The performance of “Hernani” made me more the favorite of the public than ever. I had already gone through it with Victor Hugo and it was a real pleasure to me to visit the great poet each day. I had never discontinued my visits to him, but I was never able to have any conversation with him in his own house. There were always men in red ties gesticulating, or women in tears reciting. He was very good; he listened to me with half-closed eyes and I thought he was asleep. Then when I stopped he roused up at the silence and said a consoling word, for Victor Hugo would not have promised to hear me without keeping his word. He was not like me; I promise everything with the firm intention of keeping my promises, and two hours after I have forgotten all about them. If anybody reminds me of what I have promised I tear my hair and to make up for my forgetfulness I say anything, I buy presents, in fact I complicate my life with useless worries. It has always been so and always will. As I was grumbling one day to Victor Hugo that I never could have a chance of talking with him, he invited me to lunch, saying that after lunch we could talk together alone. I was delighted with this lunch, to which Paul Maurice the poet, Léon Gladel, Gustave Doré and the Cummunard X— (a Russian lady whose name I do not remember) were also invited. In front of Victor Hugo sat Mme. Drouet, the friend of his unlucky days. But what a horrible lunch we had! It was really bad and badly served. My feet were frozen by the draughts from the three doors, which fitted badly, and one could positively _hear_ the wind blowing under the table. Near me was Mr. X——, the German architect, who is to-day a very successful man. This man had such dirty hands and ate so badly that he made me feel sick. I met him afterwards at Berlin. He is now quite clean and proper, and I believe an Imperialist. But the uncomfortable feeling this uncongenial neighbor inspired in me, the cold draughts blowing on my feet, the boredom I was afflicted with—all reduced me to a state of positive suffering and I lost consciousness. When I recovered I found myself on a couch, my hand in that of Mme. Drouet and in front of me, sketching me, Gustave Doré. “Oh, don’t move,” he cried, “you are so pretty like that!” These words, though they were so inappropriate, pleased me, nevertheless, and I complied with the wish of the great artist. From that day we were the best of friends. I left the house of Victor Hugo without saying good-by to him, a trifle ashamed of myself. The next day he came to see me. I told him some tale to account for my illness and I saw no more of him except at the rehearsals of “Hernani.”