were read and applauded there before publication.  Among distinguished strangers who sought admittance to the Abbaye, we notice the names of Humboldt, Sir Humphry Davy, and Maria Edgeworth.  De Tocqueville, Monsieur Ampere, and Sainte-Beuve were frequent visitors.  Peace and serenity reigned there, for Madame Recamier softened asperities and healed dissensions by the mere magnetism of her presence.  “It was Eurydice,” said Sainte-Beuve, “playing the part of Orpheus.”  But while she was the presiding genius of this varied and brilliant society, Chateaubriand was the controlling spirit.  Everybody deferred to him, if not for his sake, then for the sake of her whose greatest happiness was to see him pleased and amused.

Madame Recamier has frequently been called cold and heartless.  English reviewers have doubted whether she was capable of any warm, deep attachment.  Sainte-Beuve even, with all his insight, believed that the desire to be loved had satisfied her heart, and that she herself had never loved.  But he formed this opinion before the publication of Madame Recamier’s memoirs.  Chateaubriand’s letters, together with other corroborating facts, warrant a totally different conclusion.  It is very evident that Madame Recamier loved Chateaubriand with all the strength of a reticent and constant nature.  That he was the only man she did love, we think is also clear.  Prince Augustus captivated her for a time, but her conduct toward him, in contrast with that toward Chateaubriand, proves that her heart had not then been touched.  The one she treated with caprice and coldness, the other with unvarying consideration and tenderness.  There is no reason to conclude that the Prince ever made her unhappy, while it is certain that Chateaubriand made her miserable, and a mere friendship, however deep, does not render a woman wretched.  This attachment not only shaped and colored the remainder of Madame Recamier’s life, but it threatened at one time to completely subvert all other interests.  She who was so equable, such a perfect mistress of herself, so careful to give every one due meed of attention, became fitful and indifferent.  Her friends saw the change with alarm, and Montmorency remonstrated bitterly with her.  “I was extremely troubled and ashamed,” he writes, “at the sudden change in your manner toward others and myself.  Ah, Madame, the evil that your best friends have been dreading has made rapid progress in a few weeks!  Does not this thought make you tremble?  Ah, turn, while yet there is time, to Him who gives strength to them who pray for it!  He can cure all, repair all.  God and a generous heart are all-sufficient.  I implore Him, from the bottom of my heart, to sustain and enlighten you.”