“I entered a shoemaker’s alley, Rue Plâtrière. I mounted to the second story and knocked at the door. One could not enter a temple with more reverence than I this humble door. I was agitated, but I felt none of that timidity which I feel in the presence of petty society people whom at heart I esteem but little. I wavered between hope and fear.... Would it be possible, I thought, that I should say of him what he had said of _savants_: ‘I took them for angels; I passed the threshold of their doors with respect; I have seen them; it is the only thing of which they have disabused me.’ “Reasoning thus, I saw the door open; a woman of at least fifty years of age appeared. She wore a round cap, a simple clean house-gown, and a big apron. She had a severe air, a little hard even. “‘Is it here that M. Rousseau lives, Madame?’ “‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’ “‘May I speak to him?’ “‘What do you want?’ “‘I have come for the answer to a letter I wrote him a few days ago.’ “‘He is not to be spoken to, Mademoiselle, but you may say to the person who had you write—for surely it is not you who wrote a letter like that—’ “‘Pardon me,’ I interrupted— “‘The handwriting is a man’s.’ “‘Do you want to see me write?’ I said, laughing. “She shook her head, adding, ‘All that I can say to you is that my husband has given up all these things absolutely. He has left all. He would not ask anything better than to be of service; but he is of an age to rest.’ “‘I know it, but I should have been flattered to have had this answer from his mouth. I would have profited eagerly by the opportunity to render homage to the man whom I esteem the highest of the world. Receive it, Madame.’ “She thanked me, keeping her hand on the lock, and I descended the stairs with the meagre satisfaction of knowing that he found my letter sufficiently well written not to believe it the work of a woman.” Not all of her visits were so unsuccessful, as her description of one to Greuze shows: