If a man can do a thing more brutal than to humiliate one woman at the expense of another, I do not know it.  And without entering any defense for the men who love several women at one time, I wish to make a clear distinction between the men who bully and brutalize women for their own gratification and the men who find their highest pleasure in pleasing women.  The latter may not be a paragon, yet as his desire is to give pleasure, not to corral it, he is a totally different being from the man who deceives, badgers, humiliates, and quarrels with one who can not defend herself, in order that he may find an excuse for leaving her.

A good many of Constant’s speeches were written by Madame De Stael, and when they traveled together through Germany he no doubt was a great help to her in preparing the “De l’Allemagne.”

But there was a little man approaching from out the mist of obscurity who was to play an important part in the life of Madame De Stael.  He had heard of her wide-reaching influence, and such an influence he could not afford to forego—­it must be used to further his ends.

Yet the First Consul did not call on her, and she did not call on the First Consul.  They played a waiting game, “If he wishes to see me, he knows that I am home Thursdays!” she said with a shrug.

“Yes, but a man in his position reverses the usual order:  he does not make the first call!”

“Evidently!” said Madame, and the subject dropped with a dull thud.

Word came from somewhere that Baron De Stael was seriously ill.  The wife was thrown into a tumult of emotion.  She must go to him at once—­a wife’s duty was to her husband first of all.  She left everything, and hastening to his bedside, there ministered to him tenderly.  But death claimed him.  The widow returned to Paris clothed in deep mourning.  Crape was tied on the door-knocker and the salon was closed.

The First Consul sent condolences.

“The First Consul is a joker,” said Dannion solemnly, and took snuff.

In six weeks the salon was again opened.  Not long after, at a dinner, Napoleon and Madame De Stael sat side by side.  “Your father was a great man,” said Napoleon.

He had gotten in the first compliment when she had planned otherwise.  She intended to march her charms in a phalanx upon him, but he would not have it so.  Her wit fell flat and her prettiest smile brought only the remark, “If the wind veers north it may rain.”

They were rivals—­that was the trouble.  France was not big enough for both.

Madame De Stael’s book about Germany had been duly announced, puffed, printed.  Ten thousand copies were issued and—­seized upon by Napoleon’s agents and burned.

“The edition is exhausted,” cried Madame, as she smiled through her tears and searched for her pocket-handkerchief.

The trouble with the book was that nowhere in it was Napoleon mentioned.  Had Napoleon never noticed the book, the author would have been woefully sorry.  As it was she was pleased, and when the last guest had gone she and Benjamin Constant laughed, shook hands, and ordered lunch.