O toi qui n’eus jamais dû naître,
Gage trop cher d’un fol amour;
Puisses-tu ne jamais connaître,
L’erreur qui le donna te jour! (Le Gage.)
But a little while since I had been reading with delight the philosophical romance which opened the doors of the French Academy to the Chevalier de St. Ange; that admirable Cynégyre which leaves far behind it the Numa Pompilius of Monsieur Florian. “Your Cynégyre,” said the venerable Monsieur Sedaine to the Chevalier de St. Ange, as he received him into the illustrious company, “your Cynégyre was dedicated to the manes of Fénelon, and the offering was not unworthy of the altar.” Such was my rival—the impassioned author of The Pledge—a man of whom people spoke in one breath with Fénelon and Voltaire! I could not overcome my embarrassment; astonishment numbed my distress.
“What, Madame!” I exclaimed, “the Chevalier de St. Ange!”
“Yes,” rejoined Madame Berthemet, shaking her head, “a brilliant writer. But do not imagine for a moment that he is personally the man you would conjecture from his heroical poems. Alas! as our fortunes diminish his love ebbs with them.”
She added kindly that she regretted that her daughter’s choice had not fallen upon me.
“Talents,” she said, “do not make for happiness. On the contrary, men endowed with extraordinary powers, poets and orators, ought to live single. What need of companions have they who cannot mate with their equals. Their genius alone is sufficient to foster egoism. One cannot be an eminent man without incurring the penalties.”