Among the visitors to her father’s house was Jacques Rose Recamier, a rich banker, born in Lyons, 1751,—­kind-hearted, hospitable, fine-looking, and cultivated, but of frivolous tastes.  In 1793, during the Reign of Terror, being forty-two, he married the beautiful daughter of his friend, she being but fifteen.  This marriage seems to have been one of convenience and vanity, with no ties of love on either side,—­scarcely friendship, or even sentiment.  For a few years Madame Recamier led a secluded life, on account of the troubles and dangers incident to the times, but when she did emerge from retirement she had developed into the most beautiful woman in France, and was devoted to a life of pleasure.  Her figure was flexible and elegant, her head well-poised, her complexion brilliant, with a little rosy mouth, pearly teeth, black curling hair, and soft expressive eyes, with a carriage indicative of indolence and pride, yet with a face beaming with good-nature and sympathy.

Such was Madame Recamier at eighteen, so remarkable for beauty that she called forth murmurs of admiration wherever she appeared.  As it had long been a custom in Paris, and still is, to select the most beautiful and winning woman to hand round the purse in churches for all charities, she was selected by the Church of St. Roche, the most fashionable church of that day; and so great was the enthusiasm to see this beautiful and bewitching creature, that the people crowded the church, and even mounted on the chairs, and, though assisted by two gentlemen, she could scarcely penetrate the crowd.  The collection on one occasion amounted to twenty thousand francs,—­equal, perhaps, to ten thousand dollars to-day.  This adaptation of means to an end has never been disdained by the Catholic clergy.  What would be thought in Philadelphia or New York, in an austere and solemn Presbyterian church, to see the most noted beauty of the day handing round the plate?  But such is one of the forms which French levity takes, even in the consecrated precincts of the church.

The fashionable drive and promenade in Paris was Longchamps, now the Champs Elysees, and it was Madame Recamier’s delight to drive in an open carriage on this beautiful avenue, especially on what are called the holy days,—­Wednesdays and Fridays,—­when her beauty extorted salutations from the crowd.  Of course, such a woman excited equal admiration in the salons, and was soon invited to the fetes and parties of the Directory, through Barras, one of her admirers.  There she saw Bonaparte, but did not personally know him at that time.  At one of these fetes, rising at full length from her seat to gaze at the General, sharing in the admiration for the hero, she at once attracted the notice of the crowd, who all turned to look at her; which so annoyed Bonaparte that he gave her one of his dreadful and withering frowns, which caused her to sink into her seat with terror.