egard with pride,
in particular with the Princess Belgiojoso, one of the most striking and
original figures of our monotonous time, and Madame Maxime Jaubert, a
clever, attractive young woman with a delightful house, whom he called his
_Marraine_ because she had given him a nickname. These women, and
others--but these two above the rest--were sincerely and loyally attached
to him with a disinterested regard which did not spare advice, nor even
rebuke, or relax under his loss of health and brilliancy or neglect of
their kindness, which nevertheless he felt and valued. His purest source of
pleasure was in the talent of others, which gave him a generous and
sympathetic enjoyment. The appearance of Pauline Garcia--now Madame
Viardot--and Rachel, who came out almost simultaneously at the age of
seventeen, added delight to the two happy years. He has left notices of the
first performances of these artistes, the former in opera, the latter on
the stage (for he was musical himself and a _connoisseur_) which are
excellent criticisms, and have even more interest than when they appeared,
now that the career of one has long been closed and that of the other long
completed. His relations with Rachel lasted for many years, interrupted by
the gusts and blasts which the contact of two such natures inevitably
begets. She constantly urged him to write a play for her, and in the year
after her _debut_ he wrote a fragment of a drama on the story of
Fredegonde, which she learned by heart and occasionally recited in private;
but there were endless delays and difficulties on both sides, and the rest
was not written. After various episodes and passages between them, De
Musset was dining with her one evening when she had become a great lady and
queen of the theatre, and her other guests were all rich men of fashion.
One of them admired an extremely beautiful and costly ring which she wore.
It was first passed round the table from hand to hand, and then she said
they might bid for it. One immediately offered five hundred francs, another
fifteen, and the ring went up at once to three thousand: "And you, my poet,
why do not you bid? What will you give?" "I will give you my heart," he
replied. "The ring is yours," cried Rachel, taking it off and throwing it
into his plate. After dinner De Musset tried to restore it to her, but she
refused to take it back: he urged and insisted, when she, suddenly falling
on her knee with that sovereign charm of seduct