When I was a little girl, I used to finish my evening prayers adding: “Dear God, don’t make my wish come true unless it is for my own good.” A clever move. If my wish wasn’t granted I would avoid questions such as:
1) Why doesn’t God listen to me? Am I not a good girl? Oh, what a nasty suspicion!
2) Is God just?
3) Is he really almighty?
Even now, I haven’t renounced on my little incantation, leaving out only the “Dear God” on whom I have long since given up on moral reasons: why did he mess up the world so badly? After all, I don’t run away from reality. I assimilate it.
I offer Jean-François Sarasin the same preferential treatment. Maybe his failure at the Blue room was “for his own good”. Had he won there his reputation as Madame de Rambouillet’s “personal versifier”, what would have become of the poet Sarasin?
If Sarasin’s participation in Madame de Rambouillet’s salon is vague, the importance of the Hôtel in his life is predominant: here he meets Anne de Bourbon; here he falls in love with her.
Because of her he becomes Condé’s servant. His destiny is set. From then on, he strides towards death and fame.