“Ah, ha! what did I tell you?  Am I not an excellent prophet?  You remember the prophecy I made the other day?  It has come to pass just as I predicted it!”

Poor Paulin Limayrac really thought himself a prophet, when in good truth he was not even a conjurer.  Stiffening himself up on his stumpy legs, he stared as hard as he could through his eye-glass, and from his giant’s height of four feet ten, at everybody who pretended to believe there was a God in heaven.  His occupation just at that time was to toss the incense-burning censer in honor of Madame, Emile de Girardin under her aquiline nose.  He had become the page, the groom, the dwarf of this celebrated woman, who had, alas! only a few months more to live.  He opened the fire against me.  To gratify Madame Emile de Girardin, he one day wrote on the corner of her table twenty harsh lines against me, (he took good care not to sign them,) in which he said of me exactly the contrary of what he had written to me.  As these lines were anonymous, I did not care to pretend to recognize the author; besides, can you feel anger towards such a whipper-snapper?  I met him a short time afterwards, and he gave me a more cordial shake-hands than ever.  Now comes the cream of the fellow’s conduct:  for all this that I have mentioned is as nothing, so common of occurrence is it in Paris.  Note that Madame Emile de Girardin was dying:  I was ignorant of it, but Monsieur Paulin Limayrac knew it well.  Note further, that for weeks before this he had celebrated in the tenderest sentimental strains the loving friendship which existed between Madame George Sand and Madame Emile de Girardin.  Note lastly, that Monsieur Paulin Limayrac had good reason to think that I knew perfectly well who was really the author of the malicious attack on me in “La Presse,” which was his paper.  Remember all this while I repeat to you the dialogue which took place between us under an arcade of the Rue Castiglione.  I said to him,—­

“Ah! my dear Sir, Madame George Sand must be gratified this time!  Your article this morning upon her autobiography really did hit the bull’s-eye, plumb!  What fire! what enthusiasm! what lyric strains!”

“I could not help myself,” replied he.  “It is one of the fatigues of my place, I was obliged to write it.”

“Well, between you and me, the truth is that your admiration is a little exaggerated.  The work is less dull since Madame George Sand has reached the really interesting periods of her life; but how fatiguing the first part of it was!  What stuff she thrust into it!  What particulars relating to her family and her mother, which were, to say the least of it, useless!”

“Why, my dear fellow,” replied Monsieur Paulin Limayrac, with a knowing look, “don’t you know the secret?”

“What secret?”