Beranger lives close to us, and Robert has seen him in his white hat wandering along the asphalte.  I had a notion somehow that he was very old; but he is only elderly, not much indeed above sixty (which is the prime of life now-a-days), and he lives quietly and keeps out of scrapes poetical and political, and if Robert and I had but a little less modesty we are assured that we should find access to him easy.  But we can’t make up our minds to go to his door and introduce ourselves as vagrant minstrels, when he may probably not know our names.  We never could follow the fashion of certain authors who send their books about without intimations of their being likely to be acceptable or not, of which practice poor Tennyson knows too much for his peace.  If, indeed, a letter of introduction to Beranger were vouchsafed to us from any benign quarter, we should both be delighted, but we must wait patiently for the influence of the stars.  Meanwhile, we have at last sent our letter (Mazzini’s) to George Sand, accompanied with a little note signed by both of us, though written by me, as seemed right, being the woman.  We half despaired in doing this, for it is most difficult, it appears, to get at her, she having taken vows against seeing strangers in consequence of various annoyances and persecutions in and out of print, which it’s the mere instinct of a woman to avoid.  I can understand it perfectly.  Also, she is in Paris for only a few days, and under a new name, to escape from the plague of her notoriety.  People said to us:  ‘She will never see you; you have no chance, I am afraid.’  But we determined to try.  At last I pricked Robert up to the leap, for he was really inclined to sit in his chair and be proud a little.  ‘No,’ said I, ’you shan’t be proud, and I won’t be proud, and we will see her.  I won’t die, if I can help it, without seeing George Sand.’  So we gave our letter to a friend who was to give it to a friend, who was to place it in her hands, her abode being a mystery and the name she used unknown.  The next day came by the post this answer: 

Madame,—­J’aurai l’honneur de vous recevoir dimanche prochain rue Racine 3.  C’est le seul jour que je puisse passer chez moi, et encore je n’en suis pas absolument certaine.  Mais j’y ferai tellement mon possible, que ma bonne etoile m’y aidera peut-etre un peu.

     Agreez mille remerciments de coeur, ainsi que Monsieur
     Browning, que j’espere voir avec vous, pour la sympathie que
     vous m’accordez.

     GEORGE SAND. 
     Paris:  12 fevrier, 52.

This is graceful and kind, is it not?  And we are going to-morrow; I, rather at the risk of my life.  But I shall roll myself up head and all in a thick shawl, and we shall go in a close carriage, and I hope I shall be able to tell you about the result before shutting up this letter.