iled to the visits of the arch-heretic.
At this time Mme. du Deffand had supposably reformed her conduct, if not
her belief.

She continued to entertain the flower of the nobility and the stars of
the literary and scientific world. But while the most famous of the men
of letters were welcome in her salon, the tone was far from pedantic
or even earnest. It was a society of conventional people, the elite of
fashion and intelligence, who amused themselves in an intellectual but
not too serious way. Montesquieu, who liked those houses in which he
could pass with his every-day wit, said, "I love this woman with all my
heart; she pleases and amuses me; it is impossible to feel a moment's
ennui in her company." Mme. de Genlis, who did not love her expressed
her surprise at finding her so natural and so kindly. Her conversation
was simple and without pretension. When she was pleased, her manners
were even affectionate. She never entered into a discussion, confessing
that she was not sufficiently attached to any opinion to defend it. She
disliked the enthusiasm of the philosophers unless it was hidden behind
the arts of the courtier, as in Voltaire, whose delicate satire charmed
her. Diderot came once, "eyed her epicurean friends," and came no more.
The air was not free enough. When at home she had three or four at
supper every day, often a dozen, and, once a week, a grand supper. All
the intellectual fashions of the time are found here. La Harpe reads a
translation from Sophocles and his own tragedy. Clairon, the actress in
vogue, recites the roles of Phedre and Agrippine, Lekain reads Voltaire,
and Goldoni a comedy of his own, which the hostess finds tiresome.
New books, new plays, the last song, the latest word of the
philosophers--all are talked about, eulogized, or dismissed with a
sarcasm. The wit of Mme. du Deffand is feared, but it fascinates. She
delights in clever repartees and sparkling epigrams. A shaft of wit
silences the most complacent of monologues. "What tiresome book are you
reading?" she said one day to a friend who talked too earnestly and too
long--saving herself from the charge of rudeness by an easy refuge in
her blindness.

Her criticisms are always severe. "There are only two pleasures for me
in the world--society and reading," she writes. "What society does one
find? Imbeciles, who utter only commonplaces, who know nothing, feel
nothing, think nothing; a few people of talent, full of themselves,
jealo