He mingled much with the Polish circle in Paris; with Orda who seemed born to command the future, and who was however killed in Algiers at twenty years of age; with Counts Plater, Grzymala, Ostrowski, Szembeck, with Prince Lubomirski, etc. etc.  As the Polish families who came afterwards to Paris were all anxious to form acquaintance with him, he continued to mingle principally with his own people.  He remained through them not only Au COURANT of all that was passing in his own country, but even in a kind of musical correspondence with it.  He liked those who visited Paris to show him the airs or new songs they had brought with them, and when the words of these airs pleased him, he frequently wrote a new melody for them, thus popularizing them rapidly in his country although the name of their author was often unknown.  The number of these melodies, due to the inspiration of the heart alone, having become considerable, he often thought of collecting them for publication.  But he thought of it too late, and they remain scattered and dispersed, like the perfume of the scented flowers blessing the wilderness and sweetening the “desert air” around some wandering traveller, whom chance may have led upon their secluded track.  During our stay in Poland we heard some of the melodies which are attributed to him, and which are truly worthy of him; but who would now dare to make an uncertain selection between the inspirations of the national poet, and the dreams of his people?

Chopin kept for a long time aloof from the celebrities of Paris; their glittering train repelled him.  As his character and habits had more true originality than apparent eccentricity, he inspired less curiosity than they did.  Besides he had sharp repartees for those who imprudently wished to force him into a display of his musical abilities.  Upon one occasion after he had just left the dining-room, an indiscreet host, who had had the simplicity to promise his guests some piece executed by him as a rare dessert, pointed to him an open piano.  He should have remembered that in counting without the host, it is necessary to count twice.  Chopin at first refused, but wearied at last by continued persecution, assuming, to sharpen the sting of his words, a stifled and languid tone of voice, he exclaimed:  “Ah, sir, I have scarcely dined!”

CHAPTER VII.

Madame Sand—­Lelia—­Visit to Majorca—­Exclusive Ideals.

In 1836 Madame Sand had not only published Indiana, Valentine, and Jacques, but also Lelia, that prose poem of which she afterwards said:  “If I regret having written it, it is because I could not now write it.  Were I in the same state of mind now as when it was written, it would indeed be a great consolation to me to be able to commence it.”  The mere painting of romances in cold water colors must have seemed, without doubt, dull to Madame Sand, after having handled the hammer