on was not one of
those affectionate, faithful, and tender marriages, such as commonplace
folk hope to enjoy, but it was a copartnership of two smart people,
aided by two bunches of quills. Each pretended to admire the other with
an extravagance of show which made it hard for the bystander to repress
doubts and smiles.

Monsieur Jules Sandeau had informed Madame Emile de Girardin that he
intended to bring me with him. I do not know how she found out that I
had, in the very heart of the Faubourg Saint Germain, an old aunt, a
_real_ duchess, who was recognized as an authority whose _dicta_ could
not be disputed by any noble family to be found from the Quai Voltaire
to the Rue de Babylone, which, as all the world knows, are the frontiers
of that, the most aristocratic quarter of Paris. Madame de Girardin knew
that my aunt was in a position to open to vanity the portals of some
noble houses which talents and fame alone could not open. Now Madame
Emile de Girardin's monomania was to be received in the noble
_faubourg_,--to live there perfectly at home, as if it were her native
sphere,--to be able to say, "My friend, the little Marchioness," or, "I
have just come from our dear Jeanne's house, my charming Countess, you
know: she is suffering dreadfully from her neuralgia." She reckoned a
triumph of this sort a thousand times preferable to the applause of her
readers and her friends. All the dull pleasantries with which she
adorned her over-praised "Letters" owed their origin solely to the
unequivocal veto placed by two or three courageous noble ladies on the
attempts made by Madame Emile de Girardin to force her entrance _vi et
armis_ into their mansions. For my aunt's sake, she received me with
especial courtesy, which I was ingenuous enough to attribute to my own
personal merit. However, I had not time to indulge in analysis: she was
about to begin to read her tragedy.

The tragedy was that "Cleopatre" in which Mademoiselle Rachel appeared,
after wrangling for some time with the authoress to induce the latter to
give Antony some other name, vowing that _Antoine_ was entirely too
vulgar to be uttered on the stage. The great tragic actress had never
heard of the illustrious Roman, and knew no other Antony but the
_Antoine_ who scrubbed her floors and brought her water. It was a
woman's tragedy, but written by a woman in man's attire, determined to
write a very masculine, vigorous work, but succeeding in producing only
a _pla