Jaubert was accustomed to make long sojourns, which furnish her with matter for many entertaining and humorous observations on her host and his Egérie du moment; on the hostess, with her placid yet clairvoyant knowledge of all that was going on around her; on the Legitimist party's efforts and visits; and on the numerous remarkable men who formed the nucleus of the society at Augerville. She gives interesting details of the great man's love of his country life and his plantations; his whole-heartedness in small things never allowing politics, or speeches, or lawsuits, or pleading, or any of the multifarious great calls and duties of his exist ence, to interfere with the simple pleasures of his country life; his power of being tout-à-vous, not even permitting to love-so important a factor in his life-the power of withdrawing any of his time or attention from the pleasures of friendship-"Ce gaspillage de temps devenait un véritable luxe, une prodigalité."

The fact that will probably strike English readers as most peculiar is the strangely amiable acquiescence of Madame Berryer in all arrangements that brought to Augerville those admired fair ones that doubtless made up the bataillon des amours fractionnés to which allusion has already been made. Madame Jaubert relates on this score a curious conversation she held with her hostess respecting one of these particularly courted stars, who was making, simultaneously with our authoress, a stay with the Berryers. Unable to decide on the nature of the feelings that drew her host towards the Comtesse de T., she was told by Madame Ber

ryer, who had known of her cogitations, that she would be wrong in supposing the tie between them more or other than a tender and mutual admiration—" un pur platonisme, assaisonné de coquetterie ;" adding, in authoritative tones, "my husband is unable to keep any secrets from me." This remark drew forth the' smiling retort, that it would be hardly credible that a man of so delicate taste as Berryer should choose his wife for such peculiar confidences; whereupon Madame Berryer asserted that she possessed an astonishing means for obtaining any knowledge she required from her husband: when he seemed to sleep uneasily, she took him by the hand and questioned him. "And is he aware of this?" "Yes, he knows it; but what matters? He also knows I am his best friend, and incapable of putting his confidences to a wrong use. We were married at the age of nineteen, both of us; and a solid affection, of which trust forms the groundwork, succeeded to love. You will observe that I say trust, and not confidences.* Certain subjects dwell unexpressed, though tacitly understood, between us, -those we hardly ever touch upon."

Our writer, further on, tells us how she got the proof some days later, during her stay at Augerville, of the truth of Madame Berryer's judgment as to the nature of the feelings which existed between the host and his fair one, with whom in the meanwhile Madame Jaubert had grown intimate, and who gave up to Madame Jaubert for perusal the ardent letters she had received from the great orator. Of these the most recent in date was the invitation for that very visit to

Augerville; and being characteristic in its câline fondness, we give it :

"DEAR -- (for having no illusions, I suppress the possessive pronoun),everything here is in flower, and the breeze is perfumed! Will you not come to us? They are such glad days those, that let me see you walking in your liberty. Nothing is more charming to look upon, nor more inducive to love. If you do not come at once, give me alms by sending me a friendly line. You are amongst the few with whom my fondest thoughts seek to people my solitude, and converse, whilst I watch the water running by, or listen to the rustling of the wind in the trees. Send me some pleasant words to mix with those my thoughts lend you.

Show me that neither are my dreams false nor your promises. Adieu! you that I love separately and through all other fancies, all passions, all joys, all allurements of my life object of my regrets, vexation, content, admiration, and charm. To all I envy you, and yet am not jealous. My happiness is to have you appreciated, and yet would have it that I alone were yours for ever.

translatable impressions. And yet the "Marraine" has but gleaned in the rich harvest which his close

correspondence yielded her. She

has a certain casket full of letters, that we have been permitted to look into, the most interesting of which, from motives of discreet reserve, are destined to remain unknown to the many who worship at his shrine.

Musset was excessif in love-it is his own appreciation. Love was not, with him, as it is so often in our days, a light and "spirituelle comédie à deux personnages," enacted to wile away désœuvrement, and born of opportunity, but seldom a drama of passion. For what man most often seeks in woman is "love in idleness," or the satisfaction of unwholesome curiosity, or the gratification of triumphant vanity. If artistes en amour, difficulty is sufficient to attract men; and seldom is it the woman man seeks in women. What De Musset sought for in her was love-more love, love everwith an undying, unquenchable thirst! Woman to him was but the vase that held the costly ointment which his wounded and sick soul needed. The precious balm that he sued for from all his dangereuses aimées Sand, Malibran, Rachel, and so many besides-could not satisfy his immense need; he ever reached forward towards that something more he felt, he knew must be, and with an anguished heart pressed after that love, complete and perfect, that had ever failed him, "et qui dans ses bras de feu l'emportat au tombeau."

In this respect, De Musset, "l'enfant du siècle," is the poet who has left his mark most powerfully on his land and generation; for in this he was the embodiment of the love-anguish which was a distinguishing feature of his times.

Chenavard, questioned by Madame Jaubert as to what would be the representative idea which should in future ages consecrate the poet's name, answered, "À tout jamais, madame, Alfred de Musset sera la personnification de la jeunesse et de l'amour." This judgment from so competent a man would have rejoiced De Musset had he known of it; for when taken to task for his non-productiveness in his latter days, his retort was that a man's superiority in no wise depended upon the quantity of work he had done, but was to be measured by the depth of the impression he had produced.

But it is not of the exquisite poet of the " Nuit d'Octobre," of the "Saule," the "Souvenir," and of the many volumes of marvellous verse, that we have now to speak, for under that aspect he has too long been every man's property to need commendation; it is of the fantastic Will-o'- the wisp prosewriter, who during years of his life dashed off a treasure of sparkling letters to the 66 Marraine," which he paints himself without disguise or flattery, and lets us into the secrets of his heart-springs.

in

The first letter that Madame Jaubert publishes is one of the most interesting for in it De Musset, for in it De Musset, in answer to a reproof that the "Marraine" had gently written him on the unpleasantness of his manner, which often deterred favourably inclined friends from further rapports with him, has given us the key to these outward roughnesses. The letter is undated-indeed all his letters are; but this

one was evidently written during the carly stage of his acquaintance with Madame Jaubert, before his feelings had ripened into the solid friendship which marked the afterperiod of their intimacy, and his letter is made up of plaisanterie and galanterie, mixed with a strong feeling of trust in her judgment and opinions. He writes:

"MADAM,-You have found the true name for the sentiment that unites us when you christen it un sentiment sans nom: without antithesis, your expres

sion is true and full of charm. It recalls another to me, a droll one (you know you and I have that also in common, that we mix up droll and friend of mine-to his wife, I thinkserious matters). It was said by a

'We are on the chemin vicinal to love

and friendship.' What say you of the comparison? I have a real interest,' says Monsieur le Conseiller de la Verdullette, t'in your not becoming too much of a mauvais sujet. No; but seriously, you know,' he adds. But seriously, I answer in turn, am I becoming such a good-for-nothing? Have I not told you that I am holding myself back with both hands? Is it to be a mauvais sujet to find a row of pearls, white, and wish to touch them with one's finger-tips? I really care about him,' you say. Well, that's a fine reason! If people love what you love, madam,it's proof of good taste,in the first place; and secondly, that even when with others, one needs a little of you. Unfortunately, Mr. Le Conseiller is aware that, white though they be, the said pearls are much too green for his very humble servant. You never asked me how I passed my summer. 'No.' 'And why not?' 'Because I none the less thank you for your tales

that is to say, I thank you all the more.' La trompette dans la prestance is excellent; but wherefore your hard

I not

"If what I say makes your hair stand on end, be sure, madam, that I say it to you only. Here have I been led into and have arrived at an accusation of fatuité and impertinence. Let us, then, talk somewhat of these. I will not insipidly thank you for repeating to me all the evil spoken of me, but must say that, above all things, I like your gentle, kindly, and yet sincere manner of conveying a reproach, which brings it home to me without wounding. It is the most precious science, friend, that you are in possession of. It comes to you naturally; and as long as you know how to apply it, do not wonder if folk love you. Let us talk reason. Everybody is agreed as to the unpleasantness of my manner in a room. only agree with everybody on this point, but this unpleasantness is more unpleasant to me than to anybody. Whence does it proceed? From two first causes-pride and timidity. These are the amiable principles with which I have to get along here below. One cannot change one's nature; one must make the best of it. I have been trying to do so for some time past. You render me that justice. To these two first causes should be added a result difficult to be overcome. There are certain days on which I rise (it may seem ridiculous, but it is true) in a nervous condition. I may strive to go, to desire, to try-impossible!. Stupid enough, is it not? but what's to be done? Prendre sur soi. Very true; but how take where there is nothing? You tell me of people who would willingly let me know the pleasure I may have given them. I give you my word that, out of ten compliments nine are unbearable to me. I don't say that they wound me, nor that I believe them false,-simply that they give me the wish to run away: an

.

alyse that if you can. Know and believe, at least, that at such times I hate myself. It is not my real self nor nature. As a child I was quite different. I used to recite fables in the middle of the drawing-room, and afterwards would kiss the whole assembled company. Would to God I were still as then! In your letter there is a most true and just saying-and ah, what a sad one!-'You alienate men of intellect and of heart, who would otherwise be drawn towards you.' Yes, true enough; and do you think I do not see it, and that sometimes I do not regret it? But then, why so? I do not care to follow out the reason. Men are indifferent to me. I will not ask myself whether I hate them, for fear that might be at the bottom of it: however that may be, they in no wise make me suffer, and therefore it is but fair they should not give me any enjoyment. Therein, friend, and therein alone, lies the serious side of the question. In the matter of manners, bows, and shake-hands, the longer I live the more I trust I shall gain polish; that is a matter of mere politeness and of pure duty. I will force myself the most I can; and yours will be most of the merit. As to that which concerns sympathy, even all fitful and lightly expressed sympathy, as from man to man, that's another matter. Forgive my old experience, if it does not allow of my boldly deciding such a question. Your letter, madam, made me reflect at length, and conscientiously, on it: you only intended preaching politeness to me; you led me on to ponder on friendship. I looked at myself, and asked myself whether, beneath my stiff, cross, impertinent, and unsympathetic-looking exterior (whatever the fair, small Milanese may say to the contrary)—if beneath all that, I say, there may not have been primitively something passionate and enthusiastic, à la manière de Rousseau. It is quite possible. I attempted once only to give myself up to friendship. It is a strange sentiment, unheard of with mean excitement, stronger perhaps than love desires, for its transports are never allayed. From what I know

of it, it must be a terrible feeling,very dangerous, very sweet, capable of making the happiness or unhappiness of a whole life; and I understand Rousseau, who became half mad from the perturbation that this passion occasioned him. Therefore, most decidedly I will none of it: lovetroubles are quite sufficient to receive at your hands, mesdames. Moreover, I have not time for it.

"Here is a mass of seriousness for a light remonstrance; but with you my heart dilates, as by the side of others it contracts. Forgive me, therefore, this dissertation; and if you think it over a little, you will understand me better. I am not tendre, but excessif. This is my defect, and it drives me frantic. Be sure that extreme polish is ever at the expense of much depth, and I don't say this to excuse myself.

"Your letter was a real causerie, you said; mine, you see, is nothing else. I send you this quire of paper (better filled than yours). In so doing I have done more than pass an evening with you; I have passed an hour in bed with you. You had no notion of that, had you, madam? À bientôt donc, as we are agreed. I trust the dissertation upon friendship has naught in common with the sentiment sans nom.

"A. DE MUSSET."

In Madame Jaubert's salon, Alfred de Musset used to meet a certain Princess de Belgiojoso, who played no small role in the poet's life. His letters are full of her; and the "Marraine" gives us the following portrait of this fair intime:

"Princess Christine possessed all the gifts with which fairy godmothers usually endow the child they favour. Born Marquise de Trivulee, and mistress at sixteen years of age of a large fortune, she married the young and handsome Prince de Belgiojoso, who was a Milanese, as she was herself. She was singularly and rarely beautiful; and to a noble and graceful carriage was added the charm of an enchanting sound of voice. . . . The Princess had, moreover, a hundred other claims to special homage,-a rare intellect, a passionate and domi

nating mind, a glance full of power, most remarkable courage and coolness, and, above all, the art of pleasing -that most essential counterpart to the thirst for adoration. It is clear that in this intellect, united to such beauty, there lay for De Musset a most powerful attraction; indeed, rarely is it given to women to possess in so emiment a degree such magnetic gifts. . . Nevertheless," Madame Jaubert goes on to say, "these two natures did not suit or understand each other, the whilst they attracted and desired each other. In the Princess's eyes, men formed a single vast category, divided into three amorous series-'il l'est, le fût, ou le doit être.' She used to say, 'I cannot imagine what interest can be taken in life, when eyes can look upon us without loving: As to De Musset, who might well have hoped to please, even without his claims as a celebrity (acquired at the age of twenty), he declined submitting to the régime égalitaire, and being treated as tout le monde; his ardent nature revolted, as well as his delicate, sensitive, and over-susceptible mind. Fortun

ately an extreme mobility of impressions defended him against himself."

And as proof of this quality of the poet's, Madame Jaubert gives a letter to illustrate the secret and mobile nature of the poet's feelings:

"MY DEAR MARRAINE, -I went twice to-day chez vous, but found only your maid. After losing five games of chess, I went to bed in despair. The most amiable and unexpected toothache (thanks to God, and the wind that is blowing) wakes me with a start at five in the morning. I get up and write to you-in the first place, to cease from suffering; in the second, to make you acquainted with that which I should have told you had I met you. This is the lamentable thing that will infallibly choke me.

"Heaven had inspired me with the happy thought of going out this morning in weather too bad to put an umbrella out of doors. First and foremost, I translated myself to your door. I have already told you what I found there. Thereupon I went to the Rue de la Michodière, where I