om Corneille on her literary
success. There was Berthe Corneille too, the mother of Fontenelle, and
though Thomas was but young, he may well have had his share in a
friendship which must have been very attractive to his older brother.
This house of theirs in the Rue Corneille was not the only one in
which Pierre wrote his tragedies. Indeed, I imagine it was more the
town-lodgings of his legal father, and only used by the sons when
business kept them near the Law-courts. In the country outside, at
Petit-Couronne south of the Seine, Corneille did nearly all his best
work; and in estimating that work it is well to remember that he was
not merely born at Rouen, but that he lived and wrote there till he
was fifty-six.

[Illustration: EAU DE ROBEC]

The Pascals left Rouen in 1648 during the disturbances of the Fronde.
They had come there in even more troublous times, for the riots called
the "Revolte des Va-nu-Pieds" had only just been quelled before their
arrival. The salt-tax had already created strong discontent in
Southern Normandy, and in August 1639 a tax on the dyers roused the
men of the Rue Eau de Robec into such hot rebellion, that they killed
the King's officer and burnt the tax-gatherer's house. In the same
street to-day, which must be but little changed, you may still imagine
the furious assemblages by those black dye-stained waters that flow
muddily beneath their multitude of bridges from the Place des Ponts de
Robec to the eastern confines of the town. Chancellor Seguier was sent
down with several thousand infantry and 1200 horse, called the "Fleaux
de Dieu," and kept the gallows as busy as at any Black Assizes for
some three months.

One sad result of all this was that many of the festivities described
in the earlier pages of this chapter never came off at all in 1640.
"En ceste annee," says the local chronicler sadly, "il n'y a point eu
d'estrennes, ny chante 'Le Roy Boit.' En la maison de Ville n'y eust
point de gasteau party, ni le lendemain a disner." And the loss of the
famous "Fete des Rois" at the Hotel de Ville was something more than
ordinarily unfortunate. For it was celebrated each year with much
pomposity, to the sound of all the carillons of the town ringing
lustily while every member of the Council "tirait le roi de la feve,"
and the lucky winner of the Bean, after being presented with a wax
basket of artificial fruit (for the sixteenth century is over now), at
once gave his comrades an enorm