which was led by Madame Sand’s friend, Madame Viardot, the great singer whose acquaintance I was later to make in St. Petersburg, Chopin put his arm through mine and led me to the piano.  Reader! if you play the piano you will imagine how I felt!  It was an upright or cottage piano [Steh- oder Stutzflugel] of Pleyel’s, which people in Paris regard as a pianoforte.  I played the Invitation in a fragmentary fashion, Chopin gave me his hand in the most friendly manner, George Sand did not say a word.  I seated myself once more beside her.  I had obviously a purpose.  Chopin looked anxiously at us across the table, on which was burning the inevitable carcel.

  “Are you not coming sometime to St. Petersburg,” said I to
  George Sand in the most polite tone, “where you are so much
  read, so highly admired?”

  “I shall never lower myself by visiting a country of slaves!”
  answered George Sand shortly.

  This was indecorous [unanstandig] after she had been uncivil.

  “After all, you are right not to come,” I replied in the same
  tone; “you might find the door closed!  I was thinking of the
  Emperor Nicholas.”

  George Sand looked at me in astonishment, I plunged boldly
  into her large, beautiful, brown, cow-like eyes.  Chopin did
  not seem displeased, I knew the movements of his head.

Instead of giving any answer George Sand rose in a theatrical fashion, and strode in the most manly way through the salon to the blazing fire.  I followed her closely, and seated myself for the third time beside her, ready for another attack.

  She would be obliged at last to say something.

  George Sand drew an enormously thick Trabucco cigar out of her
  apron pocket, and called out “Frederic! un fidibus!”

  This offended me for him, that perfect gentleman, my master; I
  understood Liszt’s words:  “Pauvre Frederic!” in all their
  significance.

  Chopin immediately came up with a fidibus.

  As she was sending forth the first terrible cloud of smoke,
  George Sand honoured me with a word: 

  “In St. Petersburg,” she began, “I could not even smoke a
  cigar in a drawing-room?”

  “In no drawing-room have I ever seen anyone smoke a cigar,
  Madame,” I answered, not without emphasis, with a bow!

George Sand fixed her eyes sharply upon me—­the thrust had gone home!  I looked calmly around me at the good pictures in the salon, each of which was lighted up by a separate lamp.  Chopin had probably heard nothing; he had returned to the hostess at the table.

Pauvre Frederic!  How sorry I was for him, the great artist!  The next day the Suisse [hall-porter] in the hotel, Mr. Armand, said to me:  “A gentleman and a lady have been here, I said you were not at home, you had not said you would receive visitors; the gentleman left his