Such a condition was neither petty nor vindictive, though such at first it might seem. Considering the temperaments of these two distinguished women—one endowed with the passionate vehemence and frankness of the Celt, the other not lacking in a certain Teutonic vindictiveness—for Juliette to have been a loyal friend to them both at the same time would have been impossible.[143] There was no reason, however, why Juliette and George Sand should not correspond. Mme. Sand never failed to take an interest in her correspondent’s literary career. She read all her books and gave the young author the invaluable benefit of her criticism. Though her book _Mon Village_ was dedicated to Mme. d’Agoult, it was, as we have seen, written at the suggestion of George Sand. For nine years Juliette and her unknown friend, her _amie éloignée_, as Mme. Sand called herself, continued to correspond. And it was not until Juliette’s final breach with Mme. d’Agoult, in 1867, that the former considered herself at liberty to see in the flesh her whose spirit and whose writings she had admired so long. Mme. Adam’s graphic description of the memorable meeting in the third volume of her _Souvenirs_[144] has become almost a classic. With her whole being throbbing with emotion, Juliette went by appointment to Mme. Sand’s flat, No. 97, Rue des Feuillantines. In a large arm-chair, which made her appear quite a little woman, Mme. Sand sat with both arms on a table in front of her, rolling a cigarette. “I approached,” writes Juliette; “she did not rise, but she pointed to a seat, which I was to take, quite near the table. Her large kind eyes enveloped, attracted me. My pulse beat violently. “I made a great effort to greet her with a word. I found nothing to say. My heart came into my mouth. “She lit her cigarette and began to smoke. She also seemed searching for a word to address to me; but she no more than I could find anything to say. “Later I knew how reserved she felt in the presence of any one whom she saw for the first time. “Then, realising that I must appear idiotic, my feelings overcame me, and I burst into tears. “George Sand threw away her cigarette and held out her arms to me. I threw myself into them, possessed by that filial tenderness which I had longed to experience, and which has remained with me to this hour.” Naturally they could not avoid talking of that disagreement with Mme. d’Agoult which had rendered the meeting possible. Then they discussed a theme constantly recurring in the conversation of serious persons in that day: the frivolity and corruption of Parisian society under the Empire, and the reign of opportunism. They rejoiced at the boldness of the manager of the Théâtre français, who had dared to represent a play by Victor Hugo, then a political exile, and they delighted to think of the consolation it must bring to the author in his banishment.