Chapter 7 - Page 2

vue_. My name had thus reached, like
a sound, the ears of some persons in the literary world, and I here met
with a surprisingly friendly reception.

At Victor Hugo's invitation, I saw his abused _Burggraves_. Mr.
and Mrs. Ancelot opened their house to me, and there I met Martinez
della Rosa and other remarkable men of these times. Lamart ne seemed to
me, in his domestic, and in his whole personal appearance, as the
prince of them all. On my apologizing because I spoke such bad French,
he replied, that he was to blame, because he did not understand the
northern languages, in which, as he had discovered in late years, there
existed a fresh and vigorous literature, and where the poetical ground
was so peculiar that you had only to stoop down to find an old golden
horn. He asked about the Trollh tta canal, and avowed a wish to visit
Denmark and Stockholm. He recollected also our now reigning king, to
whom, when as prince he was in Castellamare, he had paid his respects;
besides this, he exhibited for a Frenchman, an extraordinary
acquaintance with names and places in Denmark. On my departure he wrote
a little poem for me, which I preserve amongst my dearest relics.

I generally found the jovial Alexander Dumas in bed, even long after
mid-day: here he lay, with paper, pen, and ink, and wrote his newest
drama. I found him thus one day; he nodded kindly to me, and said, "Sit
down a minute; I have just now a visit from my muse; she will be going
directly." He wrote on; spoke aloud; shouted a _viva!_ sprang out
of bed, and said, "The third act is finished!"

One evening he conducted me round into the various theatres, that I
might see the life behind the scenes. We wandered about, arm in arm,
along the gay Boulevard.

I also have to thank him for my acquaintance with Rachel. I had not
seen her act, when Alexander Dumas asked me whether I had the desire to
make her acquaintance. One evening, when she was to come out as Phedra
he led me to the stage of the Th atre Fran ais. The Representation had
begun, and behind the scenes, where a folding screen had formed a sort
of room, in which stood a table with refreshments, and a few ottomans,
sate the young girl who, as an author has said, understands how to
chisel living statues out of Racine's and Corneille's blocks of marble.
She was thin and slenderly formed, and looked very young. She looked to
me there, and more particularly so afterwards in her own house, as an
image of mourning; as a young girl who has just wept out her sorrow,
and will now let her thoughts repose in quiet. She accosted us kindly
in a deep powerful voice. In the course of conversation with Dumas, she
forgot me. I stood there quite superfluous. Dumas observed it,