er companion, then rebelled against her exactions, and
left to establish a rival salon of her own, aided by her devoted
D'Alembert. His preference Madame du Deffand never forgave. Henceforth
she opposed philosophy, and demanded from her devotees only stimulus and
amusement. It was here that Horace Walpole found the "blind old woman"
in her tub-like chair, and began the friendship and intellectual
flirtation of fifteen years. It proved a great interest in her life,
notwithstanding Walpole's dread of ridicule at a suggestion of romance
between his middle-aged self and this woman twenty years older.

She was a power in the lives of many famous people, intimate with Madame
de Stael, Voltaire, Montesquieu, Madame de Choiseul, the Duchess of
Luxembourg, Madame Necker, Hume, Madame de Genlis. In her salon old
creeds were argued down, new ideas disseminated, and _bons mots_ and
witty gossip circulated. She has recounted what went on, and explained
the reign of clever women in her century. Ignoring her blindness, she
lived her life as gayly as she could in visiting, feasting, opera-going,
and letter-writing. But even her social supremacy and brilliant
correspondence with Voltaire, Walpole, and others, did not satisfy her.
She wished to appeal to the heart, and she appealed only to the head. Of
all ills she most dreaded ennui, and the very dread of it made her
unhappy. She became more and more insufficient to herself, until at
eighty-three she died with clear-sighted indifference.

"She was perhaps the wittiest woman who ever lived," says Saintsbury.
Hers was an inextinguishable wit, always alert, epigrammatic, enriching
the language with proverbial phrases.

During her life Voltaire's science of unbelief and Rousseau's appeal to
nature and sentiment were stimulating Europe. For Rousseau, Madame du
Deffand had no respect; but Voltaire's philosophy appealed to her
egotism. It bade a human being investigate his own puzzles, and seek
solution in himself. Madame du Deffand agreed, but failed to find
satisfaction in her anxious analysis; she envied believers in God, and
longed for illusions, yet allowed herself none. Jealous, exacting,
critical, with all the arrogance of the old aristocracy, she was as
merciless to herself as to others. "All my judgments have been false and
daring and too hasty.... I have never known any one perfectly.... To
whom then can I have recourse?" she cries despairingly.

Sainte-Beuve emphasizes her nobles