Madame Recamier’s personal appearance at eighteen is thus described by her niece:—­

“A figure flexible and elegant; neck and shoulders admirably formed and proportioned; a well-poised head; a small, rosy mouth, pearly teeth, charming arms, though a little small, and black hair that curled naturally.  A nose delicate and regular, but bien francais, and an incomparable brilliancy of complexion.  A countenance full of candor, and sometimes beaming with mischief, which the expression of goodness rendered irresistibly lovely.  There was a shade of indolence and pride in her gestures, and what Saint Simon said of the Duchess of Burgundy is equally applicable to her:  ’Her step was that of a goddess on the clouds.’”

Madame Recamier retained her beauty longer than is usual even with Frenchwomen, nor did she seek to repair it by any artificial means.  “She did not struggle,” says Sainte-Beuve, “she resigned herself gracefully to the first touch of Time.  She understood, that, for one who had enjoyed such success as a beauty, to seem yet beautiful was to make no pretensions.  A friend who had not seen her for many years complimented her upon her looks.  ‘Ah, my dear friend,’ she replied, ’it is useless for me to deceive myself.  From the moment I noticed that the little Savoyards in the street no longer turned to look at me, I comprehended that all was over.’” There is pathos in this simple acknowledgment, this quiet renunciation.  Was it the result of secret struggles which taught her that all regret was vain, and that to contrast the present with the past was but a useless and torturing thing for a woman?

But at the time of which we write Madame Recamier had no sad realities to ponder.  She was surrounded by admirers, with the liberty which French society accords to married women, and the freedom of heart of a young girl.  She was still content to be simply admired.  She understood neither the world nor her own heart.  Her life was too gay for reflection, nor had the time arrived for it:  “all analysis comes late.”  It is not until we have in a measure ceased to be actors, and have accepted the more passive role of spectators, that we begin to reflect upon ourselves and upon life.  And Madame Recamier had not tired of herself, or of the world.  She was too young to be heart-weary, and she knew nothing yet of the burdens and perplexities of life.  All her wishes were gratified before they were fairly expressed, and she had neither anxieties nor cares.

Her first vexation came with her first lover.  It was in the spring of 1799 that Madame Recamier met Lucien Bonaparte at a dinner.  He was then twenty-four, and she twenty-two.  He asked permission to visit her at Clichy, and made his appearance there the next day.  He first wrote to her, declaring his love, under the name of Romeo, and she, taking advantage of the subterfuge, returned his letter in the presence of other friends, with a compliment on