At this the company arose; and all was interrupted, for religious scruples became leagued with false taste. Nothing was heard but exclamations which obliged the mistress of the house to rise also, and endeavor to conceal them from the author. This was not difficult, for he was entirely absorbed in the elevation of his thoughts. His genius at this moment had nothing in common with the earth; and when he once more opened his eyes on those who surrounded him, he saw near him four admirers, whose voices were better heard than those of the assembly.
Corneille said to him:
“Listen. If you aim at present glory, do not expect it from so fine a work. Pure poetry is appreciated by but few souls. For the common run of men, it must be closely allied with the almost physical interest of the drama. I had been tempted to make a poem of ‘Polyeuctes’; but I shall cut down this subject, abridge it of the heavens, and it shall be only a tragedy.”
“What matters to me the glory of the moment?” answered Milton. “I think not of success. I sing because I feel myself a poet. I go whither inspiration leads me. Its path is ever the right one. If these verses were not to be read till a century after my death, I should write them just the same.”
“I admire them before they are written,” said the young officer. “I see in them the God whose innate image I have found in my heart.”
“Who is it speaks thus kindly to me?” asked the poet.
“I am Rene Descartes,” replied the soldier, gently.
“How, sir!” cried De Thou. “Are you so happy as to be related to the author of the Princeps?”
“I am the author of that work,” replied Rene.
“You, sir!—but—still—pardon me—but—are you not a military man?” stammered out the counsellor, in amazement.