fer much in their method of
enveloping the soul, and lulling the will to sleep.

During this contention of theories, or rather before it began, there
was a personal one, very curious to witness. The stake in this game,
if I may use the expression, the spiritual prize that both sides
disputed, was a woman, a charming soul, full of transport and youth, of
an imprudent vivacity, and ingenuous loyalty. She was a niece of
Madame Guyon, a young lady whom they called Madame de la Maisonfort,
for she was a canoness. This noble, but poor young lady, ill-treated
by her father and stepmother, had fallen into the cold political hands
of Madame de Maintenon. Either for the vanity of founding, or in order
to amuse an old king rather difficult to entertain, she was then
establishing Saint-Cyr, for the daughters of noble families. She knew
the king was ever _sensible_ to women, and consequently let him see
only old ones or children. The boarders of Saint-Cyr, who in the
innocency of their sports gladdened the eyes of the old man, brought to
his mind a former age, and offered him a mild and innocent opportunity
for paternal gallantry.

Madame de Maintenon, who, as is well known, owed her singular fortune
to a certain decent harmony of middling qualities, looked out for an
eminently middling person, if one may use the expression, to
superintend this establishment. She could not do better than to seek
him among the Sulpicians and Lazarists. Godet, the Sulpician, whom she
took as director both of Saint-Cyr and herself; was a man of merit,
though a downright pedant; at least Saint Simon, his admirer, gives us
this sort of definition of him. Madame de Maintenon saw in him the
blunt matter-of-fact priest, who might insure her against every sort of
eccentricity. With such a man as that, one would have nothing to fear:
having to choose between the two men of genius who influenced
Saint-Cyr, Racine the Jansenist, and Fenelon the Quietist, she
preferred Godet.

Those who are ignorant of its history would have only to look at the
mansion of Saint-Cyr, to discern in it at once the real abode of
_ennui_. The soul of the foundress, the domineering spirit of the
governess, is everywhere perceptible. The very look of the place makes
one yawn. It would be something, if this building had but a sorrowful
character; even sadness may entertain the soul. No, it is not sad, yet
it is not the more cheerful on that account; there is nothing to