Society shone as never before.  In it was the good nature of the mob.  It was no time to sit quietly at home and enjoy a book—­men and women must “go somewhere,” they must “do something.”  The women adopted the Greek costume and appeared in simple white robes caught at the shoulders with miniature stilettos.  Many men wore crape on their arms in pretended memory of friends who had been kissed by Madame Guillotine.  There was fever in the air, fever in the blood, and the passions held high carnival.  In solitude, danger depresses all save the very strongest, but the mob (ever the symbol of weakness) is made up of women—­it is an effeminate thing.  It laughs hysterically at death and cries, “On with the dance!” Women represent the opposite poles of virtue.

The fever continues:  a “poverty party” is given by Madame De Stael, where men dress in rags and women wear tattered gowns that ill conceal their charms.  “We must get used to it,” she said, and everybody laughed.  Soon, men in the streets wear red nightcaps, women appear in nightgowns, rich men wear wooden shoes, and young men in gangs of twelve parade the avenues at night carrying heavy clubs, hurrahing for this or that.

Yes, society in Paris was never so gay.

The salons were crowded, and politics was the theme.  When the discussion waxed too warm, some one would start a hymn and all would chime in until the contestants were drowned out and in token of submission joined in the chorus.

But Madame De Stael was very busy all these days.  Her house was filled with refugees, and she ran here and there for passports and pardons, and beseeched ministers and archbishops for interference or assistance or amnesty or succor and all those things that great men can give or bestow or effect or filch.  And when her smiles failed to win the wished-for signature, she still had tears that would move a heart of brass.

About this time Baron De Stael fades from our vision, leaving with Madame three children.

“It was never anything but a ‘mariage de convenance’ anyway, what of it ?” and Madame bursts into tears and throws herself into Farquar’s arms.

“Compose yourself, my dear—­you are spoiling my gown,” says the Duchesse.

“I stood him as long as I could,” continued Madame.

“You mean he stood you as long as he could.”

“You naughty thing!—­why don’t you sympathize with me?”

Then both women fall into a laughing fit that is interrupted by the servant, who announces Benjamin Constant.

Constant came as near winning the love of Madame De Stael as any man ever did.  He was politician, scholar, writer, orator, courtier.  But with it all he was a boor, for when he had won the favor of Madame De Stael he wrote a long letter to Madame Charriere, with whom he had lived for several years in the greatest intimacy, giving reasons why he had forsaken her, and ending with an ecstacy in praise of the Stael.