ctical
wisdom and integrity of purpose be forms of genius. She does not gossip
delightfully; at times she may seem a little hard or dry; but her
reason is really guided by human kindness. "Her style," wrote a high
authority, Dollinger, "is clear, terse, refined, often sententious;
her business letters are patterns of simplicity and pregnant brevity.
They might be characterised as womanly yet manly, so well do they
combine the warmth and depth of womanly feeling with the strength
and lucidity of a masculine mind." The foundation of Saint-Cyr, for
the education of girls wellborn but poor, was the object of her
constant solicitude; there she put out her talents as a teacher and
guide of youth to the best interest; there she found play for her
best affections: "C'est le lieu," she said, "de delices pour moi."

The friend of Madame de Sevigne, the truest woman whom La
Rochefoucauld had ever known, MADAME DE LA FAYETTE was the author
of two historical works, of which one is exquisite--a memorial of
her friend the Duchess of Orleans, and of two--perhaps
three--romances, the latest of which, in the order of chronology,
is the masterpiece of seventeenth-century fiction. Marie de la Vergne,
born in 1634, a pupil of Menage, married at twenty-one to M. de la
Fayette, became the trusted companion of the bright and gracious
Henrietta of England. It is not that part of Madame's life, when she
acted as intermediary between Louis XIV. and her brother, Charles
II., that is recorded by her friend: it is the history of her heart.
Nothing is more touching in its simplicity than the narrative of
Madame's last moments; it serves as the best possible comment on the
pathetic Funeral Oration of Bossuet. We have no grounds for asserting
that the married life of Madame de la Fayette was unhappy, except
through the inadequacy of a husband whose best qualities seem to have
been of a negative kind. During the fifteen years which preceded the
death of La Rochefoucauld her friendship for him was the centre of
her existence. She seemed to bear about with her some secret grief;
something remained veiled from other friends than he, and they named
her _le Brouillard_. She outlived her friend by thirteen years, and
during ten was widowed. In 1693 she died.

Her earliest novel, _La Princesse de Montpensier_ (1662), a tale of
the days of the Valois and of St. Bartholomew, is remarkable for its
truthful pictures of the manners of the court, its rendering of