harmonies. It is a Stradivarius; Paganini knows it, takes it home
with him, guards it as the apple of his eye; from an instrument
that for me would never have been more than a resonant wooden box
he draws chords that make men weep, and love, and fall into a
very ecstasy; he directs in his will that they bury this violin
with him in his coffin. Well, Paganini is the lover, the instrument
with its strings and tuning-pegs is the woman. The instrument
must be beautifully made and come from the workshop of a right
skilful maker; more than that, it must fall into the hands of
an accomplished player. But, my poor lad, granting your actress
is a divine instrument of amorous music, I don't believe you
capable of drawing from it one single note of passion's fugue....
Just consider. I don't spend my nights supping with ladies of
the theatre; but we all know what an actress is. It is an animal
generally agreeable to see and hear, always badly brought up,
spoilt first by poverty and afterwards by luxury. Very busy into
the bargain, which makes her as unromantic as anybody can well
be. Something like a _concierge_ turned princess, and combining
the petty spite of the porter's lodge with the caprices of the
boudoir and the fagged nerves of the student.

"You can hardly expect to dazzle T---- with the munificence and
tastefulness of your presents. Your father gives you a hundred
sous a week to spend; a great deal for a bookbinder, but very
little for a woman whose gowns cost from five hundred to three
thousand francs apiece. And, as you are neither a Manager to
sign agreements, nor a Dramatic Author to apportion rôles, nor
a Journalist to write notices, nor a young man from the draper's
to take advantage of a moment's caprice as opportunity offers
when delivering a new frock, I don't see in the least how you