“Desirous of meeting the First Consul for some urgent reason,” says Dr. Stevens in his charming biography of Madame de Stael, “she went to the villa of Madame de Montessan, whither he frequently resorted.  She was alone in one of the salles when he arrived, accompanied by the consular court of brilliant young women.  The latter knew the growing hostility of their master toward her, and passed, without noticing her, to the other end of the salle, leaving her entirely alone.  Her position was becoming extremely painful, when a young lady, more courageous and more compassionate than her companions, crossed the salle and took a seat by her side.  Madame de Stael was touched by this kindness, and asked for her Christian name.  ‘Delphine,’ she responded.  ‘Ah, I will try to immortalize it,’ exclaimed Madame de Stael; and she kept her word.  This sensible young lady was the Comtesse de Custine.”

Her home at Coppet became the home of many great people.  Sismondi, the author of the History of the Italian Republics, and Literature of Southern Europe, encouraged by her, wrote here several of his famous works.  Bonstetten made his home here for years.  Schlegel, the greatest critic of his age, became the teacher of her children, and a most intimate friend.  Benjamin Constant, the author and statesman, was here.  All repaired to their rooms for work in the morning, and in the evening enjoyed philosophic, literary, and political discussions.

Bonstetten said:  “In seeing her, in hearing her, I feel myself electrified....  She daily becomes greater and better; but souls of great talent have great sufferings:  they are solitary in the world, like Mont Blanc.”

In the autumn of 1803, longing for Paris, she ventured to within ten leagues and hired a quiet home.  Word was soon borne to Napoleon that the road to her house was thronged with visitors.  He at once sent an officer with a letter signed by himself, exiling her to forty leagues from Paris, and commanding her to leave within twenty-four hours.

At once she fled to Germany.  At Frankfort her little daughter was dangerously ill.  “I knew no person in the city,” she writes.  “I did not know the language; and the physician to whom I confided my child could not speak French.  But my father shared my trouble; he consulted physicians at Geneva, and sent me their prescriptions.  Oh, what would become of a mother trembling for the life of her child, if it were not for prayer!”

Going to Weimar, she met Goethe, Wieland, Schiller, and other noted men.  At Berlin, the greatest attention was shown her.  The beautiful Louise of Prussia welcomed her heartily.  During this exile her father died, with his latest breath saying,” She has loved me dearly!  She has loved me dearly!” On his death-bed he wrote a letter to Bonaparte telling him that his daughter was in nowise responsible for his book, but it was never answered.  It was enough for Napoleon to know that she did not flatter him; therefore he wished her out of the way.