You have brought out poets as the sun brings out flowers. How many have we not seen--Moliere, Boileau, Racine, one greater than the other? And the others, too, the smaller ones--Scarron, so scurrilous and yet so witty--Oh, holy Virgin! what have I said?"
Madame had laid down her tapestry, and was staring in intense indignation at the poet, who writhed on his stool under the stern rebuke of those cold gray eyes.
"I think, Monsieur Corneille, that you had better go on with your reading," said the king dryly.
"Assuredly, sire. Shall I read my play about Darius?"
"And who was Darius?" asked the king, whose education had been so neglected by the crafty policy of Cardinal Mazarin that he was ignorant of everything save what had come under his own personal observation.
"Darius was King of Persia, sire."
"And where is Persia?"
"It is a kingdom of Asia."
"Is Darius still king there?"
"Nay, sire; he fought against Alexander the Great."
"Ah, I have heard of Alexander. He was a famous king and general, was he not?"
"Like your Majesty, he both ruled wisely and led his armies victoriously."
"And was King of Persia, you say?"
"No, sire; of Macedonia. It was Darius who was King of Persia."
The king frowned, for the slightest correction was offensive to him.
"You do not seem very clear about the matter, and I confess that it does not interest me deeply," said he. "Pray turn to something else."
"There is my _Pretended Astrologer_."
"Yes, that will do."
Corneille commenced to read his comedy, while Madame de Maintenon's white and delicate fingers picked among the many-coloured silks which she was weaving into her tapestry. From time to time she glanced across, first at the clock and then at the king, who was leaning back, with his lace handkerchief thrown over his face. It was twenty minutes to four now, but she knew that she had put it back half an hour, and that the true time was ten minutes past.
"Tut! tut!" cried the king suddenly. "There is something amiss there. The second last line has a limp in it, surely." It was one of his foibles to pose as a critic, and the wise poet would fall in with his corrections, however unreasonable they might be.
"Which line, sire? It is indeed an advantage to have one's faults made clear."
"Read the passage again."
"Et si, quand je lui dis le secret de mon ame, Avec moins de rigueur elle eut traite ma flamme, Dans ma fayon de vivre, et suivant mon humeur, Une autre eut bientot le present de mon coeur."
"Yes, the third line has a foot too many. Do you not remark it, madame?"
"No; but I fear that I should make a poor critic."
"Your Majesty is perfectly right," said Corneille unblushingly. "I shall mark the passage, and see that it is corrected."
"I thought that it was wrong. If I do not write myself, you can see that I have at least got the correct ear. A false quantity jars upon me. It is the same in music. Although I know little of the matter, I can tell a discord where Lully himself would miss it. I have often shown him errors of the sort in his operas, and I have always convinced him that I was right."
"I can readily believe it, your Majesty." Corneille had picked up his book again, and was about to resume his reading when there came a sharp tap at the door.
"It is his Highness the minister, Monsieur de Louvois," said Mademoiselle Nanon.
"Admit him," answered Louis. "Monsieur Corneille, I am obliged to you for what you have read, and I regret that an affair of state will now interrupt your comedy. Some other day perhaps I may have the pleasure of hearing the rest of it." He smiled in the gracious fashion which made all who came within his personal influence forget his faults and remember him only as the impersonation of dignity and of courtesy.
The poet, with his book under his arm, slipped out, while the famous minister, tall, heavily wigged, eagle-nosed, and commanding, came bowing into the little room. His manner was that of exaggerated politeness, but his haughty face marked only too plainly his contempt for such a chamber and for the lady who dwelt there.