little

reflection.”

“To be sure,--to be sure,” said I.

And three ladies being announced, my conference with Madame de Balzac

ended.

I now resolved to wait a little till the tides of power seemed somewhat

more settled, and I could ascertain in what quarter to point my bark of

enterprise. I gave myself rather more eagerly to society, in proportion

as my political schemes were suffered to remain torpid. My mind could

not remain quiet, without preying on itself; and no evil appeared to me

so great as tranquillity. Thus the spring and earlier summer passed

on, till, in August, the riots preceding the Rebellion broke out in

Scotland. At this time I saw but little of Lord Bolingbroke in private;

though, with his characteristic affectation, he took care that the load

of business with which he was really oppressed should not prevent his

enjoyment of all gayeties in public. And my indifference to the cause

of the Chevalier, in which he was so warmly engaged, threw a natural

restraint upon our conversation, and produced an involuntary coldness in

our intercourse: so impossible is it for men to be private friends who

differ on a public matter.

One evening I was engaged to meet a large party at a country-house about

forty miles from Paris. I went, and stayed some days. My horses had

accompanied me; and, when I left the chateau, I resolved to make the

journey to Paris on horseback. Accordingly, I ordered my carriage to

follow me, and attended by a single groom, commenced my expedition.

It was a beautiful still morning,--the first day of the first month

of autumn. I had proceeded about ten miles, when I fell in with an old

French officer. I remember,--though I never saw him but that once,--I

remember his face as if I had encountered it yesterday. It was thin and

long, and yellow enough to have served as a caricature rather than a

portrait of Don Quixote. He had a hook nose, and a long sharp chin; and

all the lines, wrinkles, curves, and furrows of which the human visage

is capable seemed to have met in his cheeks. Nevertheless, his eye was

bright and keen, his look alert, and his whole bearing firm, gallant,

and soldier-like. He was attired in a sort of military undress; wore a

mustachio, which, though thin and gray, was carefully curled; and at the

summit of a very respectable wig was perched a small cocked hat, adorned

with a black feather. He rode very upright in his saddle; and his horse,

a steady, stalwart quadruped of the Norman breed, with a terribly long

tail and a prodigious breadth of chest, put one stately leg before

another in a kind of trot, which, though it seemed, from its height of

action and the proud look of the steed, a pretension to motion more than

ordinarily brisk, was in fact a little slower than a common walk.

This noble cavalier seemed sufficiently an object of curiosity to my

horse to induce the animal to testify his surprise by shying, very

jealously and very vehemently, in passing him. This ill breeding on his

part was indignantly returned on the part of the Norman charger, who,

uttering a sort of squeak and shaking his long mane and head, commenced

a series of curvets and capers which cost the old Frenchman no little

trouble to appease. In the midst of these equine freaks, the horse came

so near me as to splash my nether garment with a liberality as little

ornamental as it was pleasurable.

The old Frenchman seeing this, took off his cocked hat very politely and

apologized for the accident. I replied with equal courtesy; and, as

our horses slid into quiet, their riders slid into conversation. It was

begun and chiefly sustained by my new comrade; for I am little addicted

to commence unnecessary socialities myself, though I should think very

meanly of my pretensions to the name of a gentleman and a courtier, if I

did not return them when offered, even by a beggar.

“It is a fine horse of yours, Monsieur,” said the old Frenchman; “but I

cannot believe--pardon me for saying so--that your slight English steeds

are so well adapted to the purposes of war as our strong chargers,--such

as mine for example.”

“It is very possible, Monsieur,” said I. “Has the horse you now ride

done service in the field as well as on the road?”

“Ah! _le pauvre petit mignon_,--no!” (_petit_, indeed! this little

darling was seventeen hands high at the very least) “no, Monsieur: it is

but a young creature this; his grandfather served me well!”

“I need not ask you, Monsieur, if you have borne arms: the soldier is

stamped upon you!”

“Sir, you flatter me highly!” said the old gentleman, blushing to the

very tip of his long lean ears, and bowing as low as if I had called

him a Conde. “I have followed the profession of arms for more than fifty

years.”

“Fifty years! ‘tis a long time.”

“A long time,” rejoined my companion, “a long time to look back upon

with regret.”

“Regret! by Heaven, I should think the remembrance of fifty years’

excitement and glory would be a remembrance of triumph.”

The old man turned round on his saddle, and looked at me for some

moments very wistfully. “You are young, Sir,” he said, “and at your

years I should have thought with you; but--” (then abruptly changing his

voice, he continued)--“Triumph, did you say? Sir, I have had three sons:

they are dead; they died in battle; I did not weep; I did not shed a

tear, Sir,--not a tear! But I will tell you when I did weep. I came

back, an old man, to the home I had left as a young one. I saw the

country a desert. I saw that the _noblesse_ had become tyrants; the

peasants had become slaves,--such slaves,--savage from despair,--even

when they were most gay, most fearfully gay, from constitution. Sir, I

saw the priest rack and grind, and the seigneur exact and pillage, and

the tax-gatherer squeeze out the little the other oppressors had left;

anger, discontent, wretchedness, famine, a terrible separation between

one order of people and another; an incredible indifference to the

miseries their despotism caused on the part of the aristocracy; a sullen

and vindictive hatred for the perpetration of those miseries on the part

of the people; all places sold--even all honours priced--at the court,

which was become a public market, a province of peasants, of living

men bartered for a few livres, and literally passed from one hand to

another, to be squeezed and drained anew by each new possessor: in a

word, Sir, an abandoned court; an unredeemed _noblesse_,--unredeemed,

Sir, by a single benefit which, in other countries, even the most

feudal, the vassal obtains from the master; a peasantry famished; a

nation loaded with debt which it sought to pay by tears,--these are

what I saw,--these are the consequences of that heartless and miserable

vanity from which arose wars neither useful nor honourable,--these are

the real components of that _triumph_, as you term it, which you wonder

that I regret.”

Now, although it was impossible to live at the court of Louis XIV.

in his latter days, and not feel, from the general discontent that

prevailed even there, what a dark truth the old soldier’s speech

contained, yet I was somewhat surprised by an enthusiasm so little

military in a person whose bearing and air were so conspicuously

martial.

“You draw a melancholy picture,” said I; “and the wretched state of

culture which the lands that we now pass through exhibit is a witness

how little exaggeration there is in your colouring. However, these are

but the ordinary evils of war; and, if your country endures them, do

not forget that she has also inflicted them. Remember what France did

to Holland, and own that it is but a retribution that France should

now find that the injury we do to others is (among nations as well as

individuals) injury to ourselves.”

My old Frenchman curled his mustaches with the finger and thumb of his

left hand: this was rather too subtile a distinction for him.

“That may be true enough, Monsieur,” said he; “but, _morbleu_! those

_maudits_ Dutchmen deserved what they sustained at our hands. No, Sir,

no: I am not so base as to forget the glory my country acquired, though

I weep for her wounds.”

“I do not quite understand you, Sir,” said I; “did you not just now

confess that the wars you had witnessed were neither honourable nor

useful? What glory, then, was to be acquired in a war of that character,

even though it was so delightfully animated by cutting the throats of

those _maudits_ Dutchmen?”

“Sir,” answered the Frenchman, drawing himself up, “you did

_not_ understand me. When we punished Holland, we did rightly. We

_conquered_.”

“Whether you conquered or not (for the good folk of Holland are not so

sure of the fact),” answered I, “that war was the most unjust in which

your king was ever engaged; but pray, tell me, Sir, what war it is that

you lament?”

The Frenchman frowned, whistled, put out his under lip, in a sort of

angry embarrassment, and then, spurring his great horse into a curvet,

said,--

“That last war with the English!”

“Faith,” said I, “that was the justest of all.”

“Just!” cried the Frenchman, halting abruptly and darting at me a

glance of fire, “just! no more, Sir! no more! I was at Blenheim and at

Ramilies!”

As the old warrior said the last words, his voice faltered; and though I

could not help inly smiling at the confusion of ideas by which wars were

just or unjust, according as they were fortunate or not, yet I respected

his feelings enough to turn away my face and remain silent.

“Yes,” renewed my comrade, colouring with evident shame and drawing his

cocked hat over his brows, “yes, I received my last wound at Ramilies.

_Then_ my eyes were opened to the horrors of war; _then_ I saw and

cursed the evils of ambition; _then_ I resolved to retire from the

armies of a king who had lost forever his name, his glory, and his

country.”

Was there ever a better type of the French nation than this old soldier?

As long as fortune smiles on them, it is “Marchons au diable!” and “Vive

la gloire!” Directly they get beaten, it is “Ma pauvre patrie!” and “Les

calamites affreuses de la guerre!”

“However,” said I, “the old King is drawing near the end of his days,

and is said to express his repentance at the evils his ambition has

occasioned.”

The old soldier shoved back his hat, and offered me his snuff-box. I

judged by this that he was a little mollified.

“Ah!” he renewed, after a pause, “ah! times are sadly changed since the

year 1667; when the young King--he was young then--took the field in

Flanders, under the great Turenne. _Sacristie_! What a hero he looked

upon his white war-horse! I would have gone--ay, and the meanest and

backwardest soldier in the camp would have gone--into the very mouth of

the cannon for a look from that magnificent countenance, or a word from

that mouth which knew so well what words were! Sir, there was in the war

of ‘72, when we were at peace with Great Britain, an English gentleman,

then in the army, afterwards a marshal of France: I remember, as if it

were yesterday, how gallantly he behaved. The King sent to compliment

him after some signal proof of courage and conduct, and asked what

reward he would have. ‘Sire,’ answered the Englishman, ‘give me the

white plume you wore this day.’ From that moment the Englishman’s

fortune was made.”

“The flattery went further than the valour!” said I, smiling, as I

recognized in the anecdote the first great step which my father had made

in the ascent of fortune.

“_Sacristie_!” cried the Frenchman, “it was no flattery then. We so

idolized the King that mere truth would have seemed disloyalty; and we

no more thought that praise, however extravagant, was adulation, when

directed to him, than we should have thought there was adulation in the

praise we would have given to our first mistress. But it is all changed

now! Who now cares for the old priest-ridden monarch?”

And upon this the veteran, having conquered the momentary enthusiasm

which the remembrance of the King’s earlier glories had excited,

transferred all his genius of description to the opposite side of the

question, and declaimed, with great energy, upon the royal vices and

errors, which were so charming in prosperity, and were now so detestable

in adversity.

While we were thus conversing we approached Versailles. We thought the

vicinity of the town seemed unusually deserted. We entered the main

street: crowds were assembled; a universal murmur was heard; excitement

sat on every countenance. Here an old crone was endeavouring to explain

something, evidently beyond his comprehension, to a child of three years

old, who, with open mouth and fixed eyes, seemed to make up in wonder

for the want of intelligence; there a group of old disbanded soldiers

occupied the way, and seemed, from their muttered conversations, to

vent a sneer and a jest at a priest who, with downward countenance and

melancholy air, was hurrying along.

One young fellow was calling out, “At least, it is a holy-day, and I

shall go to Paris!” and, as a contrast to him, an old withered artisan,

leaning on a gold-headed cane, with sharp avarice eloquent in every line

of his face, muttered out to a fellow-miser, “No business to-day, no

money, John; no money!” One knot of women, of all ages, close by which

my horse passed, was entirely occupied with a single topic, and that

so vehemently that I heard the leading words of the discussion.

“Mourning--becoming--what fashion?--how long?--_O Ciel_!” Thus do

follies weave themselves round the bier of death!

“What is the news, gentlemen?” said I.

“News! what, you have not heard it?--the King is dead!”

“Louis dead! Louis the Great, dead!” cried my companion.

“Louis the Great?” said a sullen-looking man,--“Louis the persecutor!”

“Ah, he’s a Huguenot!” cried another with haggard cheeks and hollow

eyes, scowling at the last speaker. “Never mind what he says: the King

was right when he refused protection to the heretics; but was he right

when he levied such taxes on the Catholics?”

“Hush!” said a third--“hush: it may be unsafe to speak; there are spies

about; for my part, I think it was all the fault of the _noblesse_.”

“And the Favourites!” cried a soldier, fiercely.

“And the Harlots!” cried a hag of eighty.

“And the Priests!” muttered the Huguenot.

“And the Tax-gatherers!” added the lean Catholic.

We rode slowly on. My comrade was evidently and powerfully affected.

“So, he is dead!” said he. “Dead!--well, well, peace be with him!

He conquered in Holland; he humbled Genoa; he dictated to Spain; he

commanded Conde and Turenne; he--Bah! What is all this!--” then, turning

abruptly to me, my companion cried, “I did not speak against the King,

did I, Sir?”

“Not much.”

“I am glad of that,--yes, very glad!” And the old man glared fiercely

round on a troop of boys who were audibly abusing the dead lion.

“I would have bit out my tongue rather than it had joined in the base

joy of these yelping curs. Heavens! when I think what shouts I have

heard when the name of that man, then deemed little less than a god, was

but breathed!--and now--why do you look at me, Sir? My eyes are moist; I

know it, Sir,--I know it. The old battered broken soldier, who made his

first campaigns when that which is now dust was the idol of France and

the pupil of Turenne,--the old soldier’s eyes shall not be dry, though

there is not another tear shed in the whole of this great empire.”

“Your three sons?” said I; “you did not weep for them?”

“No, Sir: I loved them when I was old; but I loved Louis _when I was

young_!”

“Your oppressed and pillaged country?” said I, “think of that.”

“No, Sir, I will not think of it!” cried the old warrior in a passion.

“I will not think of it--to-day, at least.”

“You are right, my brave friend: in the grave let us bury even public

wrongs; but let us not bury their remembrance. May the joy we read in

every face that we pass--joy at the death of one whom idolatry once

almost seemed to deem immortal--be a lesson to future kings!”

My comrade did not immediately answer; but, after a pause and we had

turned our backs upon the town, he said, “Joy, Sir,--you spoke of joy!

Yes, we are Frenchmen: we forgive our rulers easily for private vices

and petty faults; but we never forgive them if they commit the greatest

of faults, and suffer a stain to rest upon--”

“What?” I asked, as my comrade broke off.

“The national glory, Monsieur!” said he.

“You have hit it,” said I, smiling at the turgid sentiment which was so

really and deeply felt. “And had you written folios upon the character

of your countrymen, you could not have expressed it better.”

CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH THERE IS REASON TO FEAR THAT PRINCES ARE NOT INVARIABLY FREE

FROM HUMAN PECCADILLOES.

ON entering Paris, my veteran fellow-traveller took leave of me, and I

proceeded to my hotel. When the first excitement of my thoughts was

a little subsided, and after some feelings of a more public nature, I

began to consider what influence the King’s death was likely to have on

my own fortunes. I could not but see at a glance that for the cause of

the Chevalier, and the destiny of his present exertions in Scotland, it

was the most fatal event that could have occurred.

The balance of power in the contending factions of France would, I

foresaw, lie entirely between the Duke of Orleans and the legitimatized

children of the late king: the latter, closely leagued as they were with

Madame de Maintenon, could not be much disposed to consider the welfare

of Count Devereux; and my wishes, therefore, naturally settled on the

former. I was not doomed to a long suspense. Every one knows that the

very next day the Duke of Orleans appeared before Parliament, and was

proclaimed Regent; that the will of the late King was set aside; and

that the Duke of Maine suddenly became as low in power as he had always

been despicable in intellect. A little hubbub ensued: people in general

laughed at the Regent’s _finesse_; and the more sagacious admired the

courage and address of which the _finesse_ was composed. The Regent’s

mother wrote a letter of sixty-nine pages about it; and the Duchess of

Maine boxed the Duke’s ears very heartily for not being as clever as

herself. All Paris teemed with joyous forebodings; and the Regent, whom

every one some time ago had suspected of poisoning his cousins, every

one now declared to be the most perfect prince that could possibly be

imagined, and the very picture of Henri Quatre in goodness as well as

physiognomy. Three days after this event, one happened to myself with

which my public career may be said to commence.

I had spent the evening at a house in a distant part of Paris, and,

invited by the beauty of the night, had dismissed my carriage, and was

walking home alone and on foot. Occupied with my reflections, and not

very well acquainted with the dangerous and dark streets of Paris, in

which it was very rare for those who have carriages to wander on foot,

I insensibly strayed from my proper direction. When I first discovered

this disagreeable fact, I was in a filthy and obscure lane rather than

street, which I did not remember having ever honoured with my presence

before. While I was pausing in the vain hope and anxious endeavour to

shape out some imaginary chart--some “map of the mind,” by which to

direct my bewildered course--I heard a confused noise proceed from

another lane at right angles with the one in which I then was. I

listened: the sound became more distinct; I recognized human voices in

loud and angry altercation; a moment more and there was a scream. Though

I did not attach much importance to the circumstance, I thought I might

as well approach nearer to the quarter of noise. I walked to the door of

the house from which the scream proceeded; it was very small and mean.

Just as I neared it, a window was thrown open, and a voice cried, “Help!

help! for God’s sake, help!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Whoever you are, save us!” cried the voice, “and that instantly, or we

shall be murdered;” and, the moment after, the voice ceased abruptly,

and was succeeded by the clashing of swords.

I beat loudly at the door; I shouted out,--no answer; the scuffle within

seemed to increase. I saw a small blind alley to the left; one of the

unfortunate women to whom such places are homes was standing in it.

“What possibility is there of entering the house?” I asked.

“Oh!” said she, “it does not matter; it is not the first time gentlemen

have cut each other’s throats _there_.”

“What! is it a house of bad repute?”

“Yes; and where there are bullies who wear knives, and take purses, as

well as ladies who--”

“Good heavens!” cried I, interrupting her, “there is no time to be lost.

Is there no way of entrance but at this door?”

“Yes, if you are bold enough to enter at another!”

“Where?”

“Down this alley.”

Immediately I entered the alley; the woman pointed to a small, dark,

narrow flight of stairs; I ascended; the sounds increased in loudness. I

mounted to the second flight; a light streamed from a door; the clashing

of swords was distinctly audible within; I broke open the door, and

found myself a witness and intruder on a scene at once ludicrous and

fearful.

A table, covered with bottles and the remnants of a meal, was in the

centre of the room; several articles of women’s dress were scattered

over the floor; two women of unequivocal description were clinging to

a man richly dressed, and who having fortunately got behind an immense

chair, that had been overthrown probably in the scuffle, managed to keep

off with awkward address a fierce-looking fellow, who had less scope for

the ability of his sword-arm, from the circumstance of his attempting

to pull away the chair with his left hand. Whenever he stooped to effect

this object his antagonist thrust at him very vigorously, and had it not

been for the embarrassment his female enemies occasioned him, the latter

would, in all probability, have despatched or disabled his besieger.

This fortified gentleman, being backed by the window, I immediately

concluded to be the person who had called to me for assistance.

At the other corner of the apartment was another cavalier, who used

his sword with singular skill, but who, being hard pressed by two lusty

fellows, was forced to employ that skill rather in defence than attack.

Altogether, the disordered appearance of the room, the broken bottles,

the fumes with which the hot atmosphere teemed, the evident profligacy

of the two women, the half-undressed guise of the cavaliers, and the

ruffian air and collected ferocity of the assailants, plainly denoted

that it was one of those perilous festivals of pleasure in which

imprudent gallants were often, in that day, betrayed by treacherous

Delilahs into the hands of Philistines, who, not contented with

stripping them for the sake of plunder, frequently murdered them for the

sake of secrecy.

Having taken a rapid but satisfactory survey of the scene, I did not

think it necessary to make any preparatory parley. I threw myself upon

the nearest bravo with so hearty a good will that I ran him through

the body before he had recovered his surprise at my appearance. This

somewhat startled the other two; they drew back and demanded quarter.

“Quarter, indeed!” cried the farther cavalier, releasing himself from

his astonished female assailants, and leaping nimbly over his bulwark

into the centre of the room, “quarter, indeed, rascally _ivrognes_!

No; it is our turn now! and, by Joseph of Arimathea! you shall sup with

Pilate to-night.” So saying, he pressed his old assailant so fiercely

that, after a short contest, the latter retreated till he had backed

himself to the door; he then suddenly turned round, and vanished in a

twinkling. The third and remaining ruffian was far from thinking

himself a match for three men; he fell on his knees, and implored mercy.

However, the _ci-devant_ sustainer of the besieged chair was but little

disposed to afford him the clemency he demanded, and approached the

crestfallen bravo with so grim an air of truculent delight, brandishing

his sword and uttering the most terrible threats, that there would have

been small doubt of the final catastrophe of the trembling bully, had

not the other gallant thrown himself in the way of his friend.

“Put up thy sword,” said he, laughing, and yet with an air of command;

“we must not court crime, and then punish it.” Then, turning to the

bully, he said, “Rise, Sir Rascal! the devil spares thee a little

longer, and this gentleman will not disobey _his_ as well as _thy_

master’s wishes. Begone!”

The fellow wanted no second invitation: he sprang to his legs, and to

the door. The disappointed cavalier assisted his descent down the stairs

with a kick that would have done the work of the sword to any flesh not

accustomed to similar applications. Putting up his rapier, the milder

gentleman then turned to _the ladies_, who lay huddled together under

shelter of the chair which their intended victim had deserted.