Mme. du Deffand, as a veritable bas bleu, learned,
pedantic, eccentric, and without grace or beauty. "Imagine a woman tall
and hard, with florid complexion, face sharp, nose pointed--VOILA
LA BELLE EMILIE," writes the latter; "a face with which she was so
contented that she spared nothing to set it off; curls, topknots,
precious stones, all are in profusion... She was born with much esprit;
the desire of appearing to have more made her prefer the study of the
abstract sciences to agreeable branches of knowledge; she thought
by this singularity to attain a greater reputation and a decided
superiority over all other women. Madame worked with so much care to
seem what she was not, that no one knew exactly what she was; even
her defects were not natural." "She talks like an angel"--"she sings
divinely"--"our sex ought to erect altars to her," wrote Mme. de
Graffigny during a visit at her chateau. A few weeks later her tone
changed. They had quarreled. Of such stuff is history made. But she had
already given a charming picture of the life at Cirey.

Mme. du Chatelet plunged into abstractions during the day. In the
evening she was no more the savante, but gave herself up to the
pleasures of society with the ardor of a nature that was extreme in
everything. Voltaire read his poetry and his dramas, told stories that
made them weep and then laugh at their tears, improvised verses, and
amused them with marionettes, or the magic lantern. La belle Emilie
criticized the poems, sang, and played prominent parts in the comedies
and tragedies of the philosopher poet, which were first given in her
little private theater. Among the guests were the eminent scientist,
Maupertuis, her life-long friend and teacher; the Italian savant,
Algarotti, President Henault, Helvetius, the poet, Saint-Lambert, and
many others of equal distinction. "Of what do we not talk!" writes Mme.
de Graffigny. "Poetry, science, art, everything, in a tone of
graceful badinage. I should like to be able to send you these charming
conversations, these enchanting conversations, but it is not in me."

Mme. du Chatelet owned for several years the celebrated Hotel Lambert,
and a choice company of savants assembled there as in the days when Mme.
de Lambert presided in those stately apartments. But this learned salon
had only a limited vogue. The thinking was high, but the dinners were
too plain. The real life of Mme. du Chatelet was an intimate one. "I
confess that in love