of smoke and an ejection of saliva.  Society of the ragged Red diluted with the lower theatrical.  She herself so different, so apart, as alone in her melancholy disdain!  I was deeply interested in that poor woman, I felt a profound compassion for her.  I did not mind much the Greek in Greek costume who tutoyed her, and kissed her, I believe, so Robert said; or the other vulgar man of the theatre who went down on his knees and called her ‘sublime.’  ‘Caprice d’amitie,’ said she, with her quiet, gentle scorn.  A noble woman under the mud, be certain. I would kneel down to her, too, if she would leave it all, throw it off, and be herself as God made her.  But she would not care for my kneeling; she does not care for me.  Perhaps she doesn’t care for anybody by this time—­who knows?  She wrote one, or two, or three kind notes to me, and promised to ‘venir m’embrasser’ before she left Paris; but she did not come.  We both tried hard to please her, and she told a friend of ours that she ‘liked us’; only we always felt that we couldn’t penetrate—­couldn’t really touch her—­it was all vain.  Her play failed, though full of talent.  It didn’t draw, and was withdrawn accordingly.  I wish she would keep to her romances, in which her real power lies.

We have found out Jadin, Alexandre Dumas’ friend and companion in the ‘Speronare.’  He showed Robert at his house poor Louis Philippe’s famous ‘umbrella,’ and the Duke of Orleans’ uniform, and the cup from which Napoleon took his coffee, which stood beside him as he signed the abdication.  Then there was a picture of ‘Milord’ hanging up.  I must go to see too.  Said Robert:  ’Then Alexandre Dumas doesn’t write romances always?’ (You know it was like a sudden spectacle of one of Leda’s eggs.) ‘Indeed,’ replied Jadin, ’he wrote the true history of his own travels, only, of course, seeing everything, like a poet, from his own point of view.’  Alfred de Musset was to have been at M. Buloz’s, where Robert was a week ago, on purpose to meet him, but he was prevented in some way.  His brother Paul de Musset, a very different person, was there instead—­but we hope to have Alfred on another occasion.  Do you know his poems?  He is not capable of large grasps, but he has poet’s life and blood in him, I assure you.  He is said to be at the feet of Rachel just now, and a man may nearly as well be with a tigress in a cage.  He began with the Princess Belgiojoso—­followed George Sand—­Rachel finishes, is likely to ‘finish’ in every sense.  In the intervals, he plays at chess.  There’s the anatomy of a man!

We are expecting a visit from Lamartine, who does a great deal of honour to both of us, it appears, in the way of appreciation, and is kind enough to propose to come.  I will tell you all about it.

But now tell me.  Oh, I want so to hear how you are.  Better, stronger, I hope and trust.  How does the new house and garden look in the spring?  Prettier and prettier, I dare say....