which he became the object. Mlle. de
Lespinasse was forty. He was twenty-nine, had competed for the Academie
Francaise, written a work on military science, also a national tragedy
which was still unpublished. She was dazzled by his brilliancy, and when
she fathomed his shallow nature, as she finally did, it was too late to
disentangle her heart. He was a man of gallantry, and was flattered
by the preference of a woman much in vogue, who had powerful friends,
influence at the Academy, and the ability to advance his interest in
many ways. He clearly condescended to be loved, but his own professions
have little of the true ring.

Distracted by this new passion on one side, and by remorse for her
disloyalty to the old one, on the other, the health of Mlle. de
Lespinasse, naturally delicate and already undermined, began to succumb
to the hidden struggle. The death of M. de Mora solved one problem; the
other remained. Mr. Guibert wished to advance his fortune by a brilliant
marriage without losing the friend who might still be of service to him.
She sat in judgment upon her own fate, counseled him, aided him in
his choice, even praised the woman who became his wife, hoping still,
perhaps, for some repose in that exaltation of friendship which is often
the last consolation of passionate souls. But she was on a path that led
to no haven of peace. There was only a blank wall before her, and the
lightning impulses of her own heart were forced back to shatter her
frail life. The world was ignorant of this fresh experience; and,
believing her crushed by the death of M. de Mora, sympathized with
her sorrow and praised her fidelity. She tried to sustain a double
role--smiles and gaiety for her friends, tears and agony for the long
hours of solitude. The tension was too much for her. She died shortly
afterwards at the age of forty-three. "If to think, to love, and to
suffer is that which constitutes life, she lived in these few years many
ages," said one who knew her well.

It was not until many years later, when those most interested were gone,
that the letters to Guibert, which form her chief title to fame, were
collected, and, curiously enough, by his widow. Then for the first
time the true drama of her life was unveiled. It is impossible in a few
extracts to convey an adequate idea of the passion and devotion that
runs through these letters. They touch the entire gamut of emotion, from
the tender melancholy of a lonely soul, the