granted three years before her death
by the Queen-mother, was renewed. Madame Scarron had the honour of
making her courtesy to the King, who thought her handsome, but grave in
demeanour, and in a loud, clear voice, he said to her, "Madame, I kept
you waiting; I was jealous of your friends."

The Queen of Portugal knew that I had deprived her of her secretary,
fellow-gossip, reader, Spanish teacher, stewardess, confidante, and
lady-in-waiting. She wrote to me complaining about this, and on taking
leave of the King to go and reign in Portugal, she said, with rather a
forced air of raillery:

"I shall hate you as long as I live, and if ever you do me the honour of
paying me a visit some day at Lisbon, I'll have you burned for your
pains."

Then she wanted to embrace me, as if we were equals, but this I
deprecated as much from aversion as from respect.

CHAPTER XIX.

La Fontaine.--Boileau.--Moliere.--Corneille.--Louis XIV.'s Opinion of
Each of Them.

The King's studies with his preceptor, Perefixe, had been of only a
superficial sort, as, in accordance with the express order of the
Queen-mother, this prelate had been mainly concerned about the health of
his pupil, the Queen being, above all, desirous that he should have a
good constitution. "The rest comes easily enough, if a prince have but
nobility of soul and a sense of duty," as the Queen often used to say.
Her words came true.

I came across several Spanish and Italian books in the library of the
little apartments. The "Pastor Fido," "Aminta," and the "Gerusalemme,"
seemed to me, at first, to be the favourite works. Then came Voiture's
letters, the writings of Malherbe and De Balzac, the Fables of La
Fontaine, the Satires of Boileau, and the delightful comedies of Moliere.
Corneille's tragedies had been read, but not often.

Until I came to Court, I had always looked upon Corneille as the greatest
tragic dramatist in the world, and as the foremost of our poets and men
of letters. The King saved me from this error.

Book in hand, he pointed out to me numberless faults of style, incoherent
and fantastic imagery, sentiment alike exaggerated and a thousand leagues
removed from nature. He considered, and still considers, Pierre
Corneille to be a blind enthusiast of the ancients, whom we deem great
since we do not know them. In his eyes, this declamatory poet was a
republican more by virtue of his head than his heart or his
intention,--one of tho