“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. XXXVIII _Thursday, January, 1843._ Let us take advantage of the fine weather to-day. _Onc homme n’eut les dieux tant à la main,_ _Qu’asseuré fut de vivre au lendemain_.[6] At the appointed place, then, “at two o’clock to-morrow, Thursday.” I say to-day, for it is now one o’clock. The stars are shining brightly, and as I returned a while ago from the ministerial assembly, I found the walking as tolerable as it was the last time we were out. Wear your seven-league boots, however--it is safer. If by chance you should be out when this letter arrives, I shall wait for you until half past two; if you do not come at all to-day, then Saturday. To any one else but you I should say something else.