see me at his house. Everything whirled around me!

"I cannot say the same to you," I answered. "I wish I were somewhere
else." He laughed heartily and showed that he knew how to overcome my
bashfulness. I waited to hear some of the conversation which, according
to my preconceived ideas, would be in the style of his latest romance.
However, it was entirely different; simple polished phrases, entirely
logical, came from that "mouth of mystery."

I went to Hugo's evenings as often as possible, for I never could drink
my fill of the presence of the hero of my youthful dreams. I had
occasion to note to what an extent a fiery republican, a modern Juvenal,
whose verses branded "kings" as if with a red hot iron, in his private
life was susceptible to their flattery. The Emperor of Brazil had called
on him, and the next day he could not stop talking about it constantly.
Rather ostentatiously he called him "Don Pedro d'Alcantara." In French
this would be "M. Pierre du Pont." Spanish inherently gives such florid
sounds to ordinary names. This florid style is not frequent in French,
and that is precisely what Corneille and Victor Hugo succeeded in
giving it.

A slight incident unfortunately changed my relations with the great
poet.

"As long as Mlle. Bertin was alive," he told me, "I would never permit
_La Esmeralda_ to be set to music; but if some musician should now ask
for this poem, I would be glad to let him have it."

The invitation was obvious. Yet, as is generally known, this dramatic
and lyric adaptation of the famous romance is not particularly happy. I