In a similar circumstance, Actaeon was transformed into a stag and torn apart by dogs, but the marquise held that this case was entirely different, as the good bishop was so ugly that, while the nymphs might make an impression on him, he was unlikely to impress the nymphs, other than to make them flee at his approach. Besides, the Bishop of Lisieux was well aware of how ugly he was, going so far as to joke with the Bishop of Riez that he was far from being an Adonis.
“That’s why I owe you my thanks,” replied the Bishop of Riez, “because before you became my colleague, I was the ugliest bishop in France.”
It may be that Madame de Rambouillet’s male guests, who outnumbered the females, rushed to the mansion in hopes that the marquise was staging a surprise like the one she’d prepared for Monseigneur de Lisieux. Certainly the exquisites invited that evening had elevated hopes, and were ready for whatever the evening might reveal.
Their conversation turned on all matters of love and poetry, but most particularly on the recent piece performed by the actors of the Hotel de Bourgogne, which the exquisites had begun to patronize since the team of Bellerose, la Villiers, Mondory, la Beaupré, and his wife, Mademoiselle Vaillot, had taken over direction of the theater.
Madame de Rambouillet had made plays fashionable by staging Frédégonde and Hardy’s Chaste Love in her home. After that, it was decided that decent women, who until then had avoided it, could go to the Hotel de Bourgogne. The play under discussion that evening was a piece titled The Hypochondriac, the debut work of a young protégé of the marquise named Jean Rotrou. Though of middling rank, thanks to the support of the Rambouillets he had enjoyed enough success for Cardinal Richelieu to hire him into his household at the Place Royale. There he joined the company of Richelieu’s famous “collaborators”: Mairet, L’Estoile, and Colletet, as well as the even more celebrated Desmarests and Bois-Robert.
As they were discussing the merits of Rotrou’s questionable comedy, which Scudéry and Chapelain were chopping into mincemeat, a handsome young man in an elegant suit came in. With the air of a complete cavalier, he crossed the salon to pay his respects to the ladies in order of precedence, starting with Madame la Princesse, who in her quality as wife of Monsieur de Condé, first prince of the blood, was entitled to preeminence. After her he addressed the marquise, then the lovely Julie.
He was followed by a companion, two or three years older and dressed all in black, who advanced into the midst of this learned and imposing company a step behind his friend.
“Here he is now,” said the marquise, indicating the first of the two men, “the conqueror himself. It must be fine to ride to the Capitoline at such a young age—and without, I hope, someone behind you in the chariot saying, ‘Caesar, remember you are mortal.’”
“On the contrary, Madame la Marquise,” replied Rotrou, for that’s who it was. “No critic could ever complain of my poor work more than I do myself. I swear I’m only here because I received a direct order from the Comte de Soissons to leave off work on my The Dead Lover, as if it were actually dead, in order to begin on the comedy I’m working on now.”
“So, what is the subject of this comedy, my fine cavalier?” asked Mademoiselle Paulet.
“A ring that no one would wish to put on his finger once he’s seen you, adorable Lioness: the Ring of Forgetfulness.”
A nod greeted this flattery from the one to whom it was addressed. Meanwhile, the young man dressed in black stayed as far in the background as he could. But as he was totally unknown to everybody, and as everyone to be presented to the marquise either had a name already or was on his way to making one, all eyes were fixed upon him nonetheless.
“And how do you have time to write a new comedy, Monsieur Rotrou,” asked the lovely Julie, “now that you’ve accepted the honor of working with the cardinal’s company?”
“Monsieur le Cardinal had so much to do at the siege of La Rochelle that we were left to ourselves,” replied Rotrou, “so I took the opportunity to do some work on my own.”
Meanwhile, the young man dressed in black continued to attract all the attention that was not devoted to Rotrou.
“He’s not a man of the sword,” said Mademoiselle de Scudéry to her brother.
“No, he has an air more like that of a law clerk,” he replied.
The young man in black overheard this exchange, and acknowledged it with a good-natured smile. Rotrou heard it as well. “But yes!” he said. “In fact he is a law clerk—and a law clerk, I assure you, who will one day outdo us all.”
Now it was the turn of the men in the company to smile, half in disbelief and half in disdain. But Rotrou’s extravagant prediction only made the women all the more curious.
Despite his youth, the man in black had an austere look to him. He had a broad brow already lined with the wrinkles of thought, beneath which were eyes flickering with flame. The rest of his face was more commonplace, with a large nose above thick lips, partly concealed by a burgeoning mustache.
Rotrou decided it was time to satisfy the company’s curiosity. “Madame la Marquise, allow me to introduce my dear compatriot Pierre Corneille, son of the Advocate General of Rouen—and soon to be a son of genius.”
The name was completely unknown.
“Corneille,” repeated Scudéry. “The name of a bird of ill omen.”
“Yes . . . to his rivals,” Rotrou said.
“Ab ilice cornix,” Chapelain whispered to the Bishop of Grasse. “The raven cries from the oak.”
“Corneille,” the marquise repeated in her turn, but with more warmth.
“Ah!” Rotrou said to Madame de Rambouillet. “You’re trying to remember on what title page or frontispiece you’ve read that name. On none, Madame, as yet. It appears only at the head of a comedy he brought with him yesterday from Rouen. Tomorrow I’ll take him to the Hotel de Bourgogne and present him to Mondory—and a month from now, we’ll be applauding him.”
The young man lifted his eyes to heaven, as if to say, “May God grant it be so!”
The female guests approached the two friends with more curiosity. Madame la Princesse was in the lead, seeing in every poet a potential rhapsodist on her beauty, which was beginning to fade. While the men, especially the poets, stayed firmly in their places, she eagerly took a seat in the group forming around Rotrou and his companion. “So, Monsieur Corneille,” she said, “what is the title of this comedy of yours?”
Corneille turned curiously toward the source of this haughty voice. As he did so, Rotrou whispered a word in his ear. “It’s called Mélite,” Corneille said, “unless Your Highness would care to grace it with a better name.”
“Mélite,” repeated the princess. “Mélite. No, we’ll leave it as is. Mélite is charming—and if the story is as well . . .”
“What’s charming about it is that it’s not a story,” Rotrou said, “but rather a history.”
“A history? How so?” asked Mademoiselle Paulet. “Do you mean it’s a true tale?”
“Come now,” Rotrou said to his companion, “tell the ladies the story, you rascal.”
Corneille blushed to the ears. No one could seem less of a rascal than he did.
“The question is whether the story can safely be told at all,” said Madame de Combalet, covering her face with her fan in case Corneille’s story should be indelicate.
“Instead of just telling the story,” Corneille said timidly, “I’d rather recite some verses.”
“Bah,” said Rotrou, “you’re embarrassed over nothing. I can recount the plot in two sentences. But there’s no merit in that, since the story is true, and as my friend is the hero he gets no credit for inventing it. Imagine, Madame, that this libertine had a friend. . . .”
“Rotrou, Rotrou!” interrupted Corneille.
“Ignoring the interruption, I continue,” said Rotrou. “Imagine that this libertine had a friend who introduced him into a decent household in Rouen, in which the friend was engaged to the family’s charming daughter. What do you think Mo
nsieur Corneille did? He, the best man, no less, waited until the wedding was over, and then—well . . . You understand, don’t you?”
“Monsieur Rotrou!” said Madame de Combalet, drawing her Carmelite’s veil over her eyes.
“And then—what?” said Mademoiselle de Scudéry with a roguish air. “Others may understand you, Monsieur Rotrou, but I certainly do not.”
“I hope they do, beautiful Sappho” (for so Mademoiselle de Scudéry was called in that company of exquisites). “Ask Mademoiselle Paulet and Monseigneur the Bishop of Grasse, since they understood it—didn’t they?”
Mademoiselle Paulet gave Rotrou a provocative little tap on the fingers with her fan, and said, “Go on, you villain. The sooner you finish, the better.”
“Then I will follow Horace’s maxim of ad eventum festina and hasten on,” Rotrou said. “Well, Monsieur Corneille, in his capacity as a poet, followed the advice of the friend of Maecenas: there’s no point in putting things off. He found the lady alone, demolished her Edifice of Fidelity, and in the ruins of his friend’s happiness built a temple to his own joy, a joy so powerful that a stream of poetry gushed from his heart, that same stream from which the Nine Muses drink.”
“The Stream of Hippocrene gushing from the heart of a law clerk?” said Madame la Princesse. “That’s not to be believed.”
“Unless proven otherwise, Madame la Princesse. And that proof my friend Corneille will give you.”
“Then this Mélite is a very lucky lady,” said Mademoiselle Paulet. “If Monsieur Corneille’s comedy is as successful as you predict, Monsieur Rotrou, she’ll be immortalized.”
“Yes,” Mademoiselle de Scudéry said drily, “but I doubt that this immortality, even if it lasts as long as that of the Cumaean Sibyl, will result in bringing her a husband.”
“Oh? And do you find it such a great misfortune to remain unmarried?” said Mademoiselle de Paulet. “As long as one is pretty, of course. But ask Madame de Combalet if being married is such divine joy!”
Madame de Combalet’s only reply was to sigh, raise her eyes to heaven, and shake her head sadly.
“This is all very well,” said Madame la Princesse, “but Monsieur Corneille has offered to recite us some verses from his comedy.”
“And he’s quite ready to do so,” said Rotrou. “Asking for verses from a poet is like asking for water from a spring. Come now, friend Corneille!”
Corneille blushed, stammered a bit, put his hand to his forehead, and then, in a voice that seemed made more for tragedy than for comedy, recited the following verses:
“I admit, my friend, my disorder is so incurable
That only one remedy offers me relief;
And after the disdain Mélite has treated me with,
It would be only just to quit her for another.
But in spite of all her cruelty, she rules with
Such powerful sway o’er my heart, that I dare to murmur
Only in her absence. In vain, I make every effort to
Surmount this passion, and make a thousand
Resolutions when she is not present; then, I no sooner
See her again, when a single glance rivets my
Fetters stronger, and throws such a pleasing and delightful
Veil o’er my reason, that I pursue my disorder,
And fly from every remedy I proposed. But this
Flattering hope, this pleasing delusion only rekindles
Up my flame, and confirms me the more her slave.”*
*Adapted from the anonymous 1776 English translation.
These verses were greeted two or three times by approving murmurs, indicating that the muse of poetry did not reside only in Paris, but sometimes visited the provinces, and that not all the wits of France were to be found at the Hotel de Rambouillet or the Place Royale. At the final verse, “. . . And confirms me the more her slave,” general applause broke out. Madame de Rambouillet was the first to clap, which was the signal for the others to follow. Only a few of the men protested by their silence, among them the younger Montausier brother, who couldn’t abide this sort of poetry.
But the poet heard only the approval and, intoxicated by the applause from the assembled wits of Paris, bowed and said, “Next comes the sonnet to Mélite. Should I go on?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Madame la Princesse, Madame de Rambouillet, the beautiful Julie, and Mademoiselle Paulet all together, along with all those who echoed the tastes of the mistress of the house.
Corneille continued:
“What beauty with Mélite can compare,
What more than my passion can prove,
So matchless her charms, I declare,
Can be equaled by nought but my love.
“Though new beauties appear to my eyes,
Though her coldness embitters my heart,
Too cruel, she hears not my sighs,
Too lovely, she fixes the dart.
“But no wonder she’s deaf to my flame,
To the pow’r of the god I submit,
Since love’s whole pow’r I must feel,
But she only beauty and wit.”*
*Adapted from the anonymous 1776 English translation.
The sonnet exceeds all other forms of poetry in exciting admiration—though Boileau, who wouldn’t be born for another eight years, hadn’t yet said “A faultless sonnet is still just a long poem.” And this sonnet was hailed as faultless, particularly by the women, who applauded loud and long. Even Mademoiselle de Scudéry deigned to bring her hands together.
Rotrou, his loyal heart overflowing, enjoyed his friend’s triumph more than any.
“In truth, Monsieur Rotrou, you were right!” said Madame la Princesse. “Your friend is a young man who must be championed.”
“If you think so, Madame, do you suppose that, through Monsieur le Prince, you might find him a position?” asked Rotrou, lowering his voice so as to be heard by Madame de Condé alone. “Because he has no fortune, and, as you can see, it would be a shame if, for lack of a few coins, a career of genius should die unborn.”
“Ah, well, Monsieur le Prince! There’s no use trying to talk to him about poetry. The other day, he found me dining with Monsieur Chapelain. Later he asked, ‘Who was that little black bird dining with you?’ When I told him it was Monsieur Chapelain, he said, ‘Ah. And who is this Monsieur Chapelain?’ ‘The creator of La Pucelle.’ ‘Oh, he’s a sculptor, then.’ Hopeless. But I will speak to Madame de Combalet, who will speak to the cardinal. Do you think he would agree to work on His Eminence’s tragedies?”
“He would agree to anything that would enable him to stay in Paris. If he was capable of Mélite as a law clerk, imagine what he could do in this world where you are the queen and the marquise is prime minister.”
“It’s a good play, this Mélite, whether or not it succeeds. We will see to it that something is arranged.”
And she held out her lovely, near-royal hand to Rotrou, who took it in his own and looked at it, as if considering its beauty.
“Well, what are you thinking?” asked Madame la Princesse.
“I look on this hand, and wonder if it can really feed two poets. Alas, no—it’s too small a thing.”
“Fortunately,” Madame de Condé said, “God gave me two of them: one for you, and one for him you ask about.”
“Corneille, Corneille,” Rotrou called, “come here! Madame la Princesse, in honor of the sonnet to Mélite, permits you to kiss her hand.”
Corneille nearly fainted. To be applauded by Madame de Rambouillet and to kiss the hand of Madame la Princesse, all on the evening of his debut in Paris—never in his most ambitious dreams had he aspired to even one of these favors.
But who, really, was honored here? Was it Corneille and Rotrou, who kissed the hands of the wife of the first prince of the blood? Or was it Madame de Condé, whose hands were kissed by the future authors of Wenceslas and The Cid? Posterity says that the one honored was Madame la Princesse.
Meanwhile, Maître Claud
e, white wand in hand like Polonius in Hamlet, came whispering to the Marquise de Rambouillet. She listened, gave him some quiet orders and directions, and then lifted her head to make an announcement. “Noble lords and dear ladies, my precious and excellent friends, had I invited you to spend the evening with me just to hear the verses of Monsieur Corneille, you would have no reason to complain. But I’ve gathered you tonight for a purpose less ethereal and more material. I have often spoken of the superiority of the sorbets and ice creams of Italy to those of France. After long search, I’ve found a glacier of sorbet that comes straight from Naples, and at last I can have you taste it. Don’t follow me because you love me—follow me because you love sorbet! Monsieur Corneille, give me your arm.”
“And here’s my arm, Monsieur Rotrou,” said Madame la Princesse, who that evening was determined to follow the example of the marquise in everything.
Corneille, trembling and awkward, the man of genius just arrived from the provinces, held out his arm to the marquise, while Rotrou, gallantly and like a complete cavalier, extended his to Madame de Condé. The Comte de Salles, the younger of the Montausier brothers, volunteered to escort the beautiful Julie, while the Marquis de Montausier led in Mademoiselle Paulet. Gombauld escorted Mademoiselle de Scudéry, and the others arranged themselves as seemed best.
Madame de Combalet, the severity of her Carmelite habit mitigated by a corsage of violets and rosebuds, accepted no man’s arm, but followed immediately behind Madame la Princesse. Beside her was Madame de Saint-Étienne, the marquise’s second daughter, who also aspired to a life of religion. However, there was a difference between her and Madame de Combalet, in that every day she took a step further into that life, while Madame de Combalet took another step out.
The Red Sphinx Page 5