the torments of _mauvaise honte_, enough
to see what they must be to many.

It is the custom to go and call on those to whom you bring letters,
and push yourself upon their notice; thus you must go quite ignorant
whether they are disposed to be cordial. My name is always murdered
by the foreign servants who announce me. I speak very bad French;
only lately have I had sufficient command of it to infuse some of my
natural spirit in my discourse. This has been a great trial to me,
who am eloquent and free in my own tongue, to be forced to feel my
thoughts struggling in vain for utterance.

The servant who admitted me was in the picturesque costume of a
peasant, and, as Madame Sand afterward told me, her god-daughter,
whom she had brought from her province. She announced me as "_Madame
Salere,_" and returned into the ante-room to tell me. "_Madame says
she does not know you_" I began to think I was doomed to a rebuff,
among the crowd who deserve it. However, to make assurance sure, I
said, "Ask if she has not received a letter from me." As I spoke,
Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an instant. Our
eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment. The doorway
made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed. She was
dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her
shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her
whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and lady-like dignity,
presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea
of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but
much finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful,
the lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and
strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive,
and the air of the whole head Spanish, (as, indeed, she was born at
Madrid, and is only on one side of French blood.) All these details
I saw at a glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression of
_goodness_, nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole,--the truly
human heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she
said, "_C'est vous_" and held out her hand. I took it, and went into
her little study; we sat down a moment, then I said, "_Il me fait de
bien de vous voir_" and I am sure I said it with my whole heart, for
it made me very happy to see such a woman, so large and so developed
a character, and everything that _i