ascertain the real wants and character of those who in every
imaginable way claimed her assistance became one of the added labors of
her life. She visited wretched garrets or cellars, and saw miserable
families,--discovering often, too late, that both garret and family had
been hired for the occasion. It was now that she first saw the real
plagues and ulcers of society. Her convent had not shown her these, nor
her life amid the peasantry of Berry. Only great cities produce those
unhealthy and unnatural human growths whose monstrosities are their
stock in trade, whose power of life lies in their depravation. She tells
us that these horrors weighed upon her, and caused her to try various
solutions of the ills that are, and are permitted to be. She was never
tempted to become an atheist, never lost sight of the Divine in life,
yet the necessity of a terrible fatalism seemed to envelop her. With her
numerous friends, she sought escape from the dilemma through various
theories of social development; and they often sat or walked half
through the night, discussing the fortunes of the race, and the
intentions of God. With her most intimate set, this sometimes led to a
jest, and "It is time to settle the social question" became the formula
of announcing dinner. These considerations led the way to her adoption
of socialistic theories in later years, of which she herself informs
us, but hints at the same time at many important reservations in her
acceptance of them.

In process of time she visited Italy with Alfred de Musset. The fever
seized on her at Genoa, and she saw the wonders of the fair land through
half-shut eyes, alternately shivering and burning. In the languor of
disease, she allowed the tossing of a coin to decide whether she should
visit Rome or Venice. Venice came uppermost ten times, and she chose to
consider it an affair of destiny. Her long stay in this city suggested
the themes of several of her romances, and the "Lettres d'un Voyageur"
might almost be pages from her own journal. Her companion was here
seized with a terrible illness. She nursed him day and night through all
its length, being so greatly fatigued at the time of his recovery that
she saw every object double, through want of sleep. Yet De Musset went
forth from his sick-room with a heart changed towards her. Hatred
had taken the place of love. Some say that this cruel change was the
punishment of as cruel a deception; others call it a mania of the fe