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One day in 1847 there was a vacant place, and the faithful Ballanche came no more from his rooms across the street. A year later Chateaubriand died. After the death of his wife he had wished to marry Mme. Recamier, but she thought it best to change nothing, believing that age and blindness had given her the right to devote herself to his last days.
Our comrade Dufaure had not, when this book was published, made his appearance in public life as a lawyer. The translator of Fichte, the expositor and friend of Ballanche, was already interested, as I myself was, in metaphysical questions; we often talked nonsense together about God, ourselves, and nature. He at that time affected pyrrhonism.
The letters of Mlle. de Lespinasse scarcely furnish us with a more ardent episode in the literature of hopeless passion. The worshipful devotion of Ampere and Ballanche would form a chapter no less interesting, though less intense and stormy. But the name most inseparably connected with Mme. Recamier is that of Chateaubriand.
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