appiness was a sympathetic marriage, it is not difficult to divine. It
may account, in some degree, for her restlessness, her perpetual need of
movement, of excitement, of society. But, whatever her domestic troubles
may have been, they were of limited duration. She was quietly separated
from her husband in 1798. Four years later she decided to return to
Coppet with him, as he was unhappy and longed to see his children. He
died en route.

The period of this marriage was one of the most memorable of France, the
period when noble and generous spirits rallied in a spontaneous movement
for national regeneration. Mme. De Stael was in the flush of hope and
enthusiasm, fresh from the study of Rousseau and her own dreams of human
perfectibility; radiant, too, with the reflection of her youthful fame.
Among those who surrounded her were the Montmorencys, Lafayette, and
Count Louis de Narbonne, whose brilliant intellect and charming manners
touched her perhaps too deeply for her peace of mind. There were also
Barnave, Chenier, Talleyrand, Mirabeau, Vergniaud, and many others of
the active leaders of the Revolution. A few woman mingled in her more
intimate circle, which was still of the old society. Of these were the
ill-fated Duchesse de Gramont, Mme. de Lauzun, the Princesse de Poix,
and the witty, lovable Marechale de Beauvau. As a rule, though devoted
to her friends and kind to those who sought her aid, Mme. de Stael did
not like the society of women. Perhaps they did not always respond to
her elevated and swiftly flowing thoughts; or it may be that she
wounded the vanity of those who were cast into the shade by talents
so conspicuous and conversation so eloquent, and who felt the lack of
sympathetic rapport. Society is au fond republican, and is apt to resent
autocracy, even the autocracy of genius, when it takes the form of
monologue. It is contrary to the social spirit. The salon of Mme. de
Stael not only took its tone from herself, but it was a reflection of
herself. She was not beautiful, and she dressed badly; indeed, she seems
to have been singularly free from that personal consciousness which
leads people to give themselves the advantages of an artistic setting,
even if the taste is not inborn. She was too intent upon what
she thought and felt, to give heed to minor details. But in her
conversation, which was a sort of improvisation, her eloquent face
was aglow, her dark eyes flashed with inspiration, her superb form an