and of the love of night and storm, and the free raptures amid which roamed on the mountain-tops the followers of Cybele, the great goddess, the great mother.  But she was never coarse, never gross, and I am sure her generous heart has not failed to draw some rich drops from every kind of wine-press.  When she has done with an intimacy, she likes to break it off suddenly, and this has happened often, both with men and women.  Many calumnies upon her are traceable to this cause.

I forgot to mention, that, while talking, she does smoke all the time her little cigarette.  This is now a common practice among ladies abroad, but I believe originated with her.

For the rest, she holds her place in the literary and social world of France like a man, and seems full of energy and courage in it.  I suppose she has suffered much, but she has also enjoyed and done much, and her expression is one of calmness and happiness.  I was sorry to see her exploitant her talent so carelessly.  She does too much, and this cannot last forever; but “Teverino” and the “Mare au Diable,” which she has lately published, are as original, as masterly in truth, and as free in invention, as anything she has done.

Afterwards I saw Chopin, not with her, although he lives with her, and has for the last twelve years.  I went to see him in his room with one of his friends.  He is always ill, and as frail as a snow-drop, but an exquisite genius.  He played to me, and I liked his talking scarcely less.  Madame S. loved Liszt before him; she has thus been intimate with the two opposite sides of the musical world.  Mickiewicz says, “Chopin talks with spirit, and gives us the Ariel view of the universe.  Liszt is the eloquent tribune to the world of men, a little vulgar and showy certainly, but I like the tribune best.”  It is said here, that Madame S. has long had only a friendship for Chopin, who, perhaps, on his side prefers to be a lover, and a jealous lover; but she does not leave him, because he needs her care so much, when sick and suffering.  About all this, I do not know; you cannot know much about anything in France, except what you see with your two eyes.  Lying is ingrained in “la grande nation” as they so plainly show no less in literature than life.

RACHEL.

In France the theatre is living; you see something really good, and good throughout.  Not one touch of that stage-strut and vulgar bombast of tone, which the English actor fancies indispensable to scenic illusion, is tolerated here.  For the first time in my life, I saw something represented in a style uniformly good, and should have found sufficient proof, if I had needed any, that all men will prefer what is good to what is bad, if only a fair opportunity for choice be allowed.  When I came here, my first thought was to go and see Mademoiselle Rachel.  I was sure that in her I should find a true genius.