a hundred and twenty-eight steps, and knocked so furiously at the door that a couple of servants came running in their shirts to open it.

"Where is the Bishop?'

"In bed since ten o'clock.'

6.6

Open his door, and let me into his bed-room.'

"The Duke enters the bed-room, and rouses the Bishop from his slumber.

66 6

666

What's the matter?'

"Tis I.—I have got a letter for you from the King.'

A letter from the King! Good God! What is it o'clock? "About two.'

"The Bishop takes the letter and opens it.

"I can't read without my spectacles.'

"Where are they?'

466

In my breeches' pocket.'

The minister goes to find them; and meanwhile they are puzzling themselves with conjectures.-'What can the letter contain? Can the Archbishop of Paris have died suddenly? Which of the bishops can have hanged himself?' At the same time they were both uneasy enough, as it might perchance contain something of a less agreeable nature.

"The Bishop begins the letter, but cannot see to get through it. He hands it to the minister, who reads as follows;

1

"My Lord Bishop of Orleans, my daughters have a great desire to have some quince marmalade. They want it in very small pots. Send some; and if you have not got any, I beg― In this part of the letter there was a scrawl in the form of a sedan chair, and underneath it the letter went on,- -you will immediately send to your episcopal city for some, and let it be in very small pots. And so, my Lord Bishop of Orleans, may God have you in his holy keeping, LOUIS.' "Then there was a postscript:-'The sedan-chair does not mean anything; my daughters had drawn it on this sheet of paper, which was the first I laid my hand on.'

"Judge of the amazement of the two ministers. A courier was instantly despatched for the marmalade, which arrived next day, but nobody cared any more about it."

These letters, however, with all their wit and liveliness, present the picture of a miserable mind. The writer constantly describes herself as devoured by ennui, weary of life, and indifferent to everything but the affection of her correspondent, whom she often addresses in terms of passionate attachment, which are not easily comprehensible as proceeding from an old blind woman, and applied to a man past the meridian of life, whom, too, she had never seen. No wonder she was wretched, with nothing at the close of a long life to look to for comfort; when the past was without self-approval, the present without enjoyment, and the future without hope!

"Her

Her death was characteristic of herself and her society. dearest friends," says Grimm, "Madame de Luxembourg, Madame de Choiseul, and Madame de Cambise, were constantly with her in her last illness. Through an extraordinary excess of attachment these ladies played at loo every evening in her bed-room till she had drawn

her last breath (jusqu'à son dernier soupir inclusivement). Another writer says that her visitors happened in the middle of their game to discover that she was dead, but sat still, and played it out with great composure.

Voltaire, her letters to whom have also been published, used, in allusion to her acuteness and penetration, to call her, "L'aveugle clairvoyante." With her character and powers of conversation, she could not fail to be celebrated for her witticisms. She said of L'Esprit des Lois, that it was "De l'esprit sur les lois." Hearing two persons disputing about the famous miracle of Saint Denis, the one maintaining that the saint had only carried his head in his hands for a few minutes, and the other that he had carried it all the way from Montmartre to St. Denis, she put an end to the argument by observing that, "in such cases, il n'y a que le premier pas qui coûte." In regard to her utter heartlessness (notwithstanding the apparently solitary exception of her anomalous attachment to Walpole), all who speak of her are agreed. When the celebrated Marquise du Chatelet died, she showed her grief for the loss of her oldest and most intimate friend by circulating all over Paris the very next morning a malignant and scurrilous attack on her character: a single fact, which is perfectly conclusive.

Mademoiselle l'Espinasse was born at Lyons in 1732. Her mother was a woman of rank, who had been long before this time separated from her husband. She brought up her daughter with great care and tenderness, and it was not till her death that the poor girl, at the age of fifteen, was aware of the illegitimacy of her birth, and her forlorn and destitute situation. She found an asylum in a convent in the capacity of a governess; and she had been four years in that situation when she attracted the notice of Madame du Deffant, with whom she lived for ten years. At the end of that time, after having supplanted the old lady in the attentions of a large portion of her literary circle, she left her house, as has been already mentioned.

With the remains of what her mother had left her, and a pension granted by the King through the interest of the friends she had made in Madame du Deffant's côterie, she found herself in a condition to live independently. D'Alembert, who had become strongly attached to her, took up his abode under her roof; and others of the literati, who had frequented Madame du Deffant's house, forsook the poor old lady, and betook themselves to the society of her more attractive rival. Mademoiselle l'Espinasse was then above thirty, and far from handsome, her face being strongly marked with small-pox; but her countenance was full of intelligence and animation, and her manners and conversation quite captivating. Goodhumored and witty, possessed of information, judgment, and taste, she was the life and soul of the brilliant circle of which her house was the centre. "I cannot mention the Graces," says Marmontel, "without speaking of one who possessed them in mind and language. It was the friend of D'Alembert, Mademoiselle l'Espinasse; a wonderful combination of correctness, judgment, and prudence, with the liveliest fancy, the most ardent soul, and the most fiery imagina'tions that have existed since the days of Sappho. The constant ob

ject of attention, whether she spoke (and no one spoke better) or listened; without coquetry she inspired us with the innocent desire of pleasing her; without prudery she made freedom feel how far it might venture without disturbing modesty, or hurting decorum. Nowhere was conversation more lively, brilliant, or better regulated than in her society. That degree of temperate and everequal warmth in which she knew how to sustain it, now by restraining, and now by animating it, was a rare phenomenon; and be it observed that the heads she then moved at her will were neither weak nor light. The Condillacs and the Turgots were of the number. D'Alembert, by her side, was like a simple and docile child." "Of this society," says the same writer in another place, "the gayest, the most animated, the most amusing in his gayety, was D'Alembert. After having passed his mornings in algebraic calculations, and solving the problems of mechanics or astronomy, he came from his study like a boy just let loose from school, seeking only to enjoy himself; and, by the lively and pleasant turn which his luminous, solid, and profound mind then assumed, he soon made us forget the philosopher and the man of science to admire in him every delightful and engaging quality. The source of this natural gayety was a pure mind, free from passion, satisfied with itself, and in the daily enjoyment of some newly-discovered truth which rewarded and crowned his labors; a privilege which the mathematical sciences exclusively possess, and which no other kind of study can completely attain."

This illustrious philosopher, raised far above the level of the society in which he lived, by the singular simplicity and sincerity of his character, as well as his high intellectual powers, was the victim of a strong and unrequited attachment to Mademoiselle l'Espinasse. She was unquestionably an adventuress, and a female fortune-hunter; but her own passions were too strong to enable her to play the part successfully. She appears to have had an affection for D'Alembert, and to have been fond of his society; but she was too ambitious and aspiring to marry a man without family or fortune. She calculated on the effect of her powers of pleasing, and imagined she could captivate some distinguished member of her coterie, so much as to induce him to offer her his hand. She succeeded in inspiring the Marquis de Mora, a young Spanish nobleman who had visited Paris in his travels, with so violent a passion for her, that his family, apprehensive of the consequences, recalled him home. Mademoiselle l'Espinasse," says Marmontel, was no longer the same with D'Alembert; and he not only had to endure her coldness and caprice, but often the bitterness of her wounded temper. He bore his sorrows patiently, and complained only to me. Unhappy man! such were his devotion and obedience to her, that in the absence of M. de Mora, it was he who used to go early in a morning to ask for his letters at the post-office, and bring them to her when she woke." Absence did not abate the young Spaniard's passion. He continued his correspondence with the object of it; and at last, while his family were seeking to terminate the connexion by means of a suitable match for him, he fell into a dangerous illness. This produced an extraordinary step on the part of Mademoiselle l'Espinasse. She contrived to obtain an opinion from a physician at Paris, that the cli

66

mate of Spain would be mortal to her lover, and that if his friends wished to save him they ought to send him to breathe the air of France. This opinion, dictated by Mademoiselle l'Espinasse, was obtained by D'Alembert from his intimate friend, M. Lorry, one of the most celebrated physicians in Paris. It was transmitted to Madrid, and the authority of Lorry, supported by the wishes of the patient, produced its effect. The young Marquis was permitted to return to France, and eagerly set out on his journey; but he could not bear the effort, and died on the road.

In the mean time, D'Alembert's unhappy attachment preyed deeply on his mind. He neglected all his studies and pursuits, devoting himself entirely to the society of Mademoiselle l'Espinasse, though it was productive to him of nothing but misery. In this extremity, Madame Geoffrin, with her usual active friendship, determined to save him, if possible, from the fatal consequences of such a way of life. Though unacquainted with Mademoiselle l'Espinasse, she went to visit her, and represented to her so strongly the irreparable injury she was doing to D'Alembert, without the hope, or even the object, of any advantage to herself, that she prevailed on Mademoiselle l'Espinasse to give up all the letters she had received from him, and ob. tained her solemn promise to see him no more. As a recompense for this compliance, Madame Geoffrin settled on Mademoiselle l'Espinasse a pension, which she received during the remainder of her life.

Whatever may have been her original motive for endeavoring to captivate the young Spanish nobleman, there can be no doubt that her passion for him was not only real, but as violent as his own. From the time that she was separated from him by the interference of his family, her health gave way, and her mind was so deeply affected, that she became an object of commiseration to her friends; and his death was a blow from which she never recovered.

But the most extraordinary part of her life yet remains to be noticed. While she was passionately attached to the Marquis de Mora during his life, and dying with grief for his death, she was at the same time violently in love with another. This was the Comte de Guibert, the celebrated writer on military tactics. This strange circumstance scems to have been little known or noticed, till it was brought to light by the publication of her letters to Guibert, about five-and-twenty years ago. Guibert, a handsome and fashionable young man, distinguished for spirit and talents, had recommended himself to her by the tender interest he took in her affliction caused by her separation from her lover. The correspondence between them began in 1773, soon after Mora's recall, and continued till within a few weeks of her death in 1776.

These letters disclose a state of mind that seems inexplicable on the common principles of human nature. That the feelings they express are fictitious, or even exaggerated, is out of the question, for they glow with the eloquence of truth; and the reader cannot but feel that the passions to which they give vent are not the less real for being inconsistent and conflicting. Long before Mora's death we find expressions of the utmost attachment to Guibert. Even in the same letter Guibert is addressed in terms of passionate adoration, and then made the confidant of her unspeakable love for Mora.

After his death the same mixture of feeling continues. At one time she pours out the sorrow of a widowed and desolate heart, and next moment burns with passion for a living object. None of Guibert's letters have appeared; but she constantly complains of his cold. ness and indifference. All the while she seems never to have hoped or desired from him any thing more than the happiness derived from reciprocity of affection. She appears never to have expect. ed his hand; on the contrary, she advises him to marry, and, when he does so, the correspondence is continued in the same strain as before.

We extract a few passages from these singular letters, from which our female readers may see that there has been actually such a thing as a lady loving two gentlemen at once. We are dissatisfied with our translation of these fragments; feeling that we have been unable to transfer to another language, those "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn;" which (notwithstanding all the faults of the unhappy writer's character) render her effusions so interesting and impressive. These passages are from letters written after the death of Mora, and during the last year of her own life.

"I felt a dreadful reluctance to open your letter. Had it not been for the fear of offending you, I should have sent it back unopened. Something told me it would increase my sufferings, and I wished to spare myself. My constant bodily pains wear out my mind: I have again been in a fever, and unable to close my eyes; I am quite exhausted. For pity's sake, torment no longer a life which is closing, and every moment of which is given to sorrow and regret. I do not accuse you-I ask nothing of you-you owe me nothing for, indeed, I have not a feeling or a sentiment to which I have voluntarily yielded. When I have been so unhappy as to give way to them, I have always detested their strength, and my own weakness. So you see that you owe me no gratitude, and that I have no right to reproach you with any thing. Be free, then-leave me to my sorrow: let me, without interruption, occupy my mind with the only object I have adored, and whose memory is dearer to me than all that remains under the sun. O, my God! 1 ought not to weep for him -I ought to follow him: it is you who make me live, and who yet are the torment of a creature consumed by grief, and exerting the last remains of her strength in praying that death may relieve her. I told you truly a week ago-you make me captious and exacting: in giving all, one looks for some return. But, once more, I forgive you, and hate you not though it is not from generosity that I forgive you; it is not from kind feeling that I do not hate you. It is simply because my very soul is weary even unto death. Ah! my friend, let me alone-do not talk any longer about loving me ; it is a balm that turns to poison. Oh! how cruelly you hurt me -how heavily I feel the burden of life! How I love you notwithstanding, and how wretched should I be to make you unhappy!"

:

"How often might I have complained; how often have I hid from you my tears! Ah! I see it too well it is impossible either to keep or bring back a heart drawn away by another attachment. This I repeat to myself without ceasing, and sometimes think myself cured; but you come, and I find that all my efforts have been vain.