“On her first appearance at the réunion, Madame Helvetius had, of course, with well-bred courtesy, paid her most particular attention, but having other guests to welcome, had left her after a while, to superintend the distribution of the amusements about the grounds. Once or twice she had passed Madame de Staël sitting gloomily on the bench where she had left her, and at last sent M. de Talleyrand to keep her company; but M. de Talleyrand had tact enough to know that, being himself no literary lion, he was no company for Madame de Staël, and so immediately went in quest of society more congenial to her taste. He soon returned, in company with the Abbé Monti, whose poems were at that time the rage all over Europe, and whose coming put the fair authoress into the best of humours. M. de Talleyrand sate down on the bench beside them, in silence, feeling himself quite extinguished by so much talent, and remained a passive listener, anxious for improvement. The conversation was overwhelming with erudition, and then the compliments were poured forth like rain from an April sky,—the Abbé ‘had never reckoned upon so great an honour as that of meeting the first writer of the age;’ madame ‘little dreamed when she arose that morning, that the day would be marked by so auspicious an event as the meeting with the Abbé.’
“‘I have devoured every word that has escaped from Sappho’s pen,’ said the abbé.
“‘I cannot sleep until I read the charming odes from the Italian “Tyrtæus,”’ said the lady.
“‘Have you seen my last endeavour?’ said the abbé.
“‘Alas! not yet,’ sighed the lady, ‘although report speaks of it more highly than of any which have preceded it.’
“‘I have it here!’ exclaimed the abbé, eagerly drawing a small volume from his pocket. ‘Allow me to present it to you, madame; a poor homage, indeed, to so much genius, but it may prove interesting to one who has had so much success in heroic poetry.’
“‘Thanks, thanks,’ cried Madame de Staël, seizing the little volume with every demonstration of overpowering gratitude. ‘This is indeed a treasure, and will be prized by me far beyond gold or jewels.’
“She turned over the leaves slowly, while the delighted abbé watched her with a charming self-complacency—then suddenly dropping it into her lap, she exclaimed, turning on the abbé a languid glance, ‘You were talking of heroic poetry, dear abbé; have you seen my last attempt—a dramatic scene, “l’Exilé”—a slight and poor imitation of some of your own?’
“‘I have not been so blessed as to obtain a copy,’ replied the abbé.
“‘How fortunate that I should have one in my reticule!’ said madame, hurriedly seizing the strings of the bag suspended from her arm, and drawing forth a thin volume in boards. The abbé bent low over it as she presented it, and kissing it with reverence, placed it by his side, and the conversation—that is to say, the complimenting—was continued with redoubled vigour.