“You must not go to Victor Hugo’s,” he said to me, “for it seems to me that he has no reason to deviate from the regular customs. But make an excuse of sudden illness—follow my advice, and show the respect for him that we owe to genius.” I followed my great friend’s counsel and sent the following letter to the poet: MONSIEUR: The Queen has taken a chill and her _Camerara Mayor_ forbids her to go out. You know better than anyone else the etiquette of this Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur. I sent the letter, and the following is the poet’s reply: I am your valet, Madame. VICTOR HUGO. The next day the play was read on the stage to the _artistes_. I believe that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the master’s house. I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me! The monster was charming, so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a gallantry that was an homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in his way of speaking, which savored of the old French peer. He was quick at repartee, and his observations were gentle but persistent. He recited poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited. He often spoke in verse when he wanted to reprimand an _artiste_. One day, during a rehearsal, he was trying to convince poor Tallien about his bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat down on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience and, getting up from the middle of the orchestra, exclaimed: “Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table.” I sprang from the table, slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer him in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to say, and remained there, confused and in a bad temper. One day when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was waiting, my forehead pressed against the window pane, for the arrival of Mme. Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor Hugo had just crossed the road and was about to walk on. An old woman attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down on the ground and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of perspiration.