oet?" asked Dumas.

"It was sorrow," replied Reboul--"the loss of a beloved wife and child.
I was in great grief; I sought solitude, and, finding no one who could
understand me, poured forth my grief to the Almighty."

"Yes," said Dumas, "I now comprehend your feelings. It is thus that
true poets become illustrious. How many men of talent only want a great
misfortune to become men of genius! You have told me in a word the
secret of your life; I know it now as well as you do." And yet Jasmin,
the contemporary of Reboul, had written all his poetry without a sorrow,
and amidst praise and joyfulness.

Chateaubriand, when in the South of France, called upon Reboul. The
baker met him at the door.

"Are you M. Reboul?" inquired the author of 'The Martyrs.'

"Which, sir--the baker or the poet?"

"The poet, of course."

"Then the poet cannot be seen until mid-day. At present the baker is
working at the oven."

Chateaubriand accordingly retired, but returned at the time appointed,
and had a long and interesting conversation with Reboul.

While at Montpellier Jasmin received two letters from Madame Lafarge,
then in prison. The circumstances connected with her case were much
discussed in the journals of the time. She had married at seventeen a M.
Lafarge, and found after her marriage that he had deceived her as to his
property. Ill-feeling arose between the unhappy pair, and eventually she
was tried for poisoning her husband. She was condemned with extenuating
circumstances, and imprisoned at Montpellier in 1839. She declared that
she was innocent of the crime imputed to her, and Jasmin's faith in the
virtue of womanhood led him to believe her. Her letters to Jasmin were
touching.

"Many pens," she said, "have celebrated your genius; let mine touch your
heart! Oh, yes, sir, you are good, noble, and generous! I preserve every
word of yours as a dear consolation; I guard each of your promises as a
holy hope. Voltaire has saved Calas. Sing for me, sir, and I will bless
your memory to the day of my death. I am innocent!... For eight long
years I have suffered; and I am still suffering from the stain upon my
honour. I grieve for a sight of the sun, but I still love life. Sing for
me."

She again wrote to Jasmin, endeavouring to excite his interest by her
appreciation of his poems.

"The spirit of your work," she said, "vibrates through me in every form.
What a pearl of eulogy is Maltro! What a great work is L'Abuglo! In t