The Ghost of Monsieur Scarron

Twenty-Three

288 Twenty-Three at the end of a week the abbé had not yet written his letter. neither had he abandoned altogether the thought of writing it. he had given a promise, and although for sufficient reasons he could have absolved himself of the promise, the reasons he mustered were not, to his scrupulous mind, sufficient. october had come with weather that was golden and serene , the air sweetened by showers which passed and left the yellow leaves upon the ground to dry in the sunlight. Madame de Maintenon had requested of racine a canticle for her girls at St.-Cyr. on Friday evening, which was the first of october, racine read aloud to the King and to Madame de Maintenon the paraphrases from Saint Paul which he had made for her that day. Mon Dieu, quelle guerre cruelle! Je trouve deux hommes en moi. L’un veut que plein d’amour pour Toi Je Te sois sans cesse fidèle; L’autre à Tes volontés rebelle, Me soulève contre Ta loi. My God, what cruel war! I find two men in me. 289 T H E G H O S T O F M O N S I E U R S C A R R O N One begs me to adore Thee with fidelity; The other drives me still Rebellious to Thy will. Madame de Maintenon, her hands resting quietly in her lap, her head, swathed in black lawn, leaning against the red damask of her chair, listened attentively, and approved of the verses. the King did more. he passed his hand across his eyes as if to clear them of a drop of moisture, and said, deeply moved: “ah, those two men. i know them well.” racine could not have been more greatly rewarded. Madame de Maintenon begged him to give the verses to the composer that very night so that Monsieur Moreau could begin work on the music at once. Moreau had applied himself to the task; on Saturday afternoon the music was ready. Madame de Maintenon’s wing chair was again carried from her apartments to the King’s room and placed near the head of his bed. the harpsichord was brought in by six lackeys. the musicians assembled, two violinists, two flutists, a cellist and four singers from the opéra at Paris. Jean Baptiste Moreau presented himself, music in hand. the King that morning had found his gouty foot too swollen to stand upon. he kept to his bed. the King and the court were in mourning, first for the infant daughter of the Duc du Maine, who had died at the age of two weeks, and then for the brother of the Queen of england. the King of england had withdrawn to the monastery of la trappe, and the Queen to the convent at Chaillot. Festivities at Fontainebleau were canceled, but a concert spirituel was still in order. three o’clock struck. “where is racine?” said the King. 290 Janet Lewis no one could tell him. Moreau made his little speech about the imperfections of his work, the speed with which it had been composed, and the hope that the King and the lady would help him to improve it by their criticism. the musicians ranged themselves about the harpsichord. Bontemps closed the door to the antechamber. “But where is racine?” said the King again. “what do you think of this, Madame? racine makes us wait. this will be an item for his history.” racine was in the park. Beguiled, after a modest dinner, by the tempered sunlight, he had paced on and on, between the plane trees and the quiet water of the canal. the King’s historiographer, Madame de Maintenon’s poet, wished that he were at home with his wife and children , or at auteuil with his friend Boileau. on such a day as this the garden at auteuil would be perfection. he would write to Boileau on the morrow, and send him a copy of his paraphrases. he would invite the criticism of his friend, not because he mistrusted his own judgment, nor because Despr éaux, stone deaf, had still the finest ear in France for the subtleties of the language, but in order to continue a conversation over the days and distances which separated them. the King had arranged everything very kindly some seven years ago. they were both to continue as historiographers...