For the summer I had taken a little house in the Villa Montmorency at Auteuil. I went to the theater in a “little duke,” which I drove myself. I had two wonderful ponies that Aunt Rosine had given to me, because they had very nearly broken her neck by taking fright at St. Cloud at a whirligig of wooden horses. I used to drive at full speed along the quays, and in spite of the atmosphere brilliant with the July sunshine and the gayety of everything outside, I always ran up the cold, cracked steps of the theater with veritable joy, and rushed up to my dressing-room, wishing everyone I passed “Good morning” on my way. When I had taken off my coat and gloves I went on the stage, delighted to be once more in that infinite darkness with only a poor light, a _servante_, hanging here and there on a tree, a turret, a wall, or placed on a bench, thrown on the faces of the _artistes_ for a few seconds. There was nothing more vivifying for me than that atmosphere full of microbes, nothing more gay than that obscurity, and nothing more brilliant than that darkness. One day my mother had the curiosity to come behind the scenes. I thought she would have died with horror and disgust. “Oh, you poor child!” she murmured, “How can you live in that?” When once she was outside again she began to breathe freely, taking long gasps several times. Oh! yes, I could live in it, and I could scarcely live _except_ in it. Since then I have changed a little, but I still have a great liking for that gloomy workshop in which we joyous lapidaries of art cut the precious stones supplied to us by the poets. The days passed by, carrying away with them all our little disappointed hopes, and fresh days dawned bringing fresh dreams, so that life seemed to me eternal happiness. I played in turn in “Le Marquis de Villemer” and “François le Champi.” In the former I took the part of the foolish _Baroness_, an expert woman of thirty-five years of age. I was scarcely twenty-one myself, and I looked seventeen. In the second piece I played _Mariette_, and had great success. Those rehearsals of the “Marquis de Villemer” and “François le Champi” have remained in my memory as so many exquisite hours. Mme. George Sand was a sweet, charming creature, extremely timid. She did not talk much, but smoked all the time. Her large eyes were always dreamy, and her mouth, which was rather heavy and common, had the kindest expression. She had, perhaps, a medium-sized figure, but she was no longer upright. I used to watch her with the most romantic affection, for had she not been the heroine of a fine love romance! I used to sit down by her, and when I took her hand in mine I held it as long as possible. Her voice, too, was gentle and fascinating.