Pray indulge me with a short pause here to consider the scandalous arts which ministers palliate with the name and sacred word of a great King, and with which the most august Parliament of the kingdom—­the Court of Peers—­expose themselves to ridicule by such manifest inconsistencies as are more becoming the levity of a college than the majesty of a senate.  In short, persons are not sensible of what they do in these State paroxysms, which savour somewhat of frenzy.  I knew in those days some very honest men, who were so fully satisfied of the justice of the cause of the Princes that, upon occasion, they would have laid down their lives for it; and I also knew some eminently virtuous and disinterested men who would as gladly have been martyrs for the Court.  The ambition of great men manages such dispositions just as it suits their own interests; they help to blind the rest of mankind, and they even become blinder themselves than other people.

Honest M. de Fontenay, who had been twice ambassador at Rome, a man of great experience and good sense and a hearty well-wisher to his country, daily condoled with me on the lethargy into which the intestine divisions had lulled the best citizens and patriots.  We saw the Spanish colours and standards displayed upon the Pont-Neuf; the yellow sashes of Lorraine appeared at Paris with the same liberty as the Isabelles and blue ones.  People were so accustomed to these spectacles and to the news of provinces, towns, and battles lost, that they were become insolent and stupid.  Several of my friends blamed my inactivity, and desired me to bestir myself.  They bid me save the kingdom, save the city, or else I should fall from the greatest love to the greatest hatred of the people.  The Frondeurs suspected me of favouring Mazarin’s party, and the Mazarins thought I was too partial to the Frondeurs.

I was touched to the quick with a pathetic speech made to me by M. de Fontenay.  “You see,” said he, “that Mazarin, like a Jack-in-the-bog, plays at Bo-peep; but you see that, whether he appears or disappears, the wire by which the puppet is drawn on or off the stage is the royal authority, which is not likely to be broken by the measures now on foot.  Abundance of those that appear to be his greatest opponents would be very sorry to see him crushed; many others would be very glad to see him get off; not one endeavours to ruin him entirely.  You may get clear of the difficulty that embarrasses you by a door which opens into a field of honour and liberty.  Paris, whose archbishop you are, groans under a heavy load.  The Parliament there is but a mere phantom, and the Hotel de Ville a desert.  The Duc d’Orleans and the Prince have no more authority than what the rascally mob is pleased to allow them.  The Spaniards, Germans, and Lorrainers are in the suburbs laying waste the very gardens.  You that have rescued them more than once, and are their pastor, have been forced to keep guards in your own house for three weeks.