himself." Little disposed as she was to augur any good
of the future, she has a moment of transport and hope
when she sees her friends made ministers and putting
their hands bravely to the work of public regeneration.
But even then, what is it that preoccupies her most?
She orders her letters from M. de Guibert to be brought to
her wherever she may be, — at Mme. Geoffrin's, at M. Turgot's even, at table, and during dinner. "What are you reading so earnestly?" asked a neighbour, the inquisitive
Mme. de Boufflers. "Is it some paper for M. Turgot?" "Precisely, madame," she replies; "it is a memorial I must give him presently, and I wish to read it before I give it to him."
Thus, all things in her life relate to passion, all things bring her back to it ; and it is passion alone which gives us the key to this strange heart and struggling destiny. The incalculable merit of the Letters of Mlle. de Lespuiasse is that we do not find in them what we find in books and novels; here we have the pure drama of nature, such as it reveals itself, now and then, in certain gifted beings; the surface of life is suddenly torn apart and the life itself is bared to us. It is impossible to encounter such beings, victims of a sacred passion and capable of so generous a woe, without being moved to a sentiment of respect and admiration in the midst of the profound pity which they inspire. Nevertheless, if we are wise we shall not envy them; we shall prefer a calmer interest, gently quickened; we shall cross the Tuileries (as she did one beautiful sunny morning) and say with her: "Oh! how lovely! how divine this weather! the air I breathe is calming — I love, I regret, I desire, but all those sentiments have won the imprint of sweetness and melancholy. Ah! this manner of feeling has greater charm than the ardour and throes of passion ! Yes,
