“MONSIEUR,—The Queen has taken a chill, and her Camerara Mayor forbids her to go out. You know better than any one else the etiquette of the Spanish Court. Pity your Queen, Monsieur.” I sent the letter, and the following was 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 a 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 savoured of the old French peer. He was quick at repartee, and his observations were gentle but pertinent. He recited poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited. He often made sketches during the rehearsals. He frequently spoke in verse when he wished to reprimand an artiste. One day during a rehearsal he was trying to convince poor Talien 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 stalls, he exclaimed, “_Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table._” I sprang up 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.