SKULL IN SARAH BERNHARDT’S LIBRARY, WITH AUTOGRAPH VERSES BY VICTOR HUGO ] When I was quite at my ease with him, I spoke to him about my first impressions, about all my stupid, nervous rebellion with regard to him, about all that I had been told and all that I had believed in my naïve ignorance about political matters. One morning the Master took great delight in my conversation. He sent for Madame Drouet, the sweet soul, the companion of his glorious and rebellious mind. He told her, in a laughing but melancholy way, that the evil work of bad people is to sow error in every soil, whether favourable or not. That morning is engraved for ever in my mind, for the great man talked a long time. Oh, it was not for me, but for what I represented in his eyes. Was I not, as a matter of fact, the young generation, in which a _bourgeois_ and clerical education had warped the intelligence by closing the mind to every generous idea, to every flight towards the new? When I left Victor Hugo that morning I felt myself more worthy of his friendship. I then went to Girardin’s, as I wanted to talk to some one who loved the poet, but he was out. I went next to Marshal Canrobert’s, and there I had a great surprise. Just as I was getting out of the carriage, I nearly fell into the arms of the Marshal, who was coming out of his house. “What is it? What’s the matter? Is it postponed?” he asked, laughing. I did not understand, and gazed at him rather bewildered. “Well, have you forgotten that you invited me to luncheon?” he asked. I was quite confused, for I had entirely forgotten it. “Well, all the better!” I said; “I very much wanted to talk to you. Come; I am going to take you with me now.” I then related my visit to Victor Hugo, and repeated all the fine thoughts he had uttered, forgetting that I was constantly saying things that were contrary to the Marshal’s ideas. This admirable man could admire, though, and if he could not change his opinions, he approved the great ideas which were to bring about great changes. One day, when he and Busnach were both at my house, there was a political discussion which became rather violent. I was afraid for a moment that things might take a bad turn, as Busnach was the most witty and at the same time the rudest man in France. It is only fair to say, though, that if Marshal Canrobert was a polite man and very well bred, he was not at all behind William Busnach in wit. The latter was worked up by the chafing speeches of the Marshal. “I challenge you, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “to write about the odious Utopias that you have just been supporting!” “Oh, Monsieur Busnach,” replied Canrobert coldly, “we do not use the same steel for writing history! You use a pen, and I a sword.”