In the middle of the eighteenth century, among the many jewellers' shops overlooking the Quai de l'horloge, stood one which bore the name of Pierre Gatien Phlipon.

Not that there was anything remarkable about the establishment; there was not, nor about the proprietor. The latter, in fact, happened merely to be a very dull Frenchman with extravagant habits and rather vicious tastes.

But he was blessed - and this is often the case with well-to-do men in lands where marriages are arranged - with a wife who was very much too good for him, a really charming woman, and a daughter, the idol of all whose eyes beheld her.

Now Jeanne-marie Phlipon - Manon, her friends called her - was really very lovely. It would have been hard, indeed, to find in all Paris a girl more fascinating. Nor did her charm depend solely on her beauty. Manon was no mere butterfly, but a girl possessed of a thousand graceful accomplishments, artistic, musical, well-read, a brilliant talker, and - this surely was her crowning virtue - supremely feminine.

The young men of the neighbourhood adored and worshipped her. Of course they did. But not one of them understood her, for below all the wayward charm of her fascinating girlhood lay the mind of a great man and the heart of a great woman. In their eyes, therefore, she seemed like some goddess - and as incomprehensible. But still her personality - and the heritage which, so they thought, was hers - attracted them magnetically. They could not resist it. And they buzzed round her like bees round a newly opened flower.

But Manon would have nothing to do with them. She sent them all peremptorily about their business, even the family butcher, who hoped to win favour by sending her the choicest cuts of steak, even the elderly widower, who prepared himself for courtship by having an ugly disfigurement removed from his left cheek.

And, needless to say, this high-handedness enraged her father greatly. He wanted to see his daughter married, and among her innumerable suitors could be found several admirable partis. But with Manon worldly considerations counted for nothing. She had her own ideal. "From the age of fourteen," she wrote, "I had dreamed of a polished man of the world; from sixteen to eighteen of a wit; from eighteen my ideal has been a philosopher."

And then, in 1772, when she had barely passed her eighteenth birthday, she met, so she thought, a man in whom were realised all her hopes, her perfect philosopher. His name was La Blancherie.

"He is not a Rousseau, doubtless," she told her friend Sophie Cannet, "but he is never tiresome. ... I dare not judge the young man because we are too much alike, but I can say of him what I said to Greuze of his picture, ' If I did not love virtue, he would give me a taste for it.' "

And so, for a while, the sweet flame of romance burned brightly, fanned by M. Phlipon's relentless opposition. He hated La Blancherie. And not without reason. He thought the man a fortune-hunter. So he was. But he was also more than this, much more, and much worse.

But a sentimental young woman very, very rarely sees her lover as he really is. In this case, Manon certainly did not. But fortunately she discovered her mistake before she had made it irrevocable. M. la Blancherie then made a hurried exit from her life.

And a great joy filled the hearts of the other suitors. Hope re-inspired them. Again they clamoured around their Penelope, clamoured insistently. But not yet would she listen to them. In spite of all, she remained still true to her ideal, and waited patiently for the coming of her own Ulysses.

And before long he came - the man whose name she was destined ultimately to bear and to immortalise.

Now, M. Roland de la Platerie, Inspector General of Commerce in Picardy, was much more than a mere Government official. In fact, he took a real interest in his work, and, it is said, knew more about the social and economic conditions of the working classes in France than any man alive. And then, again, he was essentially an interesting man. He was well-read, came of a good family, had travelled much, was closely in touch with scientific and artistic circles. In short, clearly he had a future in front of him, and already had gained a reputation both as an eccentric and as a savant.

Now, it was through the medium of her friend, Sophie Cannet, that Manon first made his acquaintance. M. Roland lived at Amiens; the nature of his work made it necessary for him to do so. Sophie Cannet lived there also. And, feeling sure that he would appeal to a girl with Manon's romantic, imaginative temperament, she suggested to M. Roland one day that, when next he went to Paris, he should call upon her dear friend, Mlle. Phlipon.

And M. Roland did so, in 1776, presenting himself at the Phlipons' house duly armed with a letter of introduction from Sophie.

Manon took the letter. "This note," she read, "will be presented to you by the philosopher of whom you have often heard me speak. Enlightened, of irreproachable character, M. Roland de la Platerie's only failings are an overwhelming admiration for antiquity and a contempt for all that is modern; he is also accustomed to talk overmuch of himself."

It was a strange communication. And Manon looked with curious interest to see what manner of person he was who had inspired it. "I saw," she wrote afterwards, "a man of forty and odd years, tall, unceremonious, blunt, as is often the scholar, without the polish acquired in society, yet with manners simple and easy, good breeding in his case being allied with philosophic gravity. Attenuation, partial baldness, a sallow complexion did not detract from the advantage of regular features, his whole appearance inspiring respect rather than admiration. But," she added, "he possessed a smile of uncommon winningness."

In short, as Sophie had foreseen, the man interested her. But, for the present, not so much as the thought of falling in love with him crossed her mind. She met him once or twice while he was staying in Paris. He amused her. She liked him. That was all.