Moliere.—­Racine.—­Their Mutual Esteem.—­Racine in Mourning.

The King had not much leisure, yet occasionally he gave up half an hour or an hour to the society of a chosen few,—­men famous for their wit and brilliant talents.  One day he was so kind as to bring to my room the celebrated Moliere, to whom he was particularly attached and showed special favour.  “Madame,” said the King, “here you see the one man in all France who has most wit, most talent, and most modesty and good sense combined.  I thank God for letting him be born during my reign, and I pray that He may preserve him to us for a long while yet.”

As I hastened to add my own complimentary remarks to those of the King, I certainly perceived that about this illustrious person there was an air of modesty and simplicity such as one does not commonly find in Apollo’s favourites who aspire to fame.  Moreover, he was most comely.

Moliere told the King that he had just sketched out the plot of his “Malade Imaginaire,” and assured us that hypochondriacs themselves would find something to laugh at when it was played.  He spoke very little about himself, but at great length, and with evident admiration, about the young poet Racine.

The King asked if he thought that Racine had strength sufficient to make him the equal of Corneille.  “Sire,” said the comic poet, “Racine has already surpassed Corneille by the harmonious elegance of his versification, and by the natural, true sensibility of his dialogue; his situations are never fictitious; all his words, his phrases, come from the heart.  Racine alone is a true poet, for he alone is inspired.”

The King, continuing, said:  “I cannot witness his tragedy of ‘Berenice’ without shedding tears.  How comes it that Madame Deshoulieres and Madame de Sevigne, who have so much mind, refuse to recognise beauties which strike a genius such as yours?”

“Sire,” replied Moliere, “my opinion is nothing compared to that which your Majesty has just expressed, such is your sureness of judgment and your tact.  I know by experience that those scenes of my comedies which, at a first reading, are applauded by your Majesty, always win most applause from the public afterwards.”

“Is Racine in easy circumstances?” asked the King.

“He is not well off,” replied Moliere, “but the tragedies which he has in his portfolio will make a rich man of him some day; of that I have not the least doubt.”

“Meanwhile,” said the King, “take him this draft of six thousand livres from me, nor shall this be the limit of my esteem and affection.”

Five or six months after this interview, poor Moliere broke a blood-vessel in his chest, while playing with too great fervour the title part in his “Malade Imaginaire.”  When they brought the news to the King, he turned pale, and clasping his hands together, well-nigh burst into tears.  “France has lost her greatest genius,” he said before all the nobles present.  “We shall never have any one like him again; our loss is irreparable!”