ond tender and touching, and that he had preferred
the former, but had yielded to the counsels of his friends and the
actors in the piece, and had suffered it to be produced with the more
gentle denouement. On being asked if he had destroyed the rejected
scene, he made answer that he preserved everything he had ever written.
"Posterity can destroy what it pleases, and keep what it pleases," he
added with a smile.

Victor Hugo's receptions are delightfully simple and informal. He is at
home one evening in the week, when his friends and admirers gather round
him. No change of toilette is needed: the ladies appear in walking
costume, the gentlemen in frock-coats. "The Master," as his intimate
friends and disciples love to call him, avoids all airs and posing with
the quiet simplicity of true genius. He does not plant himself in the
midst of his company, neither does he assume the consequential manners
of a dictator. Seated in an arm-chair or on a sofa beside some favored
guest, he converses--he does not discourse. At an early hour, in view of
the age and the simple habits of the host, the company separate, the
most enthusiastic raising the hand of the Master to their lips as they
take leave. One of the greatest charms about Victor Hugo's manner is
that he never shrinks from or repels any manifestation of genuine
admiration or homage. Unlike celebrities of far less note, who profess
to be indignant or disgusted at any such manifestations, he lends
himself to what must often be wearisome to him with a kindly
graciousness that often changes the enthusiasm of his admirers into a
passionate personal attachment.

Few men have ever enjoyed so wide-spread and enduring a popularity as
does Victor Hugo among the people of Paris. When, during the dark days
of 1870, he returned from his long exile, he was greeted at the
railway-station by a vast crowd, which escorted his carriage to his
first resting-place, the home of M. Paul Meurice, and he was twice
compelled to address a few words to them in order to appease their
eagerness to hear his voice. When he appears in public on great and
solemn occasions, such as the funeral of M. Thiers, he is invariably
made the object of a popular ovation of the most touching character.
People climb up the sides of his carriage to touch his hand, mothers
lift up their children to the windows imploring his blessing, and the
cry of "Vive Victor Hugo!" goes up from the very hearts of the throng.
On the