It was not a common thing for authors to make favourable arrangements with a publisher, but Chapelain had made excellent terms for that epoch. La Pucelle had sold for three thousand livres. He (Chapelain) was in easy circumstances, but his unique appearance excited unique criticisms. He was described as "one of the shabbiest, dirtiest, most shambling, and rumpled of gallows-birds, and one of the most affectedly literary characters from head to heels who ever set foot in the Blue Room." It was said he was "a complete caricature of his idea." Though Mme. de Rambouillet was accustomed to the aspect of Men of Letters, she was struck dumb when Chapelain first appeared. As his mind was not visible, she saw nothing but an ugly little man in a pigeon-breast satin habit of antique date, covered with different kinds of ill-assorted gimp. His boots were not matched (each being eccentric in its own peculiar way). On his head was an old wig and over the wig hovered a faded hat. Mme. de Rambouillet regained her self-command and decided to close her eyes to his exterior. His conversation pleased her, and before he had left her presence he had impressed her favourably. In truth Chapelain merited respect and friendship. He was full of delicacy of feeling, extremely erudite, and impassioned in his love for things of the mind. His keen, refined, critical instinct had made him an authority on all subjects. His correspondence covered all the literary and learned centres of Europe, and he was consulted as an oracle by the savants of all countries. He was interested in everything. His mind was singularly broad, modest, frank, and open to conviction; and while his nature was essentially French, his mental curiosity, with its innumerable outstretching and receptive channels, made him a representative of cosmopolitan enlightenment.
Chapelain was one of the pillars of the Salon,—or, to speak better, he was the pendentive of the Salon's literary architecture. After a time repeated frequentation of the Salon amended his "exterior" to some extent. He changed his fanciful attire for the plain black costumes worn by Vadius and by Trissotin, but his transformation was accomplished invisibly, and during the transition period he did not cease to be shabby and of a suspiciously neglected aspect, even for one hour. "I believe," said Tallemant, "that Chapelain has never had anything absolutely new."
Ménage, another pillar of the Salon de Rambouillet, was one of the rare literary exceptions to the rule of the solid provincial bourgeoisie. He was the rara avis of his country, and not only a pedant but the pedant par excellence, the finished type of the "litterateur" who "sucks ink and bursts with pride at his achievement." He was always spreading his feathers and bristling like a turkeycock if he was not appreciated according to his estimate of himself. From him descended some of the "literary types" still in existence, who cross-question a man in regard to what he knows of their literary "work." No matter what people were talking about, Ménage would interrupt them with his patronising smile and "Do you remember what I said upon that subject?" he would ask. Naturally no one remembered anything that he had written, and when they confessed that they had forgotten he would cry out all sorts of piquancies and coarseness. Every one knew what he was. Molière used him as a model for Vadius, and the likeness was striking. He was dreaded, and people loved literature to madness and accepted all its excrescences before they consented to endure his presence. "I have seen him," said Tallemant, "in Mme. de Rambouillet's alcove cleaning the insides of his teeth with a very dirty handkerchief, and that was what he was doing during the whole visit." He considered his fine manners irresistible. He pursued Mme. de Rambouillet, bombarding her incessantly with declarations. A pernicious vanity was one of his chief failings. It was his habit to give people to understand that he was on intimate terms with women like Mme. de Lafayette and Mme. de Sévigné; but Mme. de Sévigné did not permit him to carry his boasts to Paradise. One day after she had heard of his reports she invited him to accompany her alone in her carriage. She told him that she was "not afraid that any one would gossip over it." Ménage, whose feelings were outraged by her contempt, burst into a flood of reproaches. "Get into my carriage at once!" she answered. "If you anger me I will visit you in your own house!"[52]
People tolerated Ménage because he was extraordinarily wise, and because his sense of justice impelled him to admirably generous deeds. The Ministers, Mazarin and Colbert, always sent to him for the names of the people who were worthy of recompence, and Ménage frequently nominated the men who had most offended him. Justice was his passion. Under the vulgar motley of the pedant lay many excellent qualities, among them intense devotion to friends. Throughout his life he rendered innumerable services and was kind and helpful to many people. Ménage had a certain amount of money, nevertheless he gave himself into the hands of Retz, and Retz lodged and nourished him as he lodged and nourished his own lackey. Ménage lived with Retz, berating him as he berated every one; and Retz cared for him, endured his fits of anger, and listened to his scoldings ten years. Ménage "drew handsome pecuniary benefits from some other source," saved money, set out for himself, and founded a branch Blue Room in his own house. His receptions, which were held weekly on Wednesday, were in high esteem. The people who had free access to good society considered it an honour to be named as his guests.
Quite another story was "little Voiture," a delicate pigmy who had "passed forty years of his life at death's door." He was an invalid even in early youth. When very young he wrote to Mme. de Rambouillet from Nancy:
Since I have not had the honour of seeing you, madame, I have endured ills which cannot be described. As I traversed Epernay I visited Marechal Strozzi for your sake, and his tomb appeared so magnificent, and the place so calculated to give repose, that as I was in such condition and so fit for burial, I longed to be laid beside him; but as they found that there was still some warmth in me, they made difficulties about acceding to my wishes. Then I resolved to have my body carried as far as Nancy, where, at last, madame, it has arrived, so meagre and so wasted, that I do assure you that there will be very little for them to lay in the ground.
Ten years later he drew the following sketch of himself:
"My head is handsome enough; I have many grey hairs. My eyes are soft, but a little distraught.... My expression is stupid, but to counterbalance this discrepancy, I am the best boy in the world."[53]
Voiture was called "the dwarf king." He was a charming conversationalist; he was a precursor of the Parisian of the eighteenth century, of whom his winged wit and foaming gayety made him a fair antetype; he was "the life and the soul" of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, and when the ponderous minds had left the Salon, after he had helped the naturally gay ladies to lift the helmet of Minerva from their heads—and the weights from their heels—he taught them the light laughter which sits so well on "airy nothings." But he had his defects, defects so grave that the critics said: "If Voiture were of our condition it would be impossible to endure him!" He was a dangerous little gossip, constantly taking liberties and forcing people to recall him to his place. Though he was a child in size, he was a man of mature years, and the parents and guardians of young girls were forced to watch him, though it is probable that his intentions were innocent enough. One day, when he was on a visit, he attempted to press his lips to the arm of one of the daughters of the house. That time he "caught it on his fingers"; he begged pardon for his sin; but he did not correct his faults; vanity forbade him to do that, and vanity made him very jealous and hot tempered. Mlle. de Scudéry (who was not censorious) called him "untrustworthy." His literature was like his person and his character. Everything that he wrote was delicate, coquettish, and very graceful, but often puerile. His literary taste was not keen; when the Circle sat wrapt in admiration just after Corneille had read them Polyeucte, Voiture hurried to the author's side and told him that he "would better go home and lock that drama up in his bureau drawer."
Toward the end of his life Voiture dyed both hair and beard, and his manner was just what it had been in his youth; he could not realise that he was not a boy; it was said that he was "tiresome, because he did not know how to grow old."