!

And if he grieved because his words, his name,
The breath of after-ages will not stir,
'Tis but because he would impart his fame,
And share an immortality with her;
So might there, from the brightest, holiest flame
That ere did martyrdom of heart confer,
Two shadowy forms of Truth and Friendship rise,
To seek their home together in the skies.

Pervading and earnest, however, as were these attachments of Madame
Recamier to Montmorency and Ballanche, the crowning passion of her
life was her friendship for Chateaubriand. This grand writer and
imposing person has described his first meeting with her:

"I was one morning with Madame de Stael, who, at toilet in the hands
of her maid, twirled a green twig in her fingers while she talked.
Suddenly Madame Recamier entered, clothed in white. She sits down on
a blue-silk sofa. Madame de Stael, standing, continues her eloquent
conversation. I scarcely reply, my eyes riveted on Madame Recamier. I
had never seen any one equal to her, and was more than ever
depressed. My admiration of her changed into dissatisfaction with
myself. She went out, and I saw her no more for twelve years. Twelve
years! What hostile power squanders thus our days, ironically
lavishing them on the indifferences called attachments, on the
wretchednesses named felicities!"

But it was in 1817, at a private dinner in the chamber of the dying
Madame de Stael, that their real acquaintance began. The literary
fame of Chateaubriand was then greater than that of any living man.
He was a lofty, romantic, melancholy person, with a superb head and
face, polished manners, and a grand vein of eloquence. Nothing was so
deeply characteristic of Madame Recamier as her enthusiasm for
brilliant minds, noble sentiment and conduct. It was this that had so
fascinated her with Madame de Stael. The sure proof of the ideal
nature of her attachments, their freedom from sensual ingredients, is
this ruling stamp of reverence and loyalty. Those whom she admired
the most enthusiastically she loved the most passionately. It was
inevitable that her imagination would be captivated with the
chivalrous and imposing Chateaubriand, especially at such an
affecting time. "He seemed the natural heir to Madame de Stael's
place in her heart." Speaking of this overwhelming sentiment, thirty
years later, she said, "It is impossible for a head to be more
completely turned than mine was: I used to cry all day." Montmorency
and Ballanche were g