O nuit desastreuse!  O nuit effroyable, ou retentit tout-a-coup
     comme un eclat de tonnerre, cette etonnante nouvelle:  Madame se
     meurt, Madame est morte!...

—­The splendid words flow out like a stream of lava, molten and glowing, and then fix themselves for ever in adamantine beauty.

We have already seen that one of the chief characteristics of French classicism was compactness.  The tragedies of Racine are as closely knit as some lithe naked runner without an ounce of redundant flesh; the Fables of La Fontaine are airy miracles of compression.  In prose the same tendency is manifest, but to an even more marked degree.  La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyere, writing the one at the beginning, the other towards the close, of the classical period, both practised the art of extreme brevity with astonishing success.  The DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD was the first French writer to understand completely the wonderful capacities for epigrammatic statement which his language possessed; and in the dexterous precision of pointed phrase no succeeding author has ever surpassed him.  His little book of Maxims consists of about five hundred detached sentences, polished like jewels, and, like jewels, sparkling with an inner brilliance on which it seems impossible that one can gaze too long.  The book was the work of years, and it contains in its small compass the observations of a lifetime.  Though the reflections are not formally connected, a common spirit runs through them all.  ‘Vanity of vanities!  All is vanity!’ such is the perpetual burden of La Rochefoucauld’s doctrine:  but it is vanity, not in the generalized sense of the Preacher, but in the ordinary personal sense of empty egotism and petty self-love which, in the eyes of this bitter moralist, is the ultimate essence of the human spirit and the secret spring of the world.  The case is overstated, no doubt; but the strength of La Rochefoucauld’s position can only be appreciated when one has felt for oneself the keen arrows of his wit.  As one turns over his pages, the sentences strike into one with a deadly force of personal application; sometimes one almost blushes; one realizes that these things are cruel, that they are humiliating, and that they are true.  ’Nous avons tous assez de force pour supporter les maux d’autrui.’—­’Quelque bien qu’on nous dise de nous, on ne nous apprend rien de nouveau.’—­’On croit quelquefois hair la flatterie, mais on ne hait que le maniere de flatter.’—­’Le refus de la louange est un desir d’etre loue deux fois.’—­’Les passions les plus violentes nous laissent quelquefois du relache, mais la vanite nous agite toujours.’  No more powerful dissolvent for the self-complacency of humanity was ever composed.