Monsieur Jules Sandeau gave me his arm, and we walked towards the Avenue des Champs Elysees.  It was nine o’clock when we reached the Rue de Chaillot, where Madame Emile de Girardin resided.  She lived in a sort of Greek temple, built about thirty feet below the level of the street, and down to which we had to go as if we were entering a cellar.  The house was full of columns, statues, flowers, paintings, candelabra, and servants in black dress-coats and short breeches; but everything about the place looked so accidental and ephemeral that the Comte de Saint-Brice, a very witty frequenter of the house, used to say,—­“Whenever I visit the place, I am always afraid of finding the horses sold, the servants dismissed, the husband run away, the drawing-room closed, and the house razed.”  The Comte de Saint-Brice’s fears must have been allayed on this evening.  Everything was in its place,—­horses, servants, husband, drawing-room, house.  Madame Emile de Girardin was in full dress; the manuscript tragedy was in her lap.  I found in the drawing-room Monsieur Victor Hugo, Monsieur de Lamartine, Monsieur Alfred de Musset, the three stars of our poetical heavens; Monsieur Theophile Gautier, Monsieur Mery, Monsieur Paulin Limayrac, the secondary planets; Madame George Sand, the great Amazon novelist; some doctors, some artists, two or three actors from the French Comedy, and some other gentlemen.  At this period of time Madame Emile de Girardin was forty-five years old.  Her flatterers still spoke of her beauty.  Her conversation was dazzling, but it lacked charm:  her talents forced themselves upon one; her bons mots took you by storm.  Strength had overcome everything like grace, and two hours’ conversation with Madame Emile de Girardin left one with a sick-headache or exhausted by fatigue.  Nevertheless, one of her most fervent admirers has uttered this singular paradox about her:  “She would be the first woman of the age, if she had always talked and never written a line.”

Her husband, Monsieur Emile de Girardin, was present, with his pale face, lymphatic complexion, glassy eye, and forehead checkered with a Napoleon-like lock.  He was then, and has remained ever since, the most exact personification of a pasteboard man of genius lighted by histrionic foot-lights.  He was a compound of the dandy, the sophist, and the agitator.  His talents lay in making people believe him in possession of ideas, when he had none,—­just as speculators disseminate the illusion of their capital, when in reality they are worse than bankrupt.  He began what others have since completed,—­that is, he made trade and advertisements the sovereign masters of literature and newspapers.  Abetted by the spirit of the age, he introduced into the intellectual world the risks and unexpected hazards of stock-jobbing circles.  He made a great deal of money in this trade, and, besides, it gave him the pleasure of making a great deal of noise in the world, of overturning