and, for the first time in her career of conquest, fell in love herself. So profound was her passion—or so profound, in her self-tormenting way, did she imagine it to be—that she remained constant to her engagement during the four years of Gibbon's absence in England; and wrote him agitated, abject letters of reproach when he, alleging his father's invincible objections, broke off the engagement. Her devoted friend Moulton, who appears to have loved her all his life, was so touched by her despair, that, with Suzanne's own consent, he sought the mediation of Rousseau, in order to bring the recreant lover back to his allegiance. But the attempt was vain. Gibbon showed himself as heartless as Mademoiselle Curchod had proved indulgent, and when the lady, as a last resource, proposed that they should at least remain friends, he declined the amiable offer as being "dangerous for both." Nevertheless, when they met again in Paris some years later, Mademoiselle Curchod, then married, welcomed Gibbon with kindness, and even wrote him notes containing, here and there, allusions to the past. For the age was eminently sentimental, and to cherish memories of vanished joys, and make passing, pathetic reference to them, was a luxury of which Madame Necker would have been the last to deprive herself.
On the death of her parents, Suzanne found herself obliged to seek for a situation as governess or companion. All her life fortunate in making and keeping the most devoted friends, she found plenty anxious to help her in carrying out her plans. Among her sincerest admirers was the charming Duchess d'Enville, whose sweetness, grace, and naïf enthusiasm for Switzerland (as a kind of romantic Republic, all shepherds and shepherdesses, toy-châlets, natural
