wds of ill-bred men who adore her _a genoux bas_, betwixt a
puff of smoke and an ejection of saliva. Society of the ragged Red
diluted with the lower theatrical. She herself so different, so apart,
as alone in her melancholy disdain! I was deeply interested in that poor
woman, I felt a profound compassion for her. I did not mind much the
Greek in Greek costume who tutoyed her, and kissed her, I believe, so
Robert said; or the other vulgar man of the theatre who went down on his
knees and called her 'sublime.' 'Caprice d'amitie,' said she, with her
quiet, gentle scorn. A noble woman under the mud, be certain. _I_ would
kneel down to her, too, if she would leave it all, throw it off, and be
herself as God made her. But she would not care for my kneeling; she
does not care for me. Perhaps she doesn't care for anybody by this
time--who knows? She wrote one, or two, or three kind notes to me, and
promised to 'venir m'embrasser' before she left Paris; but she did not
come. We both tried hard to please her, and she told a friend of ours
that she 'liked us'; only we always felt that we couldn't
penetrate--couldn't really _touch_ her--it was all vain. Her play
failed, though full of talent. It didn't draw, and was withdrawn
accordingly. I wish she would keep to her romances, in which her real
power lies.

We have found out Jadin, Alexandre Dumas' friend and companion in the
'_Speronare_.' He showed Robert at his house poor Louis Philippe's
famous 'umbrella,' and the Duke of Orleans' uniform, and the cup from
which Napoleon took his coffee, which stood beside him as he signed the
abdication. Then there was a picture of 'Milord' hanging up. I must go
to see too. Said Robert: 'Then Alexandre Dumas doesn't write romances
always?' (You know it was like a sudden spectacle of one of Leda's
eggs.) 'Indeed,' replied Jadin, 'he wrote the true history of his own
travels, only, of course, seeing everything, like a poet, from his own
point of view.' Alfred de Musset was to have been at M. Buloz's, where
Robert was a week ago, on purpose to meet him, but he was prevented in
some way. His brother Paul de Musset, a very different person, was there
instead--but we hope to have Alfred on another occasion. Do you know his
poems? He is not capable of large grasps, but he has poet's life and
blood in him, I assure you. He is said to be at the feet of Rachel just
now, and a man may nearly as well be with a tigress in a cage. He began
with the Princes