two
arts which are made to supplement each other. Do not the rhythmic and
sonorous passages of verse naturally call for song to set them off,
since singing is but a better method of declaiming them? I made some
attempts at this and some of those which have been preserved are:
_Puisque ici bas toute ame_, _Le Pas d'armes du roi Jean_, and _La
Cloche_. They were ridiculed at the time, but destined to some success
later. Afterwards I continued with _Si tu veux faisons un reve_, which
Madame Carvalho sang a good deal, _Soiree en mer_, and many others.

The older I grew the greater became my devotion to Hugo. I waited
impatiently for each new work of the poet and I devoured it as soon as
it appeared. If I heard about me the spiteful criticisms of irritating
critics, I was consoled by talking to Berlioz who honored me with his
friendship and whose admiration for Hugo equalled mine. In the meantime
my literary education was improving, and I made the acquaintance of the
classics and found immortal beauties in them. My admiration for the
classics, however, did not diminish my regard for Hugo, for I never
could see why it was unfaithfulness to him not to despise Racine. It was
fortunate for me that this was my view, for I have seen the most fiery
romanticists, like Meurice and Vacquerie, revert to Racine in their
later years, and repair the links in a golden chain which should never
have been broken.

The Empire fell and Victor Hugo came back to Paris. So I was going to
have a chance of realizing my dream of seeing him and hearing his voice!
But I dreaded meeting him almost as much as I wished to do so. Like
Rossini Victor Hugo received his friends every evening. He came forward
with both hands outstretched and told me what pleasure it was for him to
see me at his house. Everything whirled around me!

"I cannot say the same to you," I answered. "I wish I were somewhere
else." He laughed heartily and showed that he knew how to overcome my
bashfulness. I waited to hear some of the conversation which, according
to my preconceived ideas, would be in the style of his latest romance.
However, it was entirely different; simple polished phrases, entirely
logical, came from that "mouth of mystery."

I went to Hugo's evenings as often as possible, for I never could drink
my fill of the presence of the hero of my youthful dreams. I had
occasion to note to what an extent a fiery republican, a modern Juvenal,
whose verses branded "kings"