I can still see Lamennais, with his worn-out coat, his round back, his
yellow, parchment-like face, his eyes sparkling beneath a forehead
imprinted with genius, and resembling somewhat Hoffmann's heroes. George
Sand sometimes visited us, and it seemed to me that her presence lighted
up the whole studio. She always spoke to me, for she knew that I was the
brother of a distinguished writer, and when she looked over my plate I
trembled like a leaf.
Thus our calm sedentary life was enlivened by an occasional sunbeam; and
when I was hard at work with my graver, my mind was nourished by the
minds of others. Giannone, the poet, read his commentaries on
Shakespeare to us, and Mercure always had a witty retort in that faulty
French which is so amusing in an Italian mouth. Calamatta would listen
in silence, his eyes glued to his drawing of the 'Joconde,' at which he
worked on his good days.