heard your idol of a Napoleon (the antique hero) called the other
evening through a black beard and gnashing teeth, 'le plus grand
scélérat du monde,' and his empire, 'le règne du Satan,' and his
marshals, 'les coquins.' After that, I won't tell you that 'le neveu' is
reproached with every iniquity possible to anybody's public and private
life. Perhaps he is not 'sans reproche' in respect to the latter, not
altogether; but one can't believe, and oughtn't, even infinitesimally,
the things which are talked on the subject....

Ah, I am so vexed about George Sand. She came, she has gone, and we
haven't met! There was a M. François who pretended to be her very very
particular friend, and who managed the business so particularly ill,
from some motive or some incapacity, that he did not give us an
opportunity of presenting our letter. He did not '_dare_' to present it
for us, he said. She is shy--she distrusts bookmaking strangers, and she
intended to be incognita while in Paris. He proposed that we should
leave it at the theatre, and Robert refused. Robert said he wouldn't
have our letter mixed up with the love letters of the actresses, or
perhaps given to the 'premier comique' to read aloud in the green room,
as a relief to the 'Chère adorable,' which had produced so much
laughter. Robert was a little proud and M. François very stupid; and I,
between the two, in a furious state of dissent from either. Robert tries
to smooth down my ruffled plumage now, by promising to look out for some
other opportunity, but the late one has gone. She is said to have
appeared in Paris in a bloom of recovered beauty and brilliancy of eyes,
and the success of her play, 'Le Mariage de Victorine,' was complete. A
strange, wild, wonderful woman, certainly. While she was here, she used
a bedroom which belongs to her son--a mere 'chambre de garçon'--and for
the rest, saw whatever friends she chose to see only at the 'café,'
where she breakfasted and dined. She has just finished a romance, we