A large crowd was assembled at the station. There were reporters and curious men and women, a public decidedly more interested than friendly, not badly intentioned but by no means enthusiastic. Public opinion in New York had been greatly occupied with me during the past month. I had been so much criticised and glorified. Calumnies of all kinds, stupid and disgusting, foolish and odious, had been circulated about me. Some people blamed and others admired the disdain with which I had treated these turpitudes, but everyone knew that I had won in the end, and that I had triumphed over all and everything. Boston knew, too, that clergymen had preached from their pulpits saying that I had been sent by the Old World to corrupt the New World, that my art was an inspiration from hell, etc., etc. Everyone knew all this, but the public wanted to see for itself. Boston belongs especially to the women. Tradition says that it was a woman who first set foot in Boston. Women form the majority there. They are puritanical with intelligence, and independent with a certain grace. I passed between the two lines formed by this strange, courteous, and cold crowd, and, just as I was about to get into my carriage a lady advanced toward me and said: “Welcome to Boston, madame.” “Welcome, madame,” and she held out a soft little hand to me. (American women generally have charming hands and feet.) Other people now approached and smiled, and I had to shake hands with many of them. I took a fancy to this city at once, but all the same I was furious for a moment when a reporter sprang on to the steps of the carriage just as we were driving away. He was in a greater hurry and more audacious than any of the others, but he was certainly overstepping the limits and I pushed the wretched man back angrily. Jarrett was prepared for this and saved him by the collar of his coat; otherwise he would have fallen down on the pavement as he deserved. “At what time will you come and get on the whale to-morrow?” this extraordinary personage asked. I gazed at him in bewilderment. He spoke French perfectly and repeated his question. “He’s mad,” I said in a low voice to Jarrett. “No, madame, I am not mad, but I should like to know at what time you will come and get on the whale. It would be better perhaps to come this evening, for we are afraid it may die in the night, and it would be a pity for you not to come and pay it a visit while it still has breath.” He went on talking, and as he talked, he half seated himself beside Jarrett who was still holding him by the collar, lest he should fall out of the carriage. “But, monsieur,” I exclaimed. “What do you mean? What is all this about a whale?” “Ah! madame,” he replied, “it is admirable, enormous. It is in the harbor basin and there are men employed day and night to break the ice all round it.” He broke off suddenly and standing on the carriage step he clutched the driver.