Of the freedom and the unconventionally of the life of the Bohemian world of Paris, where the lives of literature and art blended in an almost imperceptible manner, and the gay indifference of its inhabitants, one has but to recall the incident where George Sand went to the studio of the painter Delacroix to tell him that she had sad news for him; that she could never love him; and more of the same sort. "Indeed," said Delacroix, who kept on painting.--"You are angry with me, are you not? You will never forgive me?"--"Certainly I will," said the painter, who was still at his work, "but I've got a bit of sky here that has caused me a deal of trouble and is just coming right. Go away, or sit down, and I will be through in ten minutes." She went, and of course did not return, and so the _affaire_ closed. Dumas was hardly of the Pays Latin. He had little in common with the Bohemianism of the _poseur_, and the Bohemia of letters and art has been largely made up of that sort of thing. More particularly Dumas' life was that of the boulevards, of the journalist, of tremendous energy and output rather than that of the _dilettante_, and so he has but little interest in the south bank of the Seine. * * * * * Michelet, while proclaiming loudly for French literature and life in _Le Peuple_, published in 1846, desponds somewhat of his country from the fact that the overwhelming genius of the popular novelists of that day--and who shall not say since then, as well--have sought their models, too often, in dingy cabarets, vile dens of iniquity, or even in the prisons themselves. He said: "This mania of slandering oneself, of exhibiting one's sores, and going, as it were, to look for shame, will be mortal in the course of time." This may, to a great extent, have been true then--and is true to-day--manifestly, but no lover of the beautiful ought to condemn a noisome flower if but its buds were beautiful, and Paris--the Paris of the Restoration, the Empire, or the Republic--is none the worse in the eyes of the world because of the iniquities which exist in every large centre of population, where creeds and intellects of all shades and capacities are herded together. The French novelist, it is true, can be very sordid and banal, but he can be as childlike and bland as an unsophisticated young girl--when he has a mind to. Dumas' novels were not lacking in vigour, valour, or action, and he wrote mostly of romantic times; so Michelet could not have referred to him. Perhaps he had the "Mysteries of Paris" or "The Wandering Jew" in mind, whose author certainly did give full measure of sordid detail; but then, Sue has been accused before now as not presenting a strictly truthful picture. So much for the presentation of the _tableaux_. But what about the actual condition of the people at the time?