How does error propagate itself?  The mystery is accomplished under our very eyes without our perceiving it.  No one suspects how much solidity the art of printing has given both to the envy which pursues greatness, and to the popular ridicule which fastens a contrary sense on a grand historical act.  Thus, the name of the Prince de Polignac is given throughout the length and breadth of France to all bad horses that require whipping; and who knows how that will affect the opinion of the future as to the coup d’Etat of the Prince de Polignac himself?  In consequence of a whim of Shakespeare—­or perhaps it may have been a revenge, like that of Beaumarchais on Bergasse (Bergearss) —­Falstaff is, in England, a type of the ridiculous; his very name provokes laughter; he is the king of clowns.  Now, instead of being enormously pot-bellied, absurdly amorous, vain, drunken, old, and corrupted, Falstaff was one of the most distinguished men of his time, a Knight of the Garter, holding a high command in the army.  At the accession of Henry V. Sir John Falstaff was only thirty-four years old.  This general, who distinguished himself at the battle of Agincourt, and there took prisoner the Duc d’Alencon, captured, in 1420, the town of Montereau, which was vigorously defended.  Moreover, under Henry VI. he defeated ten thousand French troops with fifteen hundred weary and famished men.

So much for war.  Now let us pass to literature, and see our own Rabelais, a sober man who drank nothing but water, but is held to be, nevertheless, an extravagant lover of good cheer and a resolute drinker.  A thousand ridiculous stories are told about the author of one of the finest books in French literature,—­“Pantagruel.”  Aretino, the friend of Titian, and the Voltaire of his century, has, in our day, a reputation the exact opposite of his works and of his character; a reputation which he owes to a grossness of wit in keeping with the writings of his age, when broad farce was held in honor, and queens and cardinals wrote tales which would be called, in these days, licentious.  One might go on multiplying such instances indefinitely.

In France, and that, too, during the most serious epoch of modern history, no woman, unless it be Brunehaut or Fredegonde, has suffered from popular error so much as Catherine de’ Medici; whereas Marie de’ Medici, all of whose actions were prejudicial to France, has escaped the shame which ought to cover her name.  Marie de’ Medici wasted the wealth amassed by Henri IV.; she never purged herself of the charge of having known of the king’s assassination; her intimate was d’Epernon, who did not ward off Ravaillac’s blow, and who was proved to have known the murderer personally for a long time.  Marie’s conduct was such that she forced her son to banish her from France, where she was encouraging her other son, Gaston, to rebel; and the victory Richelieu at last won over her (on the Day of the Dupes) was due solely to the discovery the cardinal made, and imparted to Louis XIII., of secret documents relating to the death of Henri IV.