liant vivacity of Retz.

[Footnote 1: Ed. 1662, surreptitious and incomplete; complete ed.,
1868-1884.]

The most interesting figure of the Fronde, its portrait-painter, its
analyst, its historian, is CARDINAL DE RETZ (1614-1679). Italian by
his family, and Italian in some features of his character, he had,
on a scale of grandeur, the very genius of conspiracy. When his first
work, _La Conjuration de Fiesque_, was read by Richelieu, the judgment
which that great statesman pronounced was penetrating--"Voila un
dangereux esprit." Low of stature, ugly, ill-made, short-sighted,
Retz played the part of a gallant and a duellist. Never had any one
less vocation for the spiritual duties of an ecclesiastic; but, being
a churchman, he would be an illustrious actor on the ecclesiastical
stage. There was something demoniac in his audacity, and with the
spirit of turbulence and intrigue was united a certain power of
self-restraint. When fallen, he still tried to be magnificent, though
in disgrace: he would resign his archbishopric, pay his enormous debts,
resign his cardinalate, exhibit himself as the hero in misfortune.
"Having lived as a Catiline," said Voltaire, "he lived as an Atticus."
In retirement, as his adventurous life drew towards its close, he
wrote, at the request of Madame de Caumartin, those Memoirs which
remained unpublished until 1717, and which have insured him a place
in literature only second to Saint-Simon.

It was an age remarkable for its memoirs; those of Mlle. de Montpensier,
of Mme. de Motteville, of Bussy-Rabutin are only a few of many. The
_Memoires_ of Retz far surpass the rest not only in their historical
interest, but in their literary excellence. Arranging facts and dates
so that he might superbly figure in the drama designed for future
generations, he falsifies the literal truth of things; but he lays
bare the inner truth of politics, of life, of character, with
incomparable mastery. He exposes the disorder of his conduct in early
years with little scruple. The origins of the Fronde are expounded
in pages of profound sagacity. His narrative has all the impetuosity,
all the warmth and hues of life, all the tumult and rumour of action;
he paints, but in painting he explains; he touches the hidden springs
of passion; his portraits of contemporaries are not more vivid in
their colours than they are searching in their psychology: and in
his style there is that negligent grandeur which belongs rather to