Last to yield, last to be forgiven, there will yet be little in your
future career to justify the distrust of despots, or to recall the young
heroine of Orleans and St Antoine.
IV.
THE CONCLUSION.
Like a river which loses itself, by infinite subdivision, in the sands, so
the wars of the Fronde disappeared in petty intrigues at last. As the
fighting ended and manoeuvring became the game, of course Mazarin came
uppermost,--Mazarin, that super-Italian, finessing and fascinating, so
deadly sweet, _l'homme plus agreable du monde_, as Madame de Motteville
and Bussy-Rabutin call him,--flattering that he might win, avaricious that
he might be magnificent, winning kings by jewelry and princesses by
lapdogs,--too cowardly for any avoidable collision,--too cool and
economical in his hatred to waste an antagonist by killing him, but always
luring and cajoling him into an unwilling tool,--too serenely careless of
popular emotion even to hate the mob of Paris, any more than a surgeon
hates his own lancet when it cuts him; he only changes his grasp and holds
it more cautiously. Mazarin ruled. And the King was soon joking over the
fight at the Porte St. Antoine, with Conde and Mademoiselle; the Queen at
the same time affectionately assuring our heroine, that, if she could have
got at her on that day, she would certainly have strangled her, but that,
since it was past, she would love her as ever,--as ever; while
Mademoiselle, not to be outdone, lies like a Frenchwoman, and assures the
Queen that really she did not mean to be so naughty, but "she was with
those who induced her to act against her sense of duty!"
The day of civil war was over.
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