conversation made
the listener forget even her loveliness. Saint-Beuve says, "As her
beauty slowly retreated, the mind it had eclipsed gradually shone
forth, as on certain days, towards twilight, the evening star appears
in the quarter of the heaven opposite to the setting sun." Her voice
was remarkably fresh, soft, and melodious. Her politeness never
forsook her: with an extreme ease of manner, she had a horror of
familiarity, as well as of all excess and violence. Her moderation of
thought, serenity of soul, and velvet manner, were as unwearying as
reason and harmony. Without pretence of any sort, she hid, under the
full bloom of her beauty and her fame, like humble violets, modesty
and disinterestedness. At the time of her death, Guizot, when a
distinguished American lady asked him what was the marvel of her
fascination, replied, with great emotion, "Sympathy, sympathy,
sympathy." She had none of that aridity of heart which regular
coquetry either presupposes or produces. Deprived by destiny of those
relations which usually fill the heart of woman, she carried into the
only sentiment allowed her, an ardor, a faithfullness, and a
delicacy, which were unequalled; and the veracity of her soul, joined
with her singular discretion, gave her friends a most enjoyable sense
of security. Ballanche called her "the genius of devotedness;" and
Montalembert, "the genius of confidence."

From the most dangerous and deteriorating influences of her position
she found a safeguard in active works of charity. Her pecuniary
generosity, in her days of opulence, was boundless. She seemed to
feel that every unfortunate had a right to her interest and her
assistance. "Disgrace and misfortune had for her," avowed one who
knew her entirely, "the same sort of attraction that favor and
success have for vulgar souls; and under no circumstances was she
ever false to this characteristic." The fine taste she had for
literature and art, the great pleasure she took in their beauties,
the natural grace and good-will with which she expressed her
admiration, furnished precisely that kind of incense which authors
and artists love to breathe. Old Laharpe, who, in her young days, had
derived the deepest delight from her attention and praise, wrote to
her, "I love you as one loves an angel." The readiness with which the
word "angel" rises to the lips of her friends is striking. Almost
every one of them applies the word to her on nearly every occasion.
Ma