nsequences. Long afterwards she said
that she would have married the devil if he had been clothed as a
gentleman and assured her a moderate life. But a husband was at last
found for her, and merely to escape the monotony of her secluded
existence, she was glad, at twenty-one, to become the wife of the
Marquis du Deffand--a good but uninteresting man, much older than
herself.

Brilliant, fascinating, restless, eager to see and to learn, she felt
herself in her element in the gay world of Paris. She confessed that,
for the moment, she almost loved her husband for bringing her there.
But the moment was a short one. They did not even settle down to what
a witty Frenchman calls the "politeness of two indifferences." It is a
curious commentary upon the times, that the beautiful but notorious Mme.
de Parabere, who introduced her at once into her own unscrupulous world
and the petits soupers of the Regent, condoled with the young bride
upon her marriage, regretting that she had not taken the easy vows of a
chanoinesse, as Mme. de Tencin had done. "In that case," she said, "you
would have been free; well placed everywhere; with the stability of a
married woman; a revenue which permits one to live and accept aid from
others; the independence of a widow, without the ties which a family
imposes; unquestioned rank, which you would owe to no one; indulgence,
and impunity. For these advantages there is only the trouble of wearing
a cross, which is becoming; black or gray habits, which can be made as
magnificent as one likes; a little imperceptible veil, and a knitting
sheath."

Under such teaching she was not long in taking her own free and
independent course, which was reckless even in that age of laxity. At
her first supper at the Palais Royal she met Voltaire and fascinated
the Regent, though her reign lasted but a few days. The counsels of her
aunt, the dignified Duchesse de Luynes, availed nothing. Her husband was
speedily sent off on some mission to the provinces and she plunged
into the current. Once afterwards, in a fit of ennui, she recalled him,
frankly stating her position. But she quickly wearied of him again, grew
dull, silent, lost her vivacity, and fell into a profound melancholy.
Her friend Mme. de Parabere took it upon herself to explain to him the
facts, and he kindly relieved her forever of his presence, leaving a
touching and pathetic letter which gave her a moment of remorse in spite
of her lightened heart. This