On the other hand, in strange contrast with this individualistic society which lived in isolation as a matter of principle, there then flourished at court, in the cities, and in certain great châteaux an extremely active society, that of the salons. Effervescent, noisy like fresh arrivals, ceremonious, gilded, of a refined and factitious elegance, it represented what many writers called the “theatre of the world”: marvellous stage scenery, which underwent remarkable transformations under the shifting play of the side-lights, forming a background against which the players strutted through their parts. Who were these actors? Whence came they, whither were they going? These were questions about which often enough there was little information and less concern; sometimes it was thought best to ignore them altogether, for, thank heaven! it was not to grow mouldy in the depths of the country that a man intrigued, nor was assassination a means towards opening a grocer’s shop. Occasionally, and usually when the curtain fell on a financial act, someone disappeared, but without tragic accompaniments, and then (except Semblançay,[126] who was hanged) he reappeared and went on with the pantomime. There was nothing but praise for the noble use Admiral de Graville made of his princely fortune, which was the object of some discussion. Du Plessis so cleverly extricated himself from the toils of justice that he could bequeath to us the admirable Cardinal Richelieu. The Bohiers, Briçonnets, Robertets, Duprats,[127] and many another, small or great, erected in all security their splendid châteaux, triumphs of art, but a sort of affront to the old machicolations crumbling in cold neglect under the moss. In those days Gold was king. All this splendour and grace, this brilliant life, which seemed bound to make everything around dim by comparison, nevertheless by no means dazzled the common herd, but at first aroused a feeling of repulsion, if not of jealousy. Outcries arose. Wealth was apparently losing its character of a kindly and patriarchal simplicity, to bring into greater prominence the figures of proud and self-important men who believed their wealth would purchase everything—virtue, wit, honour, as easily as a rare picture. A poor man accordingly was set down as a “soulless body”; the virtuous man was one who lived in a palace, while the man who gave a dinner-party was a master-mind. To tyranny of this sort there was added the individual or social misfortunes of a society naturally unstable and continually recruiting itself by means of speculation. Thence arose outcries: “You make so many poor folk cry alack! alack! that we long to see you fall headlong in the dust!”[128]