The moral tone of these elegant côteries was anything but pure; there was little warmth of heart or elevation of sentiment, and a total absence of religious feeling or principle. Their prevailing spirit seems to have been a selfish indifference to every thing beyond the pursuit or amusement of the hour. We suspect, after all, that their extreme polish arose from the hardness of the materials.

Many distinguished women figured in the French literary annals of the last century, as occupying prominent places in the society we have been endeavoring to characterize. But a few notices of some of them will give a better notion of it than can be conveyed by any general description. We shall take, for the present, three of the most remarkable among them,-Madame Geoffrin, the Marquise Du Deffant, and her protegée and rival, Mademoiselle L'Espinasse, all contemporaries, and connected with each other.

Madame Geoffrin was born in 1699. Her father was a man of family, and had a place in the household of the Dauphin. At fifteen she was married to M. Geoffrin, an eminent glass manufacturer. Her talents and accomplishments early attracted notice, and during her husband's life, as well as after his death, her house became the rendezvous of the best society in Paris. He left her a considerable fortune, which she greatly augmented by prudence and economy, and which she employed in acts of benevolence and charity. Her gene. rosity was extensive and noble, yet free from any profusion which could impair her means of doing good. "I perceive with satisfaction," she said to D'Alembert, (as he informs us,) "that as I grow older I grow more benevolent, I dare not say better, because my benevolence, like the malignity of some people, may be the effect of weakness of mind. I have profited by what was often said to me by the good Abbé de St. Pierre, that the charity of a worthy man should not be confined to the support and relief of the unfortunate, but that it should extend to the indulgence which their faults so often stand in need of; and, in imitation of him, I have taken for my motto two words, donner et pardonner." Such became her celebrity as a leader in the literary society of Paris, that no traveller of any note thought he had seen the capital till he was introduced to Madame Geoffrin. She had received no regular education, her mind having acquired its cultivation from her intercourse with the world. She confessed she could not even spell; but nothing could exceed the ease and grace of her style and though she had never studied painting or music, she was an excellent judge and munificent patron of both these arts.

Marmontel gives some pleasing pictures of the social meetings at this lady's house. "After having dined," he says, "at Madame Geoffrin's with men of letters or artists, I was again with her in the evening in a more intimate society, for she had also granted me the favor of admitting me to her little suppers. The entertainment was very moderate, generally a chicken, some spinach, and an omelet. The company were not numerous; they consisted at most of five or six of her particular friends, or three or four gentlemen and ladies of the first fashion, selected to suit each other's tastes, and happy to be together.

"You may easily conceive that at these little suppers my self-love prompted all the means I possessed of being amusing and agreeable.

The new tales I was then writing, and of which these ladies had the first offering, were read for their entertainment before or after supper. They made regular appointments to hear them, and when the little supper was prevented by any accident, they assembled at dinner, at Madame de Brionne's. I confess that no success ever flattered me so much as that which I obtained by these readings in that little circle where wit, taste, and beauty were my judges, or rather my eulogists. There was not a single trait, either in my coloring or dialogue, however minutely delicate and subtle, that was not felt at once; and the pleasure I gave had the air of enchantment. I was enraptured to see the finest eyes in the world swimming in tears at the little touching scenes in which I had made love or nature weep. But, notwithstanding the indulgence of extreme politeness, I could well perceive, too, the cold and feeble passages which were passed over in silence, as well as those in which I had mistaken the tone of nature or the just shade of truth; and these passages I kept in mind, that I migh correct them at leisure."

Madame Geoffrin's husband, like the husbands of many other distinguished blues, was a thoroughly insignificant personage,-a per. fect cipher in his own house. Grimm tells some amusing sto ries of him. He was in the habit of borrowing books of a friend, who, by way of joke, lent him the same book several times over. It happened to be a volume of Father Labat's Travels. Monsieur Geoffrin, with the most perfect simplicity read it over every time it was lent him. "Well, sir!" said his friend," how do you like the travels?" "Oh, very good-very good indeed; but I think the author a little given to repetition." A literary foreigner, who had frequently dined at Madame Geoffrin's without knowing her husband, asked her one day, after a long absence from Paris, what had become of the poor gentleman he used to meet there, and who always sat without opening his lips. "Oh !" said the lady, "that was my husband-he is dead."

"M.

She was celebrated for her bon-mots, of which many are preserved by Grimm and other writers of the day. The Count de Coigny was one day at her table, telling as was his wont, interminable stories. Some dish being set before him, he took a little clasp-knife from his pocket and began to help himself, prosing away all the while. le Comte," said Madame Geoffrin at last, out of patience, "at dinner we should have large knives and little stories." One of her literary friends, M. de Rulhiere, having threatened to publish some very imprudent remarks on the conduct of the court of Russia, from the sale of which he expected to make a large profit, she offered him a handsome sum to put his manuscript in the fire, from a good-natured wish to keep him from getting himself into trouble. The author began to talk in a high tone about honor and independence, and the baseness of taking money as a bribe for suppressing the truth. Well, well," said she, with a quiet smile, "say yourself how much more you must have."

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As may be supposed, she partook of the infidelity which prevailed among the society in which she lived, though her good disposition, and, we may add, good taste, prevented her from adopting the offensive style of conversation then fashionable on the subject of religion. In her long last illness she began to think

seriously on this topic, and gave up the society of the philosophers. Having had a stroke of apoplexy, her daughter, the Marquise de la Ferte-Imbert, took the opportunity of shutting her door against D'Alembert, Marmontel, and her other old friends of this description. "Everybody expected," says Grimm, "that as soon as Madame Geoffrin came to herself, she would disavow her daughter's proceedings; but the world was mistaken. After having scolded a little, she forgave her daughter, and confessed that, after all, the viaticum and the philosophers would not do very well together. She said her daughter had been silly, but gave her credit for her zeal. "My daughter," she said with a smile, "is like Godfrey of Bouillon,-she wanted to defend my tomb against the infidels." This plaisanterie savors a little of levity: but her pious impressions appear to have been strengthened by the chastening hand of affliction. She persisted in her determination to see her infidel friends no more, and died, as we are informed by the Biographie Universelle, professing her belief in the truths of religion. She died in 1777, at the age of seventy-eight, leaying behind her a brilliant reputation, and a memory ennobled by many great and good qualities, and unstained by the vices and follies

of her times.

The character of the Marquise du Deffant reflects more faithfully the manners of the age, with which that of Madame Geoffrin, in many respects, stood in remarkable contrast. This celebrated lady had all the wit, all the talent, all the heartlessness, and all the immorality which entered so largely into the composition of the most polished society the world ever saw. She was born in 1699, of a noble family, and married, at an early age, to the Marquis du Deffant, a man much older than herself. The union was unhappy; they parted, and the lady consoled herself with a lover. This did not prevent a reconciliation from being patched up between the married pair by the intervention of friends. But the lover complained so loudly of the injury the lady had done him by taking back her husband, that, finding it necessary to choose between them, she gave her inamorato the preference, and once more contrived to get rid of the marquis.

After this she seems to have had a succession, or rather a plurality of admirers, and to have given herself little trouble about preserving even the appearance of decorum. She is said to have had an intrigue with that inimitable roué the Regent Duke of Orleans; but her earliest known lover seems to have been Pont de Vesle, a man of literary eminence, and of as cold and heartless a character as herself. Her subsequent preference of others did not prevent her from remaining on terms of the most intimate friendship with him, as it was called, for more than forty years. On the very evening of his death, La Harpe tells us, she came to sup with a large party at Madame de Marchais'. On her arrival, somebody began to condole with her on her loss. "Alas!" she said, "he died this evening at six o'clock; had it not been so early I could not have been here.' So saying, she sat down to supper, made, as usual, an excellent meal, and was the liveliest of the company. From a colloquy between her and this ancient friend, we may have some notion of the strength of her friendship. "Pont de Vesle," she said to him one day, "we

have been friends these forty years, and I don't think we have had a single quarrel or difference all the time.-"No madam."-" Don't you think the reason is, that we do not care a great deal for one another?"—"Why, madam, it is very likely."-Well might La Harpe say of her, "Qu'il était difficile d'avoir moins de sensibilité et plus d'égoïsme."

Besides Pont de Vesle, she had another lover, the President Hénault, the historian. There is an amusing anecdote of their liaison, which has the advantage, too, of being authentic. They were both complaining one day of the continual interruptions they met with from the society in which they lived.

"What a pleasant thing it would be," said Madame du Deffant, "to have a whole day to ourselves!"

The lover eagerly caught at the idea, and it was determined to put it in execution. They found a small apartment in the Tuilleries, belonging to a friend, which was unoccupied; and there they resolved, like Seged, the Emperor of Ethiopia, to spend a happy day. They arrived accordingly, in separate carriages, about eleven in the forenoon; ordered their carriages to return at twelve at night; and bespoke dinner from a traiteur.

The morning was spent entirely to the satisfaction of both parties, in the usual conversation of lovers.

"Well!" they could not help saying every now and then " were every day like this, life would really be too short!"

Dinner came, was heartily partaken of, and sentiment gave way to wit and gaiety. About six the Marquise looked at her watch.

"Athalie is to be played to-night, and the new actress is to make her appearance."

"I must own," said the President, "that were I not here I should regret not seeing her."

"Take care, President; what you say is an expression of regret. Were you as happy as you profess to be, you never would have thought of the possibility of going to see the new actress!"

The President defended himself, and in turn became the accuser. "Is it for you to complain of me, when you were the first to look at your watch, and to remark that Athalie was to be acted to-night? There ought to be no watches for people who are happy."

The dispute went on. The loving pair got more and more out of humor with each other; and by seven o'clock would both of them have been very glad to separate. But that was impossible.

"Ah!" cried the Marquise, "I can never stay here till twelve o'clock,-five hours longer,-what a penance !"

The Marquise went and sat down behind a screen, leaving the rest of the room to the President. Piqued at this, the gentleman seizes a pen, writes a note full of reproaches, and throws it over the screen. The lady picks it up, goes in search of pen, ink, and paper, and writes an answer in the sharpest terms. At last the happy hour of twelve struck; and each hurried off separately, resolved never again to try such an experiment.

Henault lived to the age of ninety; and with him, as with Pont de Vesle, Madame du Deffant kept up an intimacy to the last. He fell into a state of dotage before his death: and one day, when he was in that state, she having taken it into her head to ask him whether he

liked her or another lady the best, he, quite unaware of the person he was speaking to, not only declared his preference of the absent lady, but went on to justify it by an enumeration of the faults and vices of his hearer, on which topic he became so animated and eloquent that it was impossible either to stop him or to prevent every body in the room from having the benefit of his strictures.

For many years Madame du Deffant's côterie was the most brilliant in Paris. Noblemen of the highest rank, ministers of state, the most distinguished foreigners, men of genius of every description, the most elegant and accomplished women, all thought it a high honor and privilege to be admitted into her circle, of which she herself, from her wit and various talents, was the greatest ornament. At fifty she was seized with a disorder in her eyes, which terminated in blindness. When threatened with loss of sight, she took Mademoiselle l'Espinasse, then a poor friendless girl, employed as a governess in a convent, to be her humble companion and lectrice. But the men of letters who frequented the house were more attracted by the protegée than the patroness; and their increasing attentions to Mademoiselle l'Espinasse gave rise to constant jealousies and heartburnings, which ended in her withdrawing herself, or being dismissed, from Madame du Deffant's house. Her secession was attended with that of D'Alembert, and others of the old lady's literary friends, who preferred the society of the young one; a circumstance which produced an irreconcilable feud between Madame du Deffant and the philosophers, and seems to have embittered the remainder of her life.

After this time she became acquainted with Horace Walpole; and their long and intimate friendship gave occasion to the admirable correspondence between them which has been published. The letters to Walpole are models in this species of composition. Equal in ease, grace, and purity of style, to those of Madame de Sevigné, though without her gentle and womanly feeling, they embrace many more topics of interest and entertainment to a reader of the present day. They contain shrewd and pointed remarks on public occurrences, spirited sketches of character and manners, discussions on serious subjects, the scandal of the hour, and amusing anecdotes, all mingled together in an easy and felicitous confusion. The following little story, which we extract from one of them, is not only exquisitely laughable, but speaks volumes as to the character of Louis the Fif teenth and his courtiers. The Duke de Choiseul was then Prime Minister, and the Bishop of Orleans held an office in the government. About eight days ago, the king after supper went to Madame Victoire's apartments, called a servant, and gave him a letter, saying to him, Jacques, take that letter to the Duke de Choiseul, and tell him to deliver it immediately to the Bishop of Orleans.' Jacques goes to the Duke's and is told that he is at M. de Penthievre's He follows him there, and gives him the letter. Monsieur de Choiseul sends Cadet, one of the Duchess's valets, to seek the Bishop, and tell him where he is. In a couple of hours Cadet returns, and tells the Duke that he had been to the Bishop's, had knocked at the door with all his might, and, finding that nobody answered, had been all over the town in search of him without success. The Duke had nothing for it but to go himself to the Bishop's apartments, climbed

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