not content to be the chief actress, and to hold her partnership in “the properties,” to retain her ancient authority over the poet, introduced, suddenly, a blushing daughter, some say a younger sister, who had hitherto resided at Avignon, and who she declared was the offspring of the count of Modena, by a secret marriage.  Armande Bejard soon attracted the paternal attentions of the poet.  She became the secret idol of his retired moments, while he fondly thought that he could mould a young mind, in its innocence, to his own sympathies.  The mother and the daughter never agreed.  Armande sought his protection; and one day rushing into his study, declared that she would marry her friend.  The elder Bejard freely consented to avenge herself on De Brie.  De Brie was indulgent, though “the little creature,” she observed, was to be yoked to one old enough to be her father.  Under the same roof were now heard the voices of the three females, and Moliere meditating scenes of feminine jealousies.

Moliere was fascinated by his youthful wife; her lighter follies charmed:  two years riveted the connubial chains.  Moliere was a husband who was always a lover.  The actor on the stage was the very man he personated.  Mademoiselle Moliere, as she was called by the public, was the Lucile in Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme.  With what fervour the poet feels her neglect! with what eagerness he defends her from the animadversions of the friend who would have dissolved the spell!

The poet was doomed to endure more poignant sorrows than slights.  Mademoiselle had the art of persuading Moliere that he was only his own “cocu imaginaire;” but these domestic embarrassments multiplied.  Mademoiselle, reckless of the distinguished name she bore, while she gratified her personal vanity by a lavish expenditure, practised that artful coquetry which attracted a crowd of loungers.  Moliere found no repose in his own house, and retreated to a country-house, where, however, his restless jealousy often drove him back to scenes which he trembled to witness.  At length came the last argument of outraged matrimony—­he threatened confinement.  To prevent a public rupture, Moliere consented to live under the same roof, and only to meet at the theatre.  Weak only in love, however divided from his wife, Moliere remained her perpetual lover.  He said, in confidence, “I am born with every disposition to tenderness.  When I married, she was too young to betray any evil inclinations.  My studies were devoted to her, but I soon discovered her indifference.  I ascribed it to her temper; her foolish passion for Count Guiche made too much noise to leave me even this apparent tranquillity.  I resolved to live with her as an honourable man, whose reputation does not depend on the bad conduct of his wife.  My kindness has not changed her, but my compassion has increased.  Those who have not experienced these delicate emotions have never truly loved.  In her absence her image is before me; in her presence, I am deprived of all reflection; I have no longer eyes for her defects; I only view her amiable.  Is not this the last extreme of folly?  And are you not surprised that I, reasoning as I do, am only sensible of the weakness which I cannot throw off?”