will go; for everybody is glad to borrow such remarks from his neighbor without paying the price of them himself.  I soon saw one of Madame Emile de Girardin’s intimate friends whisper something into her ear.  She blushed.  Her thin lips became thinner.  Her nose and her chin, which always seemed as if about to wage war on each other, became more menacing than ever; her bright, clear eyes turned from her friend and gave me a glance ten times more tragic than the five acts of her tragedy.  I saw that my exclamation had been repeated to her, and that a universal anathema was thundered at the rustic boor, at the barbarian impudent enough to dare to be witty by Monsieur Mery’s side, and to affect to be insensible to the sublime beauties of “Cleopatre.”  However, all was not yet lost; I had unconsciously another way of conquering Madame de Girardin’s favor.  Her countenance became wreathed in smiles, she advanced towards me, and said, in a honeyed tone,—­“Well, Count, give me some tidings of our excellent Duchess de ——­, your aunt, I believe?”

In the mood of mind I was then in, nothing could have been more disagreeable to me than this way of recalling my aristocratic titles at the very moment when I sought to be nothing but a literary man.  I replied with a careless, indifferent, plebeian air, as if noble titles were nothing in my opinion,—­“The Duchess de ——!  Gracious me!  I never see her, and I could not tell you for the life of me whether she is my aunt or my cousin.  Her drawing-room is the stupidest place on earth.  They played whist there at two cents a point.  Every door was wadded to keep draughts and ideas out.  I long ago ceased to go there, and now I would not dare show my face again.”

“Admirable!  The Provinces are not devoid of sprightliness!” dryly replied Madame Emile de Girardin.

That was enough.  I was weighed in the balance and found sadly wanting by an ill-natured remark plus and a duchess minus.  Fifteen minutes afterwards we took leave of Madame de Girardin.  She gave Monsieur Jules Sandeau a fraternal and virile shake of the hand in the English style; I received only a very cold and very dry nod, which was as much as to say,—­“You are an ill-bred fellow and a fool; I have no fancy for you; return here as rarely as possible.”

Soon after this memorable evening, Monsieur Jules Sandeau’s friendly offices acquainted literary circles that a young man of the best society, devoted to literature, the author of some remarkable sketches in the newspapers and reviews, was about to appear as the literary critic of “L’Assemblee Nationale,” the well-known dally newspaper, which has been since suppressed by the government.  A month afterwards my signature might have been read at the foot of a feuilleton of fifteen columns.  About the same period of time a fashionable publisher brought out a volume of tales by me.  This was my literary honey-moon.  I was astonished at the number of friends and admirers that rose on every side