Paris, January 3, 1843.

Hurrah! this is what I call talking! You are so amiable when you wish to be. Why is it that you are so often unpleasant? No, indeed, written thanks are of no value; and after all my diplomacy in securing such cordial letters of introduction for your brother, I certainly deserve a few words of kindness from you. I will forgive you cheerfully for all your ridicule concerning balloons and the Academy, about which I think much less than you suppose. If I ever become an Academician, I shall be no harder than a rock. By that time I shall be perhaps somewhat shrivelled and mummified, but for all that I shall be a devilish good fellow.

The only way in which I can have Persiani for my David is to go to hear her every Thursday. As for Mademoiselle Rachel, I am not gifted with the faculty for enjoying poetry as often as music, and this—Rachel, not music—reminds me that I promised you a story. Shall I tell you now, or shall I reserve it until I see you? I am going to write it, for I shall have something else, no doubt, to tell you then.

Well, then, about two weeks ago I dined with Rachel at the home of an Academician. It was to introduce BÉranger to her. There were any number of great men present. She arrived late, and I did not like her entrance. The men said so many silly things to her, and the women did so many silly things, that I remained in my corner. Besides, I had not spoken to her for a year.

After dinner, BÉranger, with the kindness and common sense habitual to him, told her that it was a great pity to fritter away her talents in the salon, and that there was but one audience worthy of her, that of the Theater FranÇais, and so on. Mademoiselle Rachel seemed to approve cordially of the lecture, and, as a proof that she had profited thereby, she played the first act of Esther. An assistant was needed to read the other parts, and she had a copy of Racine brought to me most ceremoniously by an Academician who was performing the functions of a cicisbeo. I replied churlishly that I did not understand poetry, and that there were people in the room who, being in that business, could scan it much better than I. Hugo asked to be excused on account of his eyes, some one else for another reason. The host made a sacrifice of himself.

Imagine to yourself Rachel, dressed in black, standing between a piano and a tea-table, with a door at her back, assuming her theatrical expression. This visible transformation scene was highly amusing and very pretty; it lasted about two minutes, then she began:

“Is it thou, dear Elise?” ... The confidante, in the midst of her reply, dropped her glasses and her book; ten minutes passed before she had recovered her place in the book, and her eyes. It is evident to the audience that Esther is losing her temper. She continues. The door behind her opens; a servant enters. Some one makes a sign for him to retire. He hastens out, and can not succeed in closing the door. The said door, unlatched, swings back and forth, accompanying Rachel with a melodious creaking which is extremely diverting. As this noise did not cease, Mademoiselle Rachel laid her hand upon her heart as if she were ill, but in the manner of one accustomed to expiring in public. This created an opportunity for several persons to come to her assistance.

During the intermission Hugo and M. Thiers began to dispute on the subject of Racine, Hugo contending that Racine had a small mind and Corneille a great one. “You say this,” replied Thiers, “because you yourself have a great mind. You are the Corneille of an age in which Casimir Delavigne is the Racine.” At this Hugo shook his head with assumed humility. I leave you to judge if modesty was in evidence.

By this time, however, she had recovered from her swoon, and the act was concluded, but fiascheggiando. Some one who is well acquainted with Mademoiselle Rachel remarked, as we left the house, “How she must have sworn to-night, after going home!” The words gave me food for thought. This is my story. All I ask of you is, not to compromise me by repeating it to any Academician.

I did not recognise you Sunday until I was quite near. My first impulse was to join you, but seeing you with so many others, I went on my way. I did well, I think. It seems to me that heretofore I have always seen you with pale cheeks, from which I concluded Sunday that they appeared rosy in comparison with the solemnity of the day.

Good-night, or rather good-morning. Monday, or rather Tuesday, for it is three o’clock in the morning.