er lifelong friend and lover, Pont de Veyle, she quietly
replied, "Alas! He died this evening at six o'clock; otherwise you would
not see me here." "My friend fell ill, I attended him; he died, and
I dissected him" was the remark of a wit on reading her satirical
pen portrait of the Marquise du Chatelet. This cold skepticism, keen
analysis, and undisguised heartlessness strike the keynote of the
century which was socially so brilliant, intellectually so fruitful, and
morally so weak.

The liberty and complaisance of the domestic relations were complete. It
is true there were examples of conjugal devotion, for the gentle human
affections never quite disappear in any atmosphere; but the fact that
they were considered worthy of note sufficiently indicates the drift
of the age. In the world of fashion and of form there was not even a
pretense of preserving the sanctity of marriage, if the chronicles of
the time are to be credited. It was simply a commercial affair which
united names and fortunes, continued the glory of the families,
replenished exhausted purses, and gave freedom to women. If love entered
into it at all, it was by accident. This superfluous sentiment was
ridiculed, or relegated to the bourgeoisie, to whom it was left to
preserve the tradition of household virtues. Every one seems to have
accepted the philosophy of the irrepressible Ninon, who "returned thanks
to God every evening for her esprit, and prayed him every morning to be
preserved from follies of the heart." If a young wife was modest or
shy, she was the object of unflattering persiflage. If she betrayed her
innocent love for her husband, she was not of the charmed circle of wit
and good tone which frowned upon so vulgar a weakness, and laughed at
inconvenient scruples.

"Indeed," says a typical husband of the period, "I cannot conceive how,
in the barbarous ages, one had the courage to wed. The ties of marriage
were a chain. Today you see kindness, liberty, peace reign in the bosom
of families. If husband and wife love each other, very well; they live
together; they are happy. If they cease to love, they say so honestly,
and return to each other the promise of fidelity. They cease to be
lovers; they are friends. That is what I call social manners, gentle
manners." This reign of the senses is aptly illustrated by the epitaph
which the gay, voluptuous, and spirtuelle Marquise de Boufflers wrote
for herself:

Ci-git dans une paix profonde