In the next letter, which contains the humorous relation of a journey made under difficulties, his inexorable decision as to his Princess is expressed with less bitterness, for he ends thus: "As for 'Elle,' now that I have made up my mind never to see her again, I may frankly give you my opinion, Je l'aime, je l'aime, je l'aime beaucoup, and you also-it's a pity, but not my fault." Nevertheless, it was soon after this that he committed a fault against good taste and feeling, by venting his sentiments towards her in some verses that appeared in 1842 in the Revue des Deux Mondes,' entitled,

"Sur une

Morte," and which he so much regretted afterwards that during his lifetime they were never reprinted, and only appeared in the posthumous edition of his works. Madame Jaubert gives a letter in which he deplores, not so much the having thought and written them, as their publication. He had been ill-the godmother had remained unanswered because "the godson had been six days in bed with fever," unable either to eat, or sleep, or to do "aught of aught, the fruits of his wisdom;" which would seem to show that it was not without a bad effect upon his general health that the sensitive poet came to his "inexorable decision." He playfully tells how "Mr. mon frère profited by the occasion to throw lumps of moral reasoning at my head, which demonstrated that it was entirely my own fault if I had been thus in my bed, soaking there like a sponge and with my head all to bits. I quite entered into the spirit of his reasoning, but should have preferred Sister Marceline."

He sent to the convent for her, but, in her absence, got another sister in her place, who nursed him well, but ennuyed him. "Ah! how rare are the Sister Marcelines!

How few, how very few are they in the world who know how to give more than a cup of tisane when one is suffering! How few who know how simultaneously to heal and to console! When Sister Marceline used to come to my bedside, her little cup in hand, and lay her hand on my forehead, saying in her childlike voice, 'What a terrible knot you are making for us here! (by which she meant, poor dear soul, that I was frowning,) she would have smoothed away the wrinkles from Leopardi himself in the very midst of a conspiration, or a lost game of chess." Then De Musset goes on to dispute with his Marraine, who would admit of no merits in "la Grisi," the rival at that time of Pauline Garcia, married and transformed into Pauline Viardot. He does not deny the talent of his ex-flame Pauline. "I throw no one overboard," he says, "but she had barely sufficient power, and now she has lost much. . . . Grisi is intolerably vulgar and common,

granted; but she is often very fine, and she is audible, whereas Pauline was not audible. Que diable! what though your intentions be of the best, if I cannot hear you, bon soir!" His kindliness of heart shows in the next paragraph, when, having drawn rather a ludicrous picture of the costume and appearance of Madame Viardot Garcia in "Arsace," he checks himself. "Poor Paulinette! whilst I am thus dressing her up, her little portrait is there just in front of me, looking out at me with a slightly sulky yet good-child look. all, you are right; I am no longer good for anything-she is charming, full of soul, with a hundred times more blood in her than all the other roarers. But then, on the other hand, what an idea, to go and get married! enfin ! And this gentleness of mood leads

After

affairs which were not mine only. But it seems to me she might have felt there were times in one's earthly career when a man's temper is variable, will he, nil he; and if he is, moreover, endowed with the advantage of being a born growler, he may become yet more so. Thus this lovely Turandot took me at my word for every crossness said; but on the other hand, never took into account any of my good impulses. I spoke to her with my whole and undisguised heartfoolishly and awkwardly if you will, but frankly; she answered me with the calm and gravity of a mandarin.

There is less difference than is generally supposed between a physical action and a moral one. I maintain that it is, to say the least of it, whimsical to pity a man if he has a pain in his stomach, but to half kill him if it is his heart that suffers. I repeat again, Marraine, that I don't pretend to be right, and that I look upon you as completely bought over by the powers that be! All I want to know is, whether we are at enmity. As for me, too well you know me for a thorough-bred godson, who would sooner be lifted by the skin of his neck without howling, like a bulldog, than give up loving his godmother, quand même, on foot and on horseback. A. DE MUSSET."

And then comes a whimsical refusal on his part to believe that the Princess had left unperused the incriminated verses:

"Friday, October.

"Indeed! So Uranie really has not read the review. I hope you do not believe that I believe that you believe that I shall believe this! This kind of jest is strange to me, and my beautiful little godmother is too well acquainted with her godson's feelings to imagine he will swallow such a flam. He who won't admit of neuralgia, or only as in connection with a hollow tooth, a thing I am acquainted with and respect, because it hurts like the very devil; but as for having a pamphlet lying before one's very eyes, dove di voi si favella, and yet not open it. No, my dear lady, I don't believe it!

"You are perhaps capable-(I don't

feel sure of it, but you have it in you) -you are capable of believing in this fine trait of a noble pride that you have told me of. For, jesting apart, with all your esprit, which is universally recognised as most exquisite, you are at times so wondrously innocent! But again, no! What a fool I am! You are at least as much of a woman as I am, and not more than myself can you place any faith in what you wrote me.

"At any rate I shall never believe it, albeit it be yourself that tell it me! Never! and in no wise-pas même quand même! Be that as it may, for a long time past I have been wishing to write a tale which shall be called 'See-Saw,' widely outlined thus: If you don't care for me, I care for you; I draw back if you come forward, &c.,-adorned with some details from life. This would help to augment by some fifty pages the small Tom Jones (tome jaune) beginning at the staircase, not without resting on the first step, and from thence into the palace, and even further. What do you say to that? On the way, as says Odry, you are ever at liberty to lose your way. The idea pleases me, and will you allow me to say something in which all my modesty will shine? If she doesn't read it... Well?-well, then, many others will. And note this, Marraine, it is next to impossible for any one to be as much as every one. But, fieux, that will not be nice of you-a gentleman whose boots and clothes Pietro or Peter has blacked or brushed, should not lug a chatelaine into the "Revue," nor have her bound in yellow paper; and if ever you do such a thing, Pierre, Pietro, or Peter will never more black your boots nor brush aught of yours again.' True, Marraine, I must renounce the pleasure of the presence of your small but charming self when swallowing macaroni aux tomates, and that also of looking at the small orange flower-buds, set in crimson satin, which serve as teeth to the beautiful person of whom you are-I know not why-the mother. must give up Leopardi's nose, and B.'s hump, M. V.'s whiskers and many other things. But then, you see, I have been driven wild. You

I

do not know, godmother. No, you cannot know to what a degree I have been killed, destroyed, ruined. How I was led on and encouraged!—what profound, perverse, and pernicious coquetry was displayed in cold blood against a poor devil who loves with all his heart, who yields himself up like a dolt, who used to go away quietly to cry hot tears half an hour before dinner-time, and who hardly dared to speak in a whisper of it when giving his arm to take her in to dinner, but who wakes up sooner or later, never mind why, and who knows what to understand!"...

The next letter being characteristic, we also give some portions. It is as follows:

"Monday

"I must be terribly fond of you, madam, to forgive you for fathoming me, and coming to tell me to my face exactly what I think. In your turn, you must admit that we men are often better than you women; for never did I hear it told that a woman had forgiven in similar circumstances, still less that she had given in, whereas I forgive and surrender. See how bon prince I am, yet you dare to call me Prince Grognon. I own, therefore, that I never had any real intention of writing the tale I spoke of-for that was impossible. There might be a way of doing the thing, presenting it as a joke, without entering into any very notable details, and showing these in a favourable light. It must stand till another time, whatever may come of that. It's rather too bad that a person of your stature should not be frightened when a gentleman of mine is in a passion. Per Bacco! I take aim with my gun, and a wren flies off laughing in my face. I forgive you, but I will pay you out.

"As for my verses, I hardly know whether or not to regret them. As you said, madam, they were but a portrait de circonstance. Here no one recognised the likeness. Some, as usual, thought it was meant for that poor Mme. Sand à propos de quoi, at this time of day, I beg of you; and only fancy, Bonnaire has just left me, saying that the said verses should be written where do you suppose?-on

Rachel's tomb! 'But,' said I, 'do you really believe that I meant her?' 'I don't affirm anything,' he answered, with the air of the Misanthrope: 'but still 'The dear public is certainly very spiteful, but I hold it to be yet far more stupid,' was my modest and gentle rejoinder, and our conversation went no further.

"On one point I will not give in to you, because therein I am right; and as I am wrong on so many, you may surely grant me this. You are mistaken in comparing Miss Chaworth to Lady Byron. You are wrong: only reflect how many thousands of sentiments there are between these two extremes! Lady B. had her husband's secretaire broken open, and an inquest made in order that he might be shut up as a madman. Mary Chaworth, it is true, taunted him with his lameness -a mean thing enough to do—but otherwise treated him pretty gently. Anyhow, M. Chaworth loved another, and in that gists the whole matter. In my maddest days of passion I never dreamt of bearing ill will to a woman who told me she cared for another. I may even boast that, under such circumstances, I showed courage and resignation. There is not much to glory over in the fact; it is merely my way of feeling. As for a woman who had simply told me that she did not in the least care for me, I should have said nothing, but to this I never exposed myself; but I have letters of Uranie in which she says, 'I believed that my friendship might be useful to you;' where she also says, 'You would have suffered by my side, but not without alleviation.' I have held her

hand, and kissed it for a minute at a time, she abandoning it to me. I have told her a hundred times that it was no bonne fortune I sought with her; that my vanity was in no wise in play; that I sued only for a word of friendship to make me happy for a whole day. She both saw it and believed it; yet she kept me a whole week in her house, affecting every moment to avoid any occasion of speaking to me, treating me as a stranger.... Now this is wicked and hateful. I have more than a dozen letters of hers, speaking of her friendship,-does friendship consist in tak

ing an arm into dinner? What a joke!... Be sure of this, she led me on, out of désauvrement, to get some amusement out of me, and make me play the role, purely and simply, of a patito. You know in what that consists. I would not. Then came her ill treatment. As for me, I sincerely

believed in her make-believe friendship, which was but a comedy, a mere passetemps, and which stopped short as soon as she saw me give in and surrender.... Forgive me this long story, Marraine; as you have some friendship for me (and in yours I believe), you must bear the penalty. I am still horribly dull, malgré tout, and I cannot help chattering when I know I am speaking to one who can and will understand me. Let's speak no more of it. . . . Good-bye, Marraine; when you open your window in the morning to smoke a cigar, look towards the bridge of Le Pecq, and say to yourself, My godson is very silly, but whilst here they deride him, over there he suffers.'

"A. DE M."

The Marraine helped to bring matters to a pacific ending between the Princess and her once lover-poet, so that we find the last letters given us by Madame Jaubert contain hardly any direct mention of her, time and absence having in some measure healed the wound, whose smarting is, however, still betrayed by many a sad allusion, as in this letter, for instance:

"A note sounded by you, my blond and small Marraine, is, and will be ever, at my diapason; we have in all things and so often given each other our la, as to be certain of remaining in tune, our instrument being good. Your poppy touched me, the poor thing. You should have sent me a leaf of it, and compared me to it,shifting, ever whirling, untidy, it is my very image! But alas! and alas! no longer is it the breath of passion that makes me whirl and go mad. I am no longer even a poppy. My old heart, which remains stationary at fifteen years of age, is so well aware of its own folly that it dares not wish

even for Coquelicoquettes. ... You are a long way off yet, little Marraine, from the frightful becalming to which I am resigned, but you will grow to it infallibly."

Following this one, a letter is given which was received at the time with much pleasure by Madame Jaubert, for it manifested a wish to resume work, and contained evidence of the evidence of the process of poetical fermentation being already begun in De Musset's brain.

"Madam, I have just returned from my guard duty, and apropos of some rubbish in a newspaper I am furious, indignant, and holding forth at breakfast. Would you do me an act of charity? My heart and hand are full to overflowing. If you feel better, take a pen one of these evenings, and just as you feel-at haphazard, but very downrightly-write me reproach on reproach on the score of my idleness. This seems an odd proposition, yet I pray you have the courage to acby verses (without any name, bien enI wish to answer that letter cept it. tendu), but I require the shuttlecock to be thrown at me by a battledore, and you only can strike it up to me. I must, if I speak at all, speak in conscience, and am incapable of imagining aught. Begin by laughing at this nonsense, e poi send me a beat of your heart; I will return it you. A. DE M."

This is the last bright badinage from the great poet Madame Jaubert gives. Though all the letters are undated, we know that this brings us to the close of 1853; and the following year the Marraine remarked the frequent alternatives of ill health, which reacted painfully on his mind, producing very constant low spirits. The heart-disease which was finally to carry him off, became more and more violent. The overstrained heart worked its vengeance on the poet who had made such undue calls on its powers and pastimes!

Poor De Musset! like Thekla he had tasted, nay-more than tasted,