Dor. Heaven be thanked!
Per. Ah! I breathe again.
El. What a favorable end to our troubles!
Mar. Who would have foretold it?
Org. (to Tartuffe as the Officer leads him off). Ah, wretch! now you are—
Tartuffe thus disposed of, the play promptly ends with a vanishing glimpse afforded us of a happy marriage in prospect for Valère with the daughter.
“The Tartuffian Age” is the title of a late Italian book admirably translated into English by an American, Mr. W. A. Nettleton. That such should be the Italian author’s chosen title for his work incidentally shows how cosmopolitan is our French dramatist’s fame. The book is a kindly-caustic satire on the times in which we live, found by the satirist to be abundant in the quality of Tartuffe, that leaven of the Pharisees which is hypocrisy.
Molière is said to have had a personal aim in drawing the character of Tartuffe. This, at least, was like Dante. There is not much sweet laughter in such a comedy. But there is a power that is dreadful.
Each succeeding generation of Frenchmen supplies its bright and ingenious wits who produce comedy. But as there is no second Shakespeare, so there is but one Molière.