Indeed, one object of his affections, Miss Jenkins, wrote of him to a friend: "It was all I could do to prevent His Grace from throwing himself on his knees before me in sinful adulation." I fear he would have roused crass horror in the bosom of the mid-Victorian matron who, on seeing Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra," exclaimed: "How different was Cleopatra's home life from that of our own gracious queen!" The duke fell victim to Jeanne Recamier's charm. He, the official Man of the Hour, became a fixture at her salons--but for a very brief time. One day, when he was calling on her, a number of other guests being present, the duke made some would-be-witty remark about France. Jeanne chose to interpret his words as a slur on her beloved country. Roused for once from her wonted gentleness, she ordered Wellington out of her house. By the next day all Paris knew that Madame Recamier had shown the omnipotent Duke of Wellington the door. And all Paris--which adored Jeanne and hated the English hero--went wild with delight. Jeanne's popularity from that moment was boundless. Soon afterward, Wellington found that stern duty called him, somewhat hastily, to London. Whither, to his disgust, the story of his ejectment from Madame Recamier's salon had preceded him. Canova, the premier sculptor of his day--he who later paid such assiduous court to Elizabeth Paterson--fell in love with Jeanne. So indelibly was her wonder face stamped on his mind that, without her knowing it, he was able to make two busts of her. When the busts were done, Canova--who was constantly receiving and rejecting offers of fabulous sums to make portrait busts--showed her his labors of love. But Jeanne's beauty went hand in hand with vanity. She thought the busts over which he had toiled so happily did not do her justice. And without a word she turned away from the inspection and left the studio. The sharp blow to his pride was too much for Canova. He dropped her acquaintance forever; being perhaps the only one of Jeanne's adorers to break his allegiance to her before she gave the word. Recamier died. Jeanne, rich and still gloriously beautiful, received shoals of proposals. She rejected them all. She had at last met the love of her life. In the lives of all these super-women, you will have noticed, there was some one man who stood out supreme above all the host of lesser lovers; idolized, placed on a lofty pedestal, a wealth of devotion lavished on him. And so it was with Jeanne Recamier--although the affair from first to last was starkly platonic. She who had laughed at an emperor, who had rejected a prince's hand, who had turned the most famous man in Europe out of her house, lost her head and her heart to a cranky, bearlike author-adventurer, Francois Auguste de Chateaubriand. Your grandmother read and wept over his American novel, "Atala."