“Madame Helvetius was one of the most charming women that the world ever produced. The style and type of such beings seem lost ever since the revolution. Without being strictly handsome, she always succeeded, without effort, in obtaining more admiration than the professed beauties who might be in the same company with her. There was a charm, a grace in every action, in every word she uttered, which has never been surpassed. Although she herself possessed no literary talent, there was not a celebrity in Europe who was not proud of her notice; and her assemblies in Paris, and her fêtes at Auteuil are not forgotten to this day. Upon the occasion to which I refer, Madame de Staël was making her _début_ in the Parisian literary world, and calculating upon even more success than she obtained, although, had she been a person of moderate pretensions, she would have been more than satisfied. She had just arrived in Paris; she herself and all those connected with her, had been bright particular stars in the somewhat dim and cloudy horizon of Geneva. “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.’