Well, I might have laughed at that—­but I didn’t.  I wrote a very affectionate letter, for I really love Miss Mitford, though she understands me no more under certain respects than you in England understand Louis Napoleon and the French nation.  Love’s love.  She meant the best to me—­and so, do you, who have a much more penetrating sense of delicacy, forgive her for my sake, dear friend....

Of the memoirs of Madame Ossoli, I know only the extracts in the ‘Athenaeum.’  She was a most interesting woman to me, though I did not sympathise with a large portion of her opinions.  Her written works are just naught.  She said herself they were sketches, thrown out in haste and for the means of subsistence, and that the sole production of hers which was likely to represent her at all would be the history of the Italian Revolution.  In fact, her reputation, such as it was in America, seemed to stand mainly on her conversation and oral lectures.  If I wished anyone to do her justice, I should say, as I have indeed said, ‘Never read what she has written.’  The letters, however, are individual, and full, I should fancy, of that magnetic personal influence which was so strong in her.  I felt drawn in towards her, during our short intercourse; I loved her, and the circumstances of her death shook me to the very roots of my heart.  The comfort is, that she lost little in this world—­the change could not be loss to her.  She had suffered, and was likely to suffer still more.

And now, am I to tell you that I have seen George Sand twice, and am to see her again?  Ah, there is no time to tell you, for I must shut up this letter.  She sate, like a priestess, the other morning in a circle of eight or nine men, giving no oracles, except with her splendid eyes, sitting at the corner of the fire, and warming her feet quietly, in a general silence of the most profound deference.  There was something in the calm disdain of it which pleased me, and struck me as characteristic.  She was George Sand, that was enough:  you wanted no proof of it.  Robert observed that ’if any other mistress of a house had behaved so, he would have walked out of the room’—­but, as it was, no sort of incivility was meant.  In fact, we hear that she ’likes us very much,’ and as we went away she called me ‘chere Madame’ and kissed me, and desired to see us both again.

I did not read myself the passage in question from Miss M.’s book.  I couldn’t make up my mind, my courage, to look at it.  But I understood from Robert.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Martin

[Paris], 138 Avenue des Ch.-Elysees:  February 27, [1852].

I get your second letter, my dearest Mrs. Martin, before I answer your first, which makes me rather ashamed.

...  Dearest friend, it is true that I have seldom been so upset as by this act of poor dear Miss Mitford’s, and the very impossibility of being vindictive on this occasion increased my agitation at the moment....