Sometimes as the heroine of a dark romance, she loved the
executioner, or the wretch who ended her days upon the scaffold, or,
like her sister, some Parisian youth without a penny, whose struggles
were all beneath a garret-roof. Sometimes she was Ninon, scorning men
amid continual fetes; or some applauded actress, or gay adventuress,
exhausting in her own behalf the luck of Gil Blas, or the triumphs of
Pasta, Malibran, and Florine. Then, weary of the horrors and
excitements, she returned to actual life. She married a notary, she
ate the plain brown bread of honest everyday life, she saw herself a
Madame Latournelle; she accepted a painful existence, she bore all the
trials of a struggle with fortune. After that she went back to the
romances: she was loved for her beauty; a son of a peer of France, an
eccentric, artistic young man, divined her heart, recognized the star
which the genius of a De Stael had planted on her brow. Her father
returned, possessing millions. With his permission, she put her
various lovers to certain tests (always carefully guarding her own
independence); she owned a magnificent estate and castle, servants,
horses, carriages, the choicest of everything that luxury could
bestow, and kept her suitors uncertain until she was forty years old,
at which age she made her choice.
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