This explains why, in the eyes of all the friends of the Beautiful at that epoch, every princess was beautiful, in other words, she piloted the world towards the idea of the Beautiful. Failing a princess, or a lady of title, or an eminent woman,[166] a man might content himself with a simple maid-of-honour; but it would be almost to fail in respect towards princesses of the blood-royal not to fall in love with them, since they were born for that end; and indeed a certain accent of ardour did not displease them, for, as they told themselves, “everybody knows that a fortress is only stormed when it seems hopeless to expect weakness or treachery.”[167] Nothing flattered them more; in the admirable words of Alfred de Vigny: “In the purest relationships of life there are nevertheless things which are only poured into one single heart, as into a chosen vessel.” This chosen vessel must be rare and delicately fashioned, all compact of idealism, intellectuality and tenderness. The love of princesses, therefore, however sincere and intoxicating, manifested itself with crystal purity. When a poet makes extravagant boast of the beauty of his mistress, who is sometimes of mature years, we may be quite sure he means beauty of soul, “which is all-sufficient,” as Margaret ingenuously says. The only misfortune of the princesses was often their scant knowledge of the human heart; they saw too much of the worldly, showy, conventional exterior, and it was that usually which made them pessimists. But they exerted a powerful sway. And as their favours, coming whence they did, had no important sequels, they were not niggardly in bestowing them. Of what is not a woman capable who has nothing to fear, either from herself or from others? In such a case there is danger only for the man. Certain ladies took men and stirred them up, shook them as you shake a tree whose fruit you desire to bring down. And, to tell the truth, they were even taunted with carrying this science of theirs too far. Margaret of France in particular has been generally regarded as a consummate virtuoso; unquestionably she often puzzles us, and gives us the uneasy feeling that she is making fools of us. She herself boasted of juggling with the hearts of men, of “winning her devoted servants,” and of managing them so well that literally they no longer knew what to make of her. “The most daring,” she says, “were reduced to despair, and the most down-hearted saw a ray of hope.”[168] So, while those who know her story most intimately—Madame d’Haussonville, M. Anatole France, Madame de Genlis—come forward as guarantees of her absolute virtue, those who, like Brantôme, peep at her through the window regard her as a coquette, which indeed was her mother’s opinion. Shall I confess it? I myself, during the years, now no small portion of my life, which I have devoted to the service of these adorable women, during the many long hours spent in