MYSELF.--At what hour, if you please?
October 8, 1844.
This is what was told to me at to-day’s session:
Salvandy recently dined with Villemain. The repast over, they
adjourned to the drawing-room, and conversed. As the clock struck eight
Villemain’s three little daughters entered to kiss their father good
night. The youngest is named Lucette; her birth cost her mother her
reason; she is a sweet and charming child of five years.
“Well, Lucette, dear child,” said her father, “won’t you recite one of
Lafontaine’s fables before you go to bed?”
“Here,” observed M. de Salvandy, “is a little person who to-day recites
fables and who one of these days will inspire romances.”
Lucette did not understand. She merely gazed with her big wondering
eyes at Salvandy who was lolling in his chair with an air of benevolent
condescension.
“Well, Lucette.” he went on, “will you not recite a fable for us?”
The child required no urging, and began in her naïve little voice, her
fine, frank, sweet eyes still fixed upon Salvandy:
One easily believes one’s self to be somebody in France.
1845.
During the run of M. Ponsard’s “Lucrece”, I had the following dialogue
with M. Viennet at a meeting of the Academy:
M. VIENNET.--Have you seen the “Lucrece” that is being played at the
Odéon?