I come to you, my beloved, as you are un_Juliette Drouet's Love-Letters to Victor Hugo Edited with a Biography of Juliette Drouet

evening. I come to tell you I love you without regret for the past or

fear for the future. I come to you with a smile on my lips and a

blessing in my bosom, with my hand upon my mutilated heart and my eyes

full of pardon, with my purity restored and my soul redeemed by twenty

years of fidelity and love, with my delusions swept away and my faith

shining. I come to you without rancour, sustained by divine hope. I

come with the maternal devotion and the passionate tenderness of a

lover, with a mind instinct with reverence and admiration, a resignation

and piety like to those of God's martyrs, and I constitute you the

supreme arbiter of my fate. Do with me what you will in this life, so

long as you take me with you in the next. I sacrifice my feelings to the

virtue of your wife and the innocence of your daughter, as a homage and

a safeguard, and I reserve my prayers and tears for poor fallen women

like myself. Lastly, my adored one, I give you my share of Paradise in

exchange for your chances of hell, considering myself fortunate to have

purchased your eternal bliss with my eternal love.

JULIETTE.

JERSEY,

_Thursday, 5 p.m., July 7th, 1853_.

Whatever you may say, my sweet one, to retard the gradual cessation of

my daily yarns, you cannot stay the progress of the natural law, even

when assisted by my passive submission to your will. Why continue this

custom of writing to you twice a day, when the pretext for doing so has

faded from our joint lives? If I were a woman of parts, I could

substitute imagination and shrewd observation for love-making; but as

these are entirely lacking in me, I have nothing to record in those

bulletins where kisses and caresses once occupied the chief place. Now,

when I have said good morning and alluded to the state of the weather, I

have nothing more to say, because I am stupid. Your influence alone can

extract what is in my heart. For this reason, my dear one, these

scribbles became blank and aimless, from the moment the happiness that

once dictated them began to die away and degenerate into a friendship

despoiled of all pleasure and voluptuousness. I do not reproach you, my

adored one, any more than I reproach myself for not being still the

woman you loved beyond everything--still it might be better to

discontinue this daily record of the change, and to give up the piteous

babblings which no longer have even the excuse of wit.

JULIETTE.

JERSEY,

_Saturday, 2.30 p.m., September 24th_.

How one's brain scintillates from living for ever within four walls!

What sparkling and varied incidents one experiences in this existence of

a squirrel in a cage! For my part I am so inspired by it that I hardly

know where to commence. Let us, therefore, proceed in due sequence; my

cat, which has been slumbering for the last two hours on its right ear,

has just turned over on to its left.

Père Nicotte, abandoning the ploughshare, announces for Thursday,

September 29th, the sale by auction of three fat hogs, a sow with her

eight sucking pigs, three yearling bulls, another rising two, and other

items too numerous and too peculiar to enumerate.

Births: August 5th. Blanche Laura, daughter of Mr. Harper Richard Hugo.

The annual dinner of the Society will take place on the above-mentioned

day. Those intending to be present, and those proposing to furnish fruit

for the same, are urgently requested to send in their names on or

before the preceding Saturday.

What more do you want? Eleven pigs, not including the sow, three

yearling bulls, not including the one rising two, a daughter of your

own, and permission to invite yourself to a dinner of the Society, and

even to furnish the fruit for it. If all this does not attract you and

stir the very marrow of your bones, and tempt your appetite, you must be

dead to the promptings of sensibility, paternity, and sensuality. In

that case, go to bed and to sleep, and leave me to myself--the more so,

as I do not happen to possess an accommodating table,[108] to furnish me

with ready-made apparitions. Remember, I have to be my own Dante, Æsop,

and Shakspere, whereas you catch the dead fish that the spirits of the

other world attach to your lines--a proceeding practised in the

Mediterranean long before those tittle-tattling tables were thought of.

Pray accept my most tender sentiments.

JULIETTE.

JERSEY,

_Sunday, 10 a.m., January 1st, 1854_.

I love you so much, my darling, that I cannot find anything else to say

to you. My poor spirit is ready to give way under the weight of too much

love, like a bough bending under an abnormal show of fruit; but my heart

has strength enough to bear without flinching the infinite tenderness,

admiration, and adoration I feel for you.

What a letter, my adored one! I read it with my heart in my eyes. It

seemed to penetrate word by word like sun-rays into the very marrow of

my bones. My Victor, your hopes are mine, your will, mine, your faith,

mine; I am what you deserve that I should be; I live only for you and in

you. To love you, serve you, reverence you, adore you, are my only

aspirations in this world. Where you are, I shall be; where you

struggle, I shall watch; when you suffer I shall pray, when you are

threatened I will defend you, save you, or die. I tell you all this

pell-mell and anyhow, my adored Victor, for it is impossible for me to

discipline my thoughts when they fly in your direction--they are less

amenable to common sense than to my heart and soul, which are in ecstasy

since this morning. I know not what trials may still be in store for

you, my sublime, persecuted love, but I can answer for my own courage

and devotion to you. Like you I associate our two angels with all my

prayers and hopes and joys and love. I constitute them your guardian

angels and to them I confide your life, that is, mine, your heart, that

is, my happiness. I send you enough kisses to make a connecting-rod from

my mouth to yours.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Monday, 7.30 p.m., July 21st, 1856_.

It shall not be said that your adored name ever appeared before me in

its dazzling nimbus without being saluted by my heart with a triple

salvo of love, oh, my dearly beloved, and without the outpouring of all

the perfume of my soul at your divine feet. Although I am very tired,

almost ill, I cannot let this day pass without giving you my tenderest,

sweetest, most love-laden greetings. Others may bring you flowers and

pay you handsome compliments, but I offer you twenty-three years of

tried fidelity free of human stain. It is all I have to bestow--it may

be insignificant, but it is my all. Such a thing cannot be bought; it is

accounted among the treasures of God. In His keeping you will find it,

when the gifts of Heaven shall replace those of Earth. Meanwhile, to

show you that I still belong to this sphere, I send you my beautiful

violet robe brocaded with gold; but I specially stipulate that it should

form part of the decoration of your own room, rather than that you

should hang it in the gallery. Still, if you prefer to use it elsewhere

I leave you free to do as you like, for your pleasure is my sole desire.

You must not imagine that my generosity is entirely disinterested,

because that would be a great mistake. I am sure you would not wish to

remain in my debt, and that you will therefore give me a little drawing

for your birthday. This is my request--now bring me your cheeks that I

may kiss them without stint, and do be discreet to-night with the women

who will come to offer you birthday greetings! Keep your heart entire

and intact for me.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Friday, 1.45 p.m., December 12th, 1856._

Adored one, I am sending Suzanne to get news of your dear little sick

child.[109] Although night is coming on, I hope I may get a good report;

this weather is enough to give an attack of nerves to anybody at all

disposed that way. You saw Suzanne yourself, my darling, yet someone is

knocking--fancy if it should be you! It is! What happiness!

How good, how ineffably good you are, dear kind father, to have come

yourself to reassure me about the little feverish symptoms that are

beginning to show themselves to-night in your little girl's condition.

Let us hope they will yield to remedies this time, and that the night

may prove more calm and satisfactory than the day just passed. Meanwhile

thank you with all my heart, thank you with all my soul, for allowing me

to share your family hopes and fears and joys and troubles. Thank you.

If God hears and grants my prayers, as I trust with sacred confidence He

will, your adored child will soon be restored to health and happiness.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Monday, 7.30 p.m., April 13th, 1857_.

If you say another word I shall seize them all,[110] so there! I shall

certainly not place my house, my rooms, my old age, my tables, chairs,

carpets, water, ink, my virtue, great and small, at your disposal, to be

rewarded by seeing masterpieces pass under my very nose on their way to

Teleki, Mademoiselle Alix, and other trollops of her calibre. I must

have some too; castles, moonlight scenes, sunrises, and fog effects. If

you are not prepared for a quarrel, you must give me at least my share.

Ah, here you come! I am not sorry to see you....

JULIETTE.

JERSEY,

_Saturday, 4 p.m., July 1st, 1857_.

Darling beloved, I begin my letter in the hope of its being interrupted

shortly, and completed this evening with a lighter heart; but I so need

to love you that I must take the initiative, my adored one. I have just

read the sad, tender poems you gave me to copy. I see you coming....

_8.45 p.m._

I have just finished copying those adorable verses, so poignant through

their very restraint,[111] and I weep for my own grief as well as yours,

my poor afflicted friends. The shadow which has fallen across your lives

is black night in my case, for all the radiant joys of family life were

wiped out with the death of my only child. When I think of my forlorn

infancy bereft of father and mother, and of what my deathbed will be,

without the loving tears of a child of my own, I feel as if a curse were

laid upon me for the expiation of some hideous crime. Yet, oh God, I am

not ungrateful to Thee, far from it; I feel indeed with the deepest

gratitude of heart and soul how good Thou art! May you be as greatly

blest as you are loved by me, my Victor. You are divinely grand and

sublime. I kiss your dear little feet and your angel's wings. I worship

you on my knees.

JULIETTE.

JERSEY,

_Tuesday, 2.30 p.m., July 2nd, 1857_.

Yes, since you wish to hear it, I love you, my little man; but I could

demonstrate it much more intelligently by working something for you on

canvas, than by daubing this poor little sheet of paper with

hieroglyphics. If perchance death should surprise us before you have

destroyed these crude ebullitions of my heart, inquisitive folk will

experience keen disappointment; they will find it difficult to

distinguish the traces of an overmastering passion in such a petty mind

as mine. I hope you will be provident enough and generous enough to

spare me this humiliation beyond the grave, by burning gradually all

those poor letters that are so ineffective the moment they have crossed

the threshold of my soul. Meanwhile I continue to obey you with entire

submission, and my love for you is greater than your genius--that is to

say, I love you, love you, love you, without being able to find anything

to compare with the magnitude of my infatuation.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Saturday, 8 p.m., December 19th, 1857_.

Although unwell and fatigued, my beloved Victor, I cannot leave this

little home where we have loved each other, without penning a grateful

farewell for all the felicity it has sheltered during the year I have

lived in it. I trust I may be as happy in my beautiful new house as I

have been here in my hovel. The sadness I feel to-day is nearer akin to

nerves than to real sorrow. Please forgive it, my adored Victor, if you

have misunderstood and thought for a single instant that you were to

blame for it. Far from reproaching you for the difficulties of my

situation, I admire your ineffable kindness and bless you from the

bottom of my heart for all the trouble you are taking to house me

handsomely. It was difficult, but of what are you not capable when you

set your mind to a thing? I think without affecting the false modesty of

a collector, that you have succeeded, and I thank you with all the

strength of my loving soul, which asks no better than to be happy in the

new paradise you have just prepared for me.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Friday, 11 a.m., July 16th, 1858_.

My beloved, my beloved, my beloved, what sin have we committed that God

should strike us so cruelly in your health and my love! Unless it be a

crime to love you too much, I do not feel guilty of aught. What shall I

do, my God, what will become of me! Victor ill and away from me! I dread

lest, as I write, you should almost hear my sobs and guess at my

despair, from these reckless words.

I had anticipated this trouble and thought myself able to face it. I

know it is imperatively necessary that you should remain at home, yet my

whole being rebels at this separation as at a cruel injustice, and the

greatest misfortune of my life. Why, why, why am I like this, oh, my

God? Yet I possess courage, Thou knowest! Thou knowest also that I

desire his speedy recovery and love him with a devoted, illimitable

love. My adored Victor! Why then, is the reason of this gloomy and

profound despair which robs me of strength and reason? Oh, God, dost

Thou hate me? Have my offences been graver than those of other women

like me, that Thou shouldst chastise me so mercilessly! Oh, I suffer,

Victor, I love you, I am wretched!

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Saturday, Noon, July 24th, 1858_.

Another short spell of courage and patience, my poor gentle martyr, and

your deliverance will be complete. The doctor has just assured me so. I

shall soon be able to rejoice at your convalescence without the poignant

dread of a frightful disaster mingling itself with my joy. In the

delirious delight this good news gave me, I kissed the doctor's kindly

hands, which have become sacred to me since they have ministered to you.

The poor man was surprised and moved by my emotion, and looked quite

embarrassed--almost shy of my gratitude--but I was proud of it. Why

should not a woman kiss the hands that have saved the life of the man

she adores, when so many men kiss the idle fingers of the women who

betray them.

Rosalie arrived a few minutes after the doctor, to fetch your egg, and

found me weeping and smiling. I explained the reason to her. The girl

has surprised me in tears so often that I fear she will take me for a

cry-baby by temperament, though God knows, I do not lay claim to

hyper-sensitiveness. But how could I have remained calm during your

long, painful illness. For, my beloved, one can afford to admit now,

that you have been in grave danger the last twelve days. Happily all is

over, you are saved and I thank God on my knees and adore you.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Wednesday morning, August 4th, 1858_.

At last, at last, at last, beloved, I have reached the blessed moment

when I shall see you again! I am so happy that words and breath fail me.

Oh, my adored one, how have I managed to live so far away and separated

from you for so long! Three weeks ago I should have thought such a

sacrifice beyond my strength, yet to-day I am almost afraid I am seeing

you too soon; for my solicitude takes fright at the idea of any

imprudence that might augment or prolong the sufferings you have only

just overcome. The worthy doctor assures me there is no risk for you in

the short walk from your house to mine, but I have been so wretched

during your illness, and I love you so much, that my heart knows not to

whom to hearken. My beloved, my joy, my life, my happiness, be prudent!

I adore you, I await you, my love.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Monday, 8 a.m., June 13th, 1859_.

[Illustration: JULIETTE DROUET'S HAND.]

Good morning, my adored one. I say it with all the tenderness which had

to be disguised owing to the presence of your kind and charming son,

during the lovely fortnight we have spent at Sark. Everything there was

a feast for mind and heart. One thing only was lacking for my complete

happiness; freedom to love you aloud and in all frankness. Now there

need be no obstacle to the passionate expansion of my soul, but it is in

the silence and solitude of my house, without the joys, smiles,

sparkling wit, and poetical atmosphere you and your son spread before

my dazzled eyes, during the splendid fortnight I spent with you both; so

true is it that one cannot have everything at the same time here below,

and that perfect happiness is attained only in Heaven. But while our two

souls are travelling thither, the one assisting the other, I am grateful

to God for the radiant fortnight He has just given me. I thank Him with

a full heart, and beseech Him to repay you and your dear Charles with as

many fruitful and glorious years as you have given me days of happiness

in the tender intimacy of Sark. As usual, my words are inadequate to

express my feelings, but you will understand, my beloved, and restore

the balance between the two.

I hope you spent a good night, my sweet love. I am waiting for you to

give you as many kisses as you are able to carry. Until then I adore you

with all my soul.

_Tuesday, June 14th._

May God preserve you from all evil, my beloved, and permit my love and

blessing to constitute the whole happiness of your life.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Thursday, 4.30 p.m., February 16th, 1860_.

You sat at this very spot just now, my sweet love, writing in my little

red book, (record of our love), the very things my own heart feels and

would have dictated to you, could it have spoken aloud--so certain is it

that my life belongs absolutely to you, and that my thoughts take birth

from your glances. Like you, I have faith in our radiant future in the

life beyond; like you, I pray to die as near you as possible, cradled in

your arms, whenever it please Heaven. If I hearkened only to the voice

of my selfishness, I should plead that it might be now, but I am too

conscious of the sublime mission you are called upon to accomplish

towards humanity in this world, to dare put up such an impious petition.

I will wait bravely, patiently, reverently, in prayer and adoration,

until it please God to call us unto Himself.

_Thursday evening, 7.30._

I resume my scribble where I left it when you came back this afternoon,

my darling beloved--not to add anything of value, but to continue for my

own pleasure the sweet dialogue between my heart and my love. I thank

you for our dear twenty-seventh anniversary, which you made memorable by

words so luminous and a tenderness so penetrating and sacred. I thank

you for myself, whose pride and joy and veneration you are; I thank you

on behalf of my nephew and his family, for the immense honour you have

conferred upon them by writing to their son. Lastly, my beloved, I kiss

your feet, your hands, your lips, your eyes, your brow, and I only cease

through fear of wearying you by this over-flow of caresses.

I love you.

JULIETTE.

MONT ST. JEAN,

_Monday, 8 p.m., June 17th, 1861_.

Dearly beloved. Whilst you are expanding among the tender delights of

family life, I am invoking all my physical and moral strength to

prevent myself giving way under the sadness of your absence. As long as

my eyes could distinguish the omnibus, that is to say, as far as the

_Betterave Renaissante_, I watched your progress along the Gronendael

road. Beyond that point, I was forced to relinquish the sweet illusion

that I could still see the dear little black speck on the horizon, and

to acknowledge that nothing lay before me but the endless void of your

twenty-four hours' absence. So, as I did not know what to do with myself

or how to kill time, I walked by a fairly easy field-path as far as the

church at Waterloo, and came back by way of the village, without however

visiting the church, notwithstanding the pressing invitation of an old

woman who called me her dear friend. I got back to the hotel at six

o'clock precisely, and spent the half hour before dinner freshening

myself up by washing from head to foot; then I put on a dressing-gown

and went down to our little dining-room, where I ate without hunger and

drank without thirst, so dismal and forlorn am I when you are no longer

present. I must have been pretty fully convinced of the impossibility of

accompanying you to Brussels without exposing your movements to

undesirable criticism, to accept the sad alternative of remaining here

alone. But that certainty is no comfort whatever, and I am just as

miserable as if it had been in my power to make the expedition with you.

Certainly, human respect is a horrid beast, more malevolent and worrying

than even midges and their poisonous sting, and all the ammonia in the

world is powerless against it.

I am well fitted to make the comparison seeing that my arm is already

healed, while my heart suffers more and more. Dear adored one, do try,

on your part, to spend profitably this interval which is costing me so

dear. Be happy; I love you, bless you, and adore you.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Tuesday, 8 a.m., February 17th, 1863_.

Good morning, my beloved. In full daylight and glorious sunshine, in

love and happiness, good morning. Again I greet you, like that first day

thirty years ago, when my eyes followed you along the Boulevard after

you left me. My soul winged flights of kisses to you when you looked

round for one more glance at my window before turning into the Rue du

Temple. That picture remains for ever graven upon my mind; I can assert

with truth that everything remains the same in my heart as the night I

first became yours. These thirty years of love have passed like one day

of uninterrupted adoration, and I feel now younger, more virile, and

more capable of loving you, than ever before--heart, body, soul, all are

yours, and live only by you and through you. I smile upon you, bless

you, adore you.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Sunday, 10.30 a.m., April 26th, 1863_.

Good morning, unutterably dear one. May all the blessings of heaven and

earth rest upon you and those you love. I slept very well and hope you

did the same. My headache has gone and I feel as sturdy as an oak-tree.

I do not in the least desire a great house whence I shall not be able to

see you in the mornings, and I should much prefer to keep my own little

perch upon which my heart poises so happily while I watch you moving

about your home. Having made my protest, beloved, you shall dictate to

me the letter I must write to notify the landlord that he need not move

out to-morrow. We can settle when you come, what time I must be ready,

so as not to lose one second of our little walk up the hill. I am so

happy at the thought of remaining near you, that I feel as if I had

already substituted youthful wings for my old legs. Even my garden is

gay, and cries out to me by the mouths of its lovely flowers: _don't go

away_! Health is where happiness is, and happiness means loving each

other, side by side, eyes upon eyes, soul with soul. Therefore, I shall

stay here. That is quite settled.

GUERNSEY,

_Friday, 7.30 a.m., October 30th, 1863_.

Good morning, good morning, and again, good morning, my dear, wide-awake

person. You must be very well to-day, judging by the energy with which

you are shaking your rugs to the four winds. I hope that signifies a

good night, good health, lively love, and all the rest of it. As for

myself, I slept little, but soundly. I got up before gun-fire this

morning, and had already finished my dressing when I saw you on your

balcony. What a privation it will be for me, my adored man, when I can

no longer watch you in the mornings, moving about your house. I do not

feel as if I should ever get accustomed to it, and I think of it with

apprehension, for there is a proverb that says, "Out of sight, out of

mind." If you gave up loving me, or worse, loved me less, what should I

make of life in that great empty drawing-room?

At this moment, I am trying to numb these reflections by the

contemplation of the marvels you are creating in that future house of

mine; but at the bottom of my heart, I know I shall always mourn this

poor little lodging, where my eyes could watch over you, caress you,

guard you, preserve you, and adore you. The more I think of it, the more

oppressed I feel, and the more I blame myself for having exchanged the

happiness of every moment, for a comfort I shall hardly have leisure to

appreciate, and for health which did not require amelioration. My poor

beloved, forgive these regrets which are only dictated by love, and this

anxiety which also means love. Try not to let the separation of our

houses entail that of our hearts; try to love me as heartily there as

here, and do not let yourself be enticed away from me by anybody. On

those conditions I promise to live happily in the splendid rooms you

have prepared for me.

GUERNSEY,

_Wednesday, 1.30 p.m., June 15th, 1864_.

Dearly beloved, I cannot forsake this little home where we have loved

each other for eight years, without imprinting a kiss of gratitude upon

its threshold. I have just gazed my supreme farewell at your beautiful

house, which has so long been to me the polar star of my heart's

wanderings. Alas, I am lengthening out the moments as much as possible;

I cannot bring myself to leave this dear little house, which I had made

the shrine of my cult for you. I should like to carry away the walls

against which you have leaned, the floors you have trodden, and even the

dust your feet have spurned. I fear lest my sadness be observed by those

who cannot understand it, and the efforts I make to seem unconcerned

increase the constriction of my heart, and drench my eyes with tears.

Oh, my adored beloved, how you will have to love me and give me all the

time at your disposal, to console me for the immense grief I am

experiencing to-day in quitting your neighbourhood, that is to say, in

losing sight of it! How you will have to double and treble and quadruple

your love, to replace the dear memories I leave behind me! May God

protect me and may the dear souls of our angels follow us to the new

home, and bless us till our last hour!

I adore you.

GUERNSEY,

_Thursday, 5.30 a.m., June 16th, 1864_.

Where are you, my beloved? My eyes seek you vainly, you are no longer

there to smile upon me; it is all over--I shall never again see the

little roost whence you used to blow kisses and wave your hand so

tenderly. I am alone now in my fine house, alone for ever; for there is

no further chance in this life of having you near me. I shall never

again live in your immediate intimacy, as I have done for the past eight

years.

Loyally as you may endeavour to bridge over the distance between our

abodes by coming to me oftener in the day-time, the separation of our

two existences must ever endure. I know it by the blank depression I am

feeling this morning. I would give a hundred thousand houses and

palaces, and the universe itself, for that little slice of horizon where

my heart projected itself night and day. I am ashamed of having been so

mean-spirited as to barter my daily happiness against a chimerical

amelioration of health. I am punished for my transgression, my dearest.

I carry death in my heart. Forgive me! I would gladly smile at you, but

at this moment I feel incapable of doing so. Forgive me for loving you

too much. I hope you had a good night. I hope you gazed upon my dark,

empty house and gave it one sigh of regret. I hope you love me and are

conscious of my absence. May God preserve you from all evil, dearly

beloved, and may your love remain whole and intact in severance as in

propinquity. I bless you, and adore you. A kiss to all our dear

memories.

GUERNSEY,

_Sunday, 8.30 a.m., June 11th, 1865_.

It would take very little to make me stay in bed till noon. I am ashamed

of myself and well punished, for I have not seen you this morning, and

have not yet heard whether you had a good or a bad night. I hope you

were clever enough to sleep uninterruptedly from the moment you laid

your head on the pillow, till that of your uprising. I shall be very

glad if I have guessed right. Meanwhile, my sweet treasure, I send you

a smile and a blessing. I am listening at this moment to the joyous

cheeping of my tiny chicks over a saucer of milk that has just been put

before them. I am also watching two white butterflies darting after each

other among my roses, like twin souls in Eden. The flowers are blooming,

love-making is going on all around, and my heart is overflowing with

tenderness and adoration for you. The further I progress in life, the

more I love you; you are the beginning and end of my being. I hope

everything of you, and my soul trusts you, all in all. You are my

radiant and divine beloved.

GUERNSEY,

_Sunday, 7.30 a.m., December 2nd, 1866_.

Good-morning, my adored one, bless you. I can afford to smile on this

date, abhorred of all worthy folk: December 2nd.--because it is, for me

alone, a joyful anniversary. If my gratitude is an offence towards

humanity, I humbly ask pardon of God and man. I am tormented at the

thought that you may have slept badly. If I could be reassured on that

point, I should be quite happy this morning. Unfortunately, I can only

find out much later when you come here to bathe your dear eyes. The

mention of your eyes reminds me of your poor wife's sight. Surely, if

the doctors were not certain of curing her, they would not keep her so

long in Paris, away from all her belongings, in winter weather? My

desire for her complete recovery of a sense of which she has made such

noble use in her beautiful book _Victor Hugo, raconté_, makes me look

upon her delay in returning, as a happy presage of future recovery. I

ask it of Heaven, with love.

GUERNSEY,

_Wednesday, 8 a.m., January 1st, 1868_.

I thank you, dearest, for letting me have a share in your prayers, when

you plead to God not to separate us in life or in death. It is what I

pray all day long; it is the aspiration of my heart and the faith of my

soul. I am not a devout woman, my sublime beloved, I am only the woman

who loves and admires and reverences you. To live near you is paradise;

to die with you is the consecration of our love for all eternity. I want

to live and die with you. I, like you, crave it of God. May He grant our

joint prayers!

I feel as you do, my beloved, that those two dear souls hover above us

and watch over us and bless us. I associate them with all my thoughts

and sorrows and joys, and I place my prayers under their protection,

that they may convey them direct to the foot of the Great White Throne.

I bless them as they bless me, with all that is loftiest and holiest and

most sacred in my soul. I am stopping at almost every line of this

letter to read your adorable one over again, although I already know it

by heart. I kiss it, talk to it, listen to it, and then begin all over

again. I love you.

GUERNSEY,

_Thursday, 7 a.m., May 7th, 1868_.

Dearly beloved, I am rather less worried since I have seen you and

exchanged a kiss with you; yet I know you slept badly. I can feel that

you are ailing and sad. I pray God to give you happiness again as soon

as possible, in the form of a second little Georges all smiling and

beautiful; meanwhile, I beg Him to let my love be the balm that will

heal your wounds, until the day of resurrection of the sweet child for

whom you weep.[112]

I hope He will hear and grant my petitions on your behalf, and that you

will be restored to some degree of calmness and consolation. When you

write to your two dear sons, Charles and Victor, do not forget, I beg,

to thank them from me for the little portrait. Tell them I love them and

mingle my tears with theirs.

I adore you, my great one, my venerated one, my sublime mourner.

BRUSSELS,

_Sunday, 7.30 a.m., August 2nd, 1868_.

Again I have slept better than ever, beloved. I trust it has been the

same with you. I was very proud and pleased at my walk with you and your

family last night, but I felt somewhat shy and ill at ease. Please

permit me to decline any further invitations of the kind. Should the

occasion arise again, which is improbable, I think good taste and

discretion demand that I should hold myself aloof from your family

affections, and only associate myself with them at a distance, or in my

own home. As this feeling, or scruple, whichever you may like to call

it, could not be expressed in the presence of your dear children

yesterday, I consented to go with you, while intending to call your

attention privately to the embarrassment such an incident would cause

me, if it should happen again. I think you will probably agree with me,

and approve of my sacrificing my pleasure to your tender family

intercourse.

BRUSSELS,

_Wednesday, 8.30 a.m., August 26th, 1868_.

My poor beloved, I pray God to spare you and your dear children the

misfortune which threatens you at this moment in the loss of your

angelic and adorable wife. I hope, I hope, I hope. I pray, I love you, I

summon all our dear angels above to her assistance and yours. I pray God

to make two equal shares of the days remaining to me, and add one to the

life of your saintly and noble wife. My beloved, my heart is wrung, I

suffer all you suffer twice over, through my love for you. I do not know

what to do. I long to go to you, I should love to take my share of the

nursing of your poor invalid, but human respect holds me back, and my

heart is heavier than ever. Suzanne has only just come from your house,

and I already want to send her back again, in the hope that she may

bring me less disquieting news than that which I have just received. Oh,

God have mercy upon us and change our anguish into joy!

BRUSSELS,

_Thursday, August 27th, 1868_.

My beloved, in the presence of that soul which now sees into my

own,[113] I renew the sacred vow I made the first time I gave myself to

you; to love you in this world and in the next, so long as my soul shall

exist, in the certainty of being sanctioned and blessed in my devotion

by the great heart and noble mind which has just preceded us, alas, into

eternity.

BRUSSELS,

_Friday, 8 a.m., August 28th, 1868_.

I placed your sleep last night under the protection of your dear one, my

beloved, and implored her to remove from your dreams all painful

memories of the sad day just past. I hope she heard me and that you

slept well. Henceforth, it is to this gentle and glorious witness of

your life in this world, now your radiant protectress in Heaven, that I

will appeal for the peace and happiness you require, to finish the great

humanitarian task to which you have pledged yourself. May God bless her

and you, as I bless her and you.

The more I think over to-night's mournful journey, the more convinced I

feel that I ought not to take part in it. The pious homage of my heart

to that great and generous woman must not be exposed to a wrong

interpretation by indifferent or ill-natured critics. We must make this

last sacrifice to human malignity, in order to have the right to love

each other openly afterwards; do you not agree, my beloved? Afterwards,

may nothing ever come between us here below, nor above--such is my

ardent desire!

BRUSSELS,

_Friday, 5.30 p.m., August 28th_.

My heart and thoughts are with you and your beloved dead. I am sad and

heart-broken, not for the angelic and sublime woman who now shines out

in the world of spirits while we here below regret her, but for you, my

poor sad man, to whom she was a holy and meek companion; for your dear

children whose joy and pride she was; for myself, to whom she was ever a

discreet and considerate protectress.

My heart is torn by your grief, my poor afflicted ones; my eyes rain all

the tears you are shedding. Dear treasure, I beg your wife to obtain for

you the courage you need. May her memory remain with you, sweet and

gentle and benign as was her exquisite person in life. I entrust you to

her as I confide myself to you, and I bless you both.

GUERNSEY,

_Tuesday, 2 p.m., February 1st, 1870_.

Since I have seen you, my great beloved, I am feeling much better. Your

smile has completed my cure. It may be an illusion of my eyes and heart,

but at this moment I seem to feel the breath of spring. Perhaps it

proceeds from the nearness of the anniversary of the first performance

of _Lucrèce Borgia_, which is to be acclaimed and applauded by an

enthusiastic public to-morrow night, just as it was thirty-seven long

years ago. Bonaparte may do his best to-morrow against this magnificent

play, he will get no good out of his police-engineered cabal. I think he

will hardly dare risk such an infamous attempt, but I wish it was

already Saturday, that we might be quite easy. Meanwhile, I love you

after the fashion of Princesse Négroni.

JULIETTE.

GUERNSEY,

_Monday, 8.30 a.m., February 14th, 1870_.

Good morning, my dearest. Did you sleep better last night, my great,

little man? Were you warmer? How are you this morning? It is indeed

tedious to have to wait until this afternoon to hear all this. I am

trying to moderate my impatience by doing things for you. I have already

selected your two eggs, put fresh water into your finger-bowl, and a

snow-white napkin on your plate. Suzanne is making your coffee, which

perfumes the whole house, while I trace these gouty old

"pattes-de-mouche," which are to lay all the tender nonsense of my heart

at your feet. I am beginning early, as you see, to be certain that they

arrive in time. The thaw has begun. I was quite hot in the night, though

I must admit I had taken measures to that end; so I slept excellently,

as you can judge by the state of my spirits. But what I really want you

to take note of is, that I adore you.

GUERNSEY,

_Saturday, 7.45 a.m., May 21st, 1870_.

My heart, my eyes, my soul, are bewildered, my beloved, so overwhelmed

are they with tenderness, admiration, and happiness! What an adorable

letter, and what a marvellous surprise! How good you are to me! How

generous and charming! Words fail me, and the best I can say is: I love

you! I love you! I threw my arms around old Mariette's neck, and almost

embraced Marquand himself in the delirium of my delight. What a splendid

frame for that lovely little mirror! It contains everything: flowers,

birds, a shelf, little Georges' sweet face above, and your beautiful

verses for wings. How can I thank you adequately, or describe my

gratitude? Fortunate am I to have eternity before me in which to bless

you. I kissed my dear little letter before everybody, but I would not

read it until just now when I was able to bolt my door. I always read

you thus, my adored one. My soul demands privacy for the better

understanding of your sublime words, and I never finish the reading of

them without feeling transported with love and almost prepared for the

next world. I love you!!

Mariette told me you had spent a very good night. Is it really true? I

slept capitally, too, and am feeling more than well. I have been looking

about for a place for my new treasure, but have not yet decided on one.

I shall leave it to you to choose its proper place in my museum of

_souvenirs_. Meanwhile, I have covered it away from the dust and put it

in the shady drawing-room. As soon as I have read your adorable little

letter again, I shall go back and have another look at it.

[Illustration: VICTOR HUGO, BY RODIN.]

GUERNSEY,

_Friday, 5 a.m., August 18th, 1870_.

At all hazards I must send you my morning greeting, though I trust you

are sleeping too soundly to hear it. You have slept so little and so

badly for many nights, that it would be only fair that this night

should be long and good. As for me, I hardly slept at all, but I do not

mind and am hardly surprised, as it is a habit of mine. But the thing I

feel I cannot become inured to, is the apprehension of the perils you

are about to encounter on your journey to Paris, ranging from the loss

of your wealth to the death of your love for me--either would finish me.

I think with terror of the tortures of all kinds I shall undergo there;

my courage fails me and craves mercy in anticipation. I have fought all

night against the wicked temptation to desert my post in a cowardly

manner before even meeting the enemy--not an enemy that can be fought

with fire and blood, but one that stabs you smiling. But I have not even

the courage of cowardice; I am ready to suffer a thousand deaths if only

I can preserve you from a single danger. You must live at any cost, that

you may be enabled to complete your glorious task, and be happy, no

matter how or with whom. My duty is to devote myself to that end,

whatever betide. If I go under in the execution of it, so much the worse

for me, or possibly, so much the better. To serve you and love you is my

mission in this world--the rest does not concern me.

_Thursday morning, July 20th, 1871_.

This is your patron-saint's day, my great beloved. Others will

congratulate you with flowers and music and expressions of admiring

gratitude and emotion, but nobody will love you more than I do, or bless

and adore you as you deserve to be loved, blessed and adored!

I hope this anniversary may be the beginning of a new year less sinister

and sad than the last, and that your dear grandchildren will give you as

much joy and happiness as you have had sadness and misfortune in the

past. I say this hastily, as best I can, with emotion in my old heart

and thrills of joy in my soul. As I sit scribbling, I hear your voice

calling me and I rush towards you just as in the early days of our love.

I kiss your hair, your eyes, your lips, your hands, your feet. I adore

you.

JULIETTE.

PARIS,

_Thursday, 10.15, January 18th, 1872_.

Good morning, my great and venerated one. I kiss one by one the wounds

of your heart, praying God to heal those that ache worst. I beg Him to

give me strength to help you carry your heavy cross to the end. I ask

Him, above all, to give me that which, alas, is lacking in my nature,

namely, that infinite gentleness without which the most perfect devotion

is unavailing. Since the day before yesterday, my poor, sublime martyr,

my heart has been wrung by the new blow that has fallen upon you,[114]

and I weep helplessly, without power to check my tears. God Who gave you

genius makes you pay heavy toll for that favour, by overwhelming your

life with the pangs of sorrow. My beloved, I beg you to tell me how I

may serve you. I will do anything you desire. I will use my whole heart

and strength in your service.

I love you.

PARIS,

_8 a.m., Monday, February 26th, 1872_.

This is your birthday, beloved--the anniversary of anniversaries,

acclaimed in Heaven by the great men of genius who preceded you upon

earth, and blessed by me ever since the day I first gave myself to you.

We used to celebrate it with all the sweetest instruments of love;

kisses, words of endearment, letters, all were pressed into service to

make this date, February 26th, a perfume, an ecstasy, a ray of sunshine.

To-day these winged caresses have flown to other realms, but there

remains to us the solemn devotion that better becomes the sacred

marriage of two souls for all eternity. In the name of that devotion I

send you my tenderest greetings and beg you to let me know how you spent

the night. I hope your little breach of regulations yesterday did not

prevent you from sleeping. As for me, I slept little, but I am quite

well this morning, thanks to the influence of this radiant date. I ask

little Georges and little Jeanne to kiss you for me as many times as you

have lived minutes in this world. My dearly beloved, I bless you.

PARIS,

_Saturday, 2 p.m., April 13th, 1872_.

This is a day of sunshine: God, in His Heaven above, and little Jeanne

under my roof. I hardly know--or rather, perhaps I do know which is the

brighter of the two, but I am not going to tell you, for fear of making

you too proud. What a beautiful day, and what an adorable little girl!

But what a pity we cannot all enjoy these spring-time delights together,

walking and driving, in town and country-meadows. I am really afraid the

good God will weary of us and pronounce the fatal dictum: "IT IS TOO

LATE" when at last we make up our minds to take our share of life,

sunshine, and happiness. The terrible part is that whether innocent or

guilty we shall all suffer alike for _your_ transgression, for divine

justice is very like that of man. As for me, I enter my protest from my

little retreat, but it serves no purpose except that of an idle pastime;

it does not even keep me from adoring you.

PARIS,

_Tuesday, 12 noon, November 18th, 1873_.

My beloved, I do not desire to turn your successes into a scourge for

your back, but I cannot help feeling that my old-fashioned devotion cuts

a sorry figure amongst the overdressed _cocottes_ who assail you

incessantly with their blandishments and invitations. This fantastic

chase has gone on for a long time without extorting from you any sign of

weariness or satiety. As for me, I long only for repose--if not in this

life (which seems difficult in my case to obtain), then in the

immobility of death, which cannot long be delayed at the pace I am

going. I ask your permission to begin preparing for it by giving up my

daily letters. That will be something gained; the rest will come

gradually, little by little, till one fine day we shall find ourselves

quite naturally on the platform of indifference, or of reason, as you

will prefer to call it. From to-day on, therefore, I place the key of my

heart on your doorstep, and will wander away alone in the direction of

God.

PARIS,

_Friday, 11.15 a.m., December 26th, 1873_.

Dear adored one. All your desires in life, as well as mine, are granted

to-day if your dear Victor has spent a good night, as I hope. I am

anxiously waiting for Mariette's return to know how the dear invalid

is....

My poor beloved, I am in despair--I have just seen Mariette, who tells

me that your poor son is in high fever at this moment.[115] I do not

know how to tell you; I do not think I shall have the strength to do so.

Dr. Sée has been sent for and Mariette has just gone back to hear what

he thinks of this relapse. Oh, Heaven have mercy on us! I hardly dare

breathe or even weep, so greatly do I dread betraying to you the

misfortune which threatens you, my beloved. How can I ward off the fate

that is hanging over you? What can I say or do? My brain reels! Ought I

to tell you everything--would it be wrong to conceal from you the

imminent sorrow that is going to wring your heart once more? I know not,

but I lack the courage either to speak or to be silent; I am in despair,

yet I dare not make moan. I suffer, I adore you. Pity me, as I pity you.

Let us love each other under this cruel trial, as we should if Heaven

were opening its gates to us.

PARIS,

_Monday, 5 o'clock p.m., December 29th, 1873_.

Go, dearest, try to find in a solitary walk, which may prove fruitful to

the world, some solace for the painful agitation of your heart. My

thoughts follow you lovingly and bless every one of your steps. Do not

worry about me in the new arrangements of your life. Whatever you settle

shall be accepted by me. For forty-one years I have followed that

programme, and I will do so now, more than ever. Provided you love me as

I love you, I desire nothing more from God or you. The advice I give

you, apart from my own personal concerns, is always practical and in

your own interest and that of your dear grandchildren. I should feel I

had failed in my duty if I kept the least of my ideas from you, whether

good or bad, insignificant or stupid. I love you and adore you, body,

heart and soul.

PARIS,

_Tuesday, 12.30 p.m., February 17th, 1874_.

Dear one, there is rather more bustle about us than usual on this our

sweet and sacred anniversary. We have the little excitement of your two

adorable grandchildren, which we had not expected, but which is all the

more delightful for that. The perfection of happiness would have been to

take them ourselves to that famous circus which little Georges already

knows, and little Jeanne dreams of; but the bad weather and the remains

of my influenza counsel a pusillanimous prudence. It is not without

regret, beloved, that I impose this sacrifice of one of our most

precious joys upon you, but I feel I cannot do otherwise to-day. As for

the dear little things, their pleasure will, fortunately, not be marred

in any way. So long as they can revel in the antics of Mr. and Mrs.

Punch and their august family, they will not mind whom they go with.

That being the case, Mariette is a sufficient escort to the promised

land of Auriol and Punch.

As for ourselves, dearest, I trust that our two souls, communing

together, will not miss those fascinating little witnesses of our love

over much.

PARIS,

_Wednesday, 7 p.m., March 11th, 1874_.

He whose heart is younger than his years suffers all the sorrows of his

age. This aphorism contains in a few words the secret of the turmoil I

involuntarily bring into your life, while I myself suffer like a soul in

damnation. Still, I must not allow this ridiculous folly to be an

annoyance to you; I must and will get the better of it, and leave you

your liberty, every liberty, especially that of being happy whenever and

however you like. Otherwise, my poor beloved, you will very shortly come

to hate the sight of me. I know it, and it terrifies me in anticipation.

So I am determined to crush my heart at all costs, that I may restore

peace and happiness to yours.

PARIS,

_Saturday, 1.45 p.m., April 4th, 1874_.

I thank you dear one, for having been loyal enough to tell me this

morning that you had written another poem to Madame M. I thank you also

for having offered to read it to me, and not to send it to her till

afterwards. I accepted this respite in the first instance, but I

realised later that _what is delayed is not lost_, and that I should

gain nothing by struggling against being bracketed with this _statue

inhabited by a star_, and that I was simply putting myself in the absurd

position of the ostrich that tries to avert danger by hiding his head in

the sand. Therefore beloved, I beg you to act quite freely, and to send

the verses dedicated to your beautiful muse whenever you like. Once the

poetry has been written, it is quite natural that you should intoxicate

each other without consideration for me. Besides, in my opinion,

infidelity does not consist in action only; I consider it already

accomplished by the sole fact of desire. That being settled, my dear

friend, I beg you to behave exactly as you like, and as if I were no

longer in the way. I shall then have leisure to rest from the fatigues

of life before taking my departure for eternity. Try and be happy if you

can.

[Illustration: JULIETTE DROUET ABOUT 1877.]

PARIS,

_Thursday, 7 a.m., April 11th, 1874_.

Permit me, my great beloved, to offer you my three-score years and ten,

freshly completed this morning. Give the poor old things a friendly

reception, for they are as blazing with love for you now, as if they had

only been born yesterday. I commission little Jeanne to give you

seventy million kisses for me to-day, not one less, but a few more if

she likes. I hope little Georges' nose has not bled since yesterday, and

that he slept well like the rest of you. I slept like a top, and am

splendid this morning. I feel a degree of youthfulness that must proceed

from the seventy springs I have absorbed so freely. The sky itself

contributes its birthday greeting by pouring its measure of sunshine

upon us. Therefore, long live love, for us in the first place, (for a

little selfishness will not harm happiness,) and in the second, long

live love for all whom we love. May you be blest, my beloved, in all

those you care for. I adore you.

PARIS,

_Thursday, 10.45 p.m., May 7th, 1874_.

Dear, dear one, the separation I dreaded as a veritable calamity is now

an accomplished fact. God grant it may not be the beginning of the end

of my happiness. My heart is full of sad presentiment. The distance that

separates us is like a broken bridge between our hearts, over which

neither joy nor hope may pass henceforth. I cherish no illusion; from

this evening forward, all intimacy between us is over, and my sweet

horizon of love is for ever clouded. I try to give myself courage by

reflecting that the happiness I lose is gained by you in the affection

of your two dear grandchildren. I tell myself that this compensation

should be sufficient for me; still I am in despair, and I can hardly

help shedding floods of tears, as if some irreparable misfortune had

befallen me when you walked away just now. I accustomed myself far too

speedily to a happiness that was only lent to me for a little while.

But however short-lived it proved, I bless you, and pray God to turn my

regrets and sorrow into a future of joy and kisses and ecstasy for you

and your two little angels.

PARIS,

_9.30 a.m., Sunday, June 21st, 1874_.

I had hoped that nothing would happen to disturb the sanctity of this

sad anniversary,[116] and had counted on the assistance of the angels of

death to defend me from the aggressions of the devils of life. Alas, I

was sadly at fault, for never was a more audacious or more cynical

attempt made against my peace of mind. One might think that the mangled

remains of my poor heart were a target for the arrows of those

emissaries of vice! I declare myself vanquished without a fight, and ere

my reason finally succumbs, I mean to place my bruised heart in shelter,

far from the flattering intrigues of which you are the fortunate hero.

_3 p.m._

You wish me not to be anxious, not to relinquish a tussle in which I am

unarmed? It is more generous than wise on your part, for what happened

to-day, happened yesterday, and will again to-morrow, and I have no

strength left, either physical or moral. This martyrdom of Sisyphus, who

daily raises his love heavenward only to see it fall back with all its

weight upon his heart, inspires me with horror, and I prefer death a

thousand times over, to such torture. Have mercy upon me! Let me go! It

shall be wherever you will. Do not run the risk for yourself and me of

my committing some frightful act of folly. I ask you this in the name of

your daughter and mine--in the name of little Georges and your dear

little Jeanne. Give me a chance to recover from these reiterated

attacks. I assure you it is the only remedy possible, or capable of

effecting my cure. You will hardly notice my absence; the children of

your blood, and those of your genius, and the rest, will easily fill the

void of my absence, and meanwhile I shall regain calmness. I shall

become resigned and perhaps be cured, and in any case it will be a

respite for you as well as for me. I assure you my treasure, that it

will be a good thing for you. I beg you to let me try it. The abuse of

love, like the abuse of health, brings suffering and death in its train.

The soul may have a plethora, as well as the body. Mine suffocates under

its own weight. Let me try to lighten it in solitude and the

contemplation of our past happiness. I beg and implore it of you--I ask

it in the name of those you mourn and love.

PARIS,

_Monday, 6 p.m., February 16th, 1875_.

My dearest, your letter burns and dazzles me, and I feel humbled by it,

because physically I know myself to be so far beneath your ideal; but

morally, when I look inward and see my soul as your love has transformed

it, I am arrogant enough to think myself above it, and to have no fear

of the moment when I may reveal to you its resplendent purity in the

eyes of God. Pending this, sublime and divine treasure of mine, you

must shut your eyes to the sad reality of my old, sickly body, and await

with patience the rejuvenation promised in Heaven. I pray God to allow

me to live as long as you, because I do not know how I could exist a

single minute without you, even in Paradise with our holy angels. I hope

He will grant my ardent prayer, and that we shall die and rise again

together on the same day and at the same hour. To ensure this, I must

put my health on a level with yours, which will be difficult, for I am

very feeble. I try to, every day, without much success so far, but I am

counting on the spring to give me a push up the hill, so that I may

continue to pace the road at your side. This evening, if nobody comes,

and if Madame Charles leaves us early, I shall beg you to let me do _Le

Passus_ with you. I should like to celebrate the day by something brave

and wholesome. I hope I shall manage it. I love you, bless you, and

adore you.

GUERNSEY,

_Tuesday, 7.45 a.m., April 21st, 1875_.

Good morning my great, good, ineffable, adorable beloved. I pray Heaven

to bless you in Heaven as I bless you here below. I hope you slept as

well as I did, that you bear me no grudge for the irritability born of

excessive fatigue, and that you do not love me less on account of it. My

confidence in your inexhaustible indulgence lends me courage to proceed

with the sad business that brought me here.[117] The thought that we

shall never return to these houses of ours, where we loved and suffered

and were happy together, makes my heart as heavy as if we were already

attending our funerals. This fresh break between the sweet past of our

love and the short future that remains to us in this life, makes the

present very painful. But I am not unthankful for the compensations that

await us in Paris in the society of your dear grandchildren--far from

it! I shall smile upon them and bless them with my last breath, as the

tangible angels of your happiness and mine. I am doing my best to be

ready to start on Tuesday morning. I regret not being able to carry away

every relic of our love, from the soil of the garden, to the air you

breathe. By the way I have a petition to make to you, but am ready to

submit to a refusal if you do not approve of granting it. I want you to

allow me to give Louis the two splendid drawings of St. Paul and the

Cock, which are really mine to dispose of, since you gave them to me

long ago. Some mementoes are more prized by an heir than mere money, and

I should like to leave these from you to my kind and worthy nephew, if

you consent. Meanwhile, as I said before, I will bow to a refusal, even

if you give me no reason, for I adore you.

PARIS,

_Tuesday, 7.45 a.m., October 5th, 1875_.

Good news from your dear little travellers. The top of the morning to

you, and long live love! The telegram, which came after I was in bed,

that is to say after eleven o'clock, is dated from Genoa, and says they

arrive the day after to-morrow at Madame Ménard's, and will write at

once from there. Meanwhile they send you thousands of kisses, of which

I make bold to reserve a share, before being quite certain that I am

meant to do so. This long delayed arrival in France heralds their speedy

return home, which is not at all displeasing to me--_on the contrary!_

My gaze, night and morning, at their dear little portraits in no degree

replaces their kisses, their sweet faces, and the joyous little shrieks

one hears all day long. At last we are touching the end of our long

abstinence and shall soon be able to devour them whole. Meanwhile I

continue to feed upon your heart, to whet my appetite.

PARIS,

_Sunday, 5 p.m., November 21st, 1875_.

Dear beloved, your promise to take me every day to Versailles, if you

are obliged to return to the Assemblée, fills my heart with such joy

that I have been humming all the merry songs I used to sing. It is long

since I have done such a thing. What would it be if some lucky event

sent us all back to Guernsey, never to leave it again ... or at least,

not for a very long time! What enchantment, what a starlit dream, if God

were to give us that bliss a second time! I think I should promptly

return to the age I was when I received your first kiss. Fortunately for

France, God will not grant this selfish wish, but He will forgive me for

entertaining it I hope, for I cannot help loving you beyond everything

in this world, and it does not hinder me from being satisfied with

whatever happiness He is pleased to vouchsafe, so long as you are

content, and love only me, who adore you.

PARIS,

_Tuesday, 8 a.m., April 25th, 1876_.

My treasure, I pray God not to separate us in this life or the next.

That is why I am anxious to be with you in the crowd that will rush to

see and hear you at the cemetery to-day.[118] I know by experience that

your enthusiasm borders on imprudence, so I want to press my body to

yours as closely as our souls are riveted, so that whatever befalls you

on this sad occasion, may include me. As the love animating our hearts

is identical, it is only fair that our fate should be the same. I wish

this evening were safely over, that I might be satisfied that everything

has gone off well; for I am afraid if poor Louis Blanc attends the

mournful ceremony in his present state of ill-health and weakness, he

may not be able to get through it. I shall not be easy until we are at

home again. Meanwhile I pray Heaven and our angels above to watch over

you and preserve you from all danger. I bless, love, and adore you, for

all eternity.

PARIS,

_Wednesday, 7.30 a.m., April 26th, 1876_.

I thank you with sacred emotion, my dear one, for your inclusion of me

in the sublime and magnificent exordium you pronounced yesterday on the

noble wife of Louis Blanc. I accept it without false modesty, because I

feel I deserve it, and I am proud and grateful for this ante-apotheosis

you made of me, a living woman, standing at the open grave of the

devoted deceased. I am sure her spirit will not have grudged it, and

that she blesses you from above, as I do from below, joining her prayers

to mine, that God may grant all grace and divine consolation to those we

love. I have already re-read your splendid oration many times to-day,

and although I know it by heart, each repetition discloses some fresh

beauty in it. My one cry is: I love you! I love you!! I love you!!! All

my heart and soul are contained in those words: I love you.

_Monday, 10 a.m., November 11th, 1878._

No, my beloved, you have no right to endanger your precious health and

risk your glorious life for nothing. "Art for art's sake" is not

permissible in your case, and we shall oppose it strenuously, even at

the risk of curtailing your liberty. I am sorry, but there it is--you

must make up your mind to it. There are plenty of useless men in this

world who may waste their lives as they like, but you must guard and

preserve yours for as long as it pleases God to grant it to you for the

honour and happiness of humanity. So, my dear little man, I implore you

not to repeat yesterday's imprudence, or any other, for all our sakes,

including your adorable grandchildren's and mine whose health and life

and soul you are. When I see you so careless of yourself I cannot help

feeling you no longer love me, and that my continued presence is so

wearisome to you that you want to be rid of it at any price. Then I

am seized with a desperate longing to deliver you of me for ever, rather

than be the involuntary accomplice of your repeated suicidal acts, which

have been ineffectual so far, not through your fault, but because God

intends you to go on living, for His greater glory and your own. May His

will be done. Amen.

[Illustration: THE DEATHBED OF VICTOR HUGO.

Victor Hugo Museum.]

[Illustration: A DEDICATION BY VICTOR HUGO TO JULIETTE DROUET.

The writing reads thus: "A la Juliette de Victor Hugo, plus charmante et

plus aimée que la Juliette de Shakespeare." The original belongs to M.

Louis Barthou.]

VILLEQUIER,

_Friday and Saturday mornings, September 12th and 13th, 1879_.

A double letter, my beloved; to-day's and yesterday's, which, for want

of paper, pens and ink, I was not able to send you at the proper time,

in spite of the inexhaustible fount of my love. This morning being

better provided, I can let myself go in the happiness of being with you

in the house of your respected friends,[119] enjoying their tender and

devoted hospitality. I am proud and yet shy of sharing it with you;

proud, because I think myself worthy, shy because I do not know how to

thank them or to prove my gratitude. Fortunately the honour and pleasure

of your presence is reward enough for those you esteem, and from whom

you accept this filial friendship, admiration, and devotion. I express

myself badly, but you are accustomed to grasp my meaning, in spite of

the lapses of my pen; so I never worry about the confusion of my

scribbles, and I end them imperturbably, as I begin them, by the sacred

words: I love you. I did not venture to ask your permission yesterday to

accompany you on your pious pilgrimage,[120] but I add the prayers I

addressed to God and your dear dead, to the sacrifice I was forced to

make to appearances. If you allow me, I shall go before we leave

Villequier, and kneel beside those venerated tombs, to offer under the

open sky my profound respect and eternal benediction. I shall only do it

if you consent, for I should not like to offend against good taste by

the outward manifestation of the sentiment I cherish in my heart for

your dear dead relations. I know you slept well--thanks evidently to the

calm and happy life your friends provide for you in their circle, for

which I thank and bless them from the bottom of my heart. I do not know

whether the weather will be favourable to-day for the excursion we

planned; it is foggy so far, but whatever be the state of the barometer,

I am disposed to be quite happy if you are, and to adore you without

conditions of any kind. By the way, how are you going to evade the

attentions of the mayor and corporation of Le Hâvre without hurting the

feelings of the poor workmen who implore you to go amongst them while

you are in their neighbourhood? It is not an easy problem to solve.

Luckily nothing is a difficulty to you--nor to me either when there is

any question of loving you with all my might from one end of life to the

other!

PARIS,

_Monday, 7 a.m., May 30th, 1880_.

How beautiful, how grand, how divine!!! I have just finished that

glorious reading, and am electrified by the elixir of your ardent

poetry; my fainting soul clings to your mighty wings, to arrest its fall

from the starry heights in which you plane, to the profound abyss of my

ignorance. I was afraid I might disturb your sleep by the rustling of

the leaves as I cut and devoured them greedily, never noticing that

night was turning into day. Finally, fearing to be caught by you, I

dragged myself unwillingly to bed at three o'clock, and have now already

been up an hour, in triumphant health, rejuvenated by the virility of

the thoughts your inexhaustible genius pours forth without intermission

before a dazzled and grateful humanity. My hand shakes from my inward

tremor, and it is with difficulty that I finish this poor little cry of

admiration. Even my voice, if I tried to speak at this moment, could

hardly stammer out my adoration. I am in the throes of a kind of

delirium which would be painful, were it not as exquisite as the divine

love which overflows from my heart.

PARIS,

_Tuesday, 8 a.m., November 2nd, 1880_.

Beloved, Heaven decrees that in the absence of your dear departed souls,

your sweet angels here below should be restored to you to-day. Let us

bless Him with all reverence, and be solemnly happy with the memory of

those who once made our felicity, and the kisses of your adorable

grand-children, who constitute your present and future content. What joy

it is to see them once more, lovelier than ever if possible, and in

still better health. All night I listened to every sound, that I might

be the first to welcome them on the threshold. I succeeded, and was

repaid by their hugs. The sun shot forth its brightest beams in their

honour. As for you, divine grandpapa, I trust your horrid cold will

yield to the tender caresses that await you, and that we shall have you

with us in our enjoyment. The least we can hope for is an indulgence in

unlimited caresses, after these three months of separation. I make a

start by flinging myself into your arms.

PARIS,

_Tuesday, 9 a.m., December 14th, 1881_.

I come to fetch my heart where I left it, that is to say in yours. I

return it to you, praying you not to bruise it over much by unjust and

wounding tyrannies. My independent, proud nature has always borne them

ill, and is now in revolt. I beg you beloved, not to constitute yourself

the critic of my little personal needs. Whatever I may ask, I assure you

I shall never exceed the bounds of necessity, and never will I take

unfair advantage of your trust and generosity. The position you have

given me in your household precludes me from placing myself at a

disadvantage in the eyes of your guests by an appearance not in

consonance with your means. Therefore, please, dear great man, leave it

to my discretion to do honour to you as well as to myself. Besides, the

little time I have to spend on earth is not worth haggling about. So, my

great little man, let us be good to each other for the rest of the time

God grants us to live side by side, and heart to heart.

PARIS,

_Sunday, Noon, July 10th, 1881_.

My dear beloved, I must first of all confess the fault (if it be one) I

committed yesterday under the influence of the universal enthusiasm

occasioned by the glorious ovation offered to you, so that you may

forgive it, even if you see fit to punish me. This is my crime. Whilst

you, still in the full flood of your emotion, were thanking the

enthusiastic crowd, the councillors of our district approached to

congratulate you and at the same time to beg for money for their

schools. Madame Lockroy sent them forty francs by Georges. Failing to

attract your attention, though they stood behind you, intent upon

presenting their money-boxes themselves, they turned to me. In my

agitated surprise, I handed them the hundred-franc note I was saving up

for my birthday. I gave the note in your name, at the same time

reminding them they had already received five hundred from you the day

before, through their mayor. He, happening to be present, confirmed my

statement. This is my transgression; if you deem it deserving of

severity you need not refund the money. If you take into account the

delirium and excitement of the occasion you will smile and give me back

my poor little mite of which I have great need. In any case you must not

scold me too much, for I am very sensitive.

_Wednesday, 8 a.m., June 21st, 1882._

Beloved, thank you for taking me to-day to the mournful and sweet

_rendez-vous_ of St. Mandé. I feel as if my sorrow would be less bitter,

kneeling at my child's grave than when I am at a distance ... as if my

soul could get closer to that of my little beloved, through the earth of

her tomb, than anywhere else. I hope you will find your dear daughter

in good health, and that we shall both return from this sacred errand

resigned to the will of God, though not consoled, for that is no longer

possible in this world. Thank you again, my adored one, for sharing with

me the sad anniversary that recalls to you the many sorrows of your own

life. I am very grateful to you, and I bless you as I love you, with all

the strength of my soul.

_Monday, January 1st, 1883._

Dear adored one, I do not know where I may be this time next year, but I

am proud and happy to sign my life-certificate for 1883 with this one

word: I love you.

JULIETTE.[121]

APPENDIX

I. LIST OF THOSE OF VICTOR HUGO'S POEMS WHICH WERE INSPIRED BY JULIETTE

DROUET.[122]

A. _LES CHANTS DU CRÉPUSCULE_

XIV. Oh! n'insultez jamais (September 6th, 1835).

XXI. Hier la nuit d'été (May 21st, 1835).

XXII. Nouvelle chanson sur un vieil air (February 28th, 1834).

XXIII. Autre chanson.

XXIV. Oh! pour remplir de moi (September 19th, 1834).

XXV. Puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre (January 1st, 1835).

XXVI. Or Mademoiselle J. (March 1st, 1835).

XXVII. La pauvre fleur (December 7th, 1834).

XXVIII. Au bord de la mer (October 7th, 1834).

XXIX. Puisque nos heures sont remplies (February 19th, 1835).

XXXIII. Dans l'église de.... (October 25th, 1834).

XXXVI. Puisque Mai tout en fleurs (May 21st, 1835).

_B. LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES_

VI. Oh! vivons disent-ils (March 4th, 1837).

VIII. Venez que je vous parle (April 21st, 1837).

IX. Pendant que la fenêtre était ouverte (February 26th, 1837).

XI. Puisqu'ici-bas toute âme (May 19th, 1836).

XVI. Passé (April 1st, 1835).

XVII. Soirée en mer (November 9th, 1836).

XII. Or Ol ... (May 26th, 1837).

XXX. Or Olympio (October 15th, 1835).

XXXI. La tombe dit à la rose (June 3rd, 1837).

_C. LES RAYONS ET LES OMBRES_

XXII. Guitare (March 14th, 1837).

XXIII. Autre guitare (July 18th, 1838).

XXIV. Quand tu me parles de gloire (October 12th, 1837).

XXVII. Oh! quand je dors, viens auprès de ma couche (June 19th, 1839).

XXVIII. A une jeune femme (May 16th, 1837).

XXV. Or cette terre où l'on ploie (May 20th, 1838).

XXXIII. L'Ombre (March 1839).

XXXIV. Tristesse d'Olympio (October 21st, 1837).

XLI. Dieu qui sourit et qui donne (January 1st, 1840).

_D. LES CONTEMPLATIONS_

[Illustration: BOOK-PLATE DESIGNED FOR JULIETTE DROUET BY VICTOR HUGO.

The original belongs to M. Louis Barthou.]

BOOK II

II. Mes vers faisaient doux et frêles....

V. Hier au soir

XIII. Viens, une flute invisible

XV. Parole dans l'ombre

XVII. Sous les arbres

XX. Il fait froid

XXI. Il lui disait: Vois-tu, si tous deux nous pouvions

XXIII. Après l'hiver

XXIV. Que le sort quel qu'il soit vous trouve toujours grande

XXV. Je respire où tu palpites

XXVII. Oui, va prier à l'église

XXVIII. Un soir que je regardais le ciel

BOOK V

XIV. Claire P....

XXIV. J'ai cueilli cette fleur pour toi sur la colline

BOOK VI

VIII. Claire

_E. TOUTE LA LYRE_

BOOK VI. L'AMOUR

I. Lorsque ma main frémit

II. Oh, si vous existez, mon ange, mon génie (March 10th, 1833).

III. Vois-tu, mon ange, il faut accepter nos douleurs (January 1st,

1835).

IV. Vous m'avez éprouvé (June 23rd, 1843).

XV. Étapes du c[oe]ur.

VII. A J---- et

IX. Qu'est-ce que cette année emporte

XVII. N'est-ce pas mon amour

XXXI. Oh dis, te souviens-tu de cet heureux dimanche

XXXIV. Garde à jamais dans ta mémoire

XXXVI. A une immortelle

XLVII. Quand deux c[oe]urs en s'aimant

II. BOOKS CONCERNING JULIETTE DROUET

_Les Belles femmes de Paris_, par une société de gens de lettres et de

gens du monde, Paris, 1839.

Edmond Biré: _Victor Hugo après_ 1830. Paris, 1879.

Alfred Asseline: _Victor Hugo intime_. Paris, 1885.

Richard Levelide: _Propos de table de Victor Hugo_. Paris, 1885.

Gustave Rivet: _Victor Hugo chez lui_. Paris, 1885.

Tristan Legay: _Les amours de Victor Hugo_. Paris, 1901.

Louis Guimbaud: _Victor Hugo et Juliette Drouet_ in _La Contemporaine_

of February 25th and March 10th, 1902.

Léon Séché: _Juliette Drouet_ in the _Revue de Paris_ of February 1st,

1903.

Wellington Wack: _The Story of Juliette and Victor Hugo_. London and

Paris (no date, about 1906).

Juana Richard Levelide: _Victor Hugo intime_. Paris, 1907.

Hector Fleischmann: _Une Maîtresse de Victor Hugo_. Paris, 1912.

Jean Pierre Barbier: _Juliette Drouet, Sa Vie, son Oeuvre_. Paris, 1913.

III. WORKS OF ART REPRESENTING JULIETTE DROUET

"Juliette Drouet in 1827." Statuette by Chaponnière. Only one proof is

known to us; it belongs to M. Daniel Baux Bovy, ex-curator of the Musée

de Genève.

"Juliette Drouet in 1830." Portrait in oils by Champmartin (Musée Victor

Hugo).

"Juliette Drouet as Princesse Négronie." Coloured engraving in the

Martini series.

"Juliette Drouet." Engraving by Léon Maël, in _L'Artiste_, 1832.

"Juliette Drouet in 1846." Plaster bust by Victor Vilain (Musée Victor

Hugo).

"Juliette Drouet at Jersey and Guernsey." Numerous photographs belonging

to Messrs. Blaizot and Planès.

"Juliette Drouet in 1882." Drawing by Vuillaume in _Le Monde Illustré_

of December 15th, 1882.

"Juliette Drouet in 1883." Portrait in oils by Bastien Lepage; exhibited

in the Salon, 1883; now included in the Pereira Collection.

INDEX

Académie Française, 60-61

Alix, Mademoiselle, 267

Anges, Mother des, 5

Barthès, Monsieur de, 74

Bernardines, Bénédictines of Perpetual Adoration, 3

Bertin, Monsieur, 33

Biard, Madame, 245

Blanc, Madame Louis, 303

Chenay, Madame Julie, 98

Constance, Mademoiselle, 253

Dédé, Mademoiselle, 232

Démousseaux, Madame, 218

Dorval, Madame, 12, 49, 142

_Drouet, Juliette_:

Her birthplace, 1

Childhood, 3

Becomes Pradier's mistress, 8

Gives birth to a daughter, 8

Enters theatrical world, 9

Meets Victor Hugo, 13

Plays Princesse Negroni, 17

Falls in love with Victor Hugo, 23

Denial of imaginary offences, 119

After her first visit to 6, Place Royale, 121

Works on Les Feuilles d'Automne, 123

Suggests leaving Victor Hugo, 125

Her fears for the future, 127

Her landlord threatens to evict her, 131

Farewell for ever, 132

Leaves Victor Hugo, 30

Asks for forgiveness, 135

Four hours before the production of _Angélo_, 143

An hour after the triumph of _Angélo_, 144

The house at Metz, 36

Letters from Metz, 155

Her request for a portrait, 171

Lawsuit of Victor Hugo against the Comédie Française, 186

Cash accounts, 188

Removes to Rue St. Anastase, 46

Alluding to the revival of _Hernani_, 189

Revival of M_arion de Lorme_, 192

Cast for the Queen in _Ruy Blas_, 199

Comments on _Didine_, 212

Letter written after the catastrophe in which Victor

Hugo's eldest daughter and his son-in-law perished, 227

Comments on a speech on deportation, 243

Letters from Brussels, 251-283

Residence in Jersey and Guernsey, 84

Letters from Jersey, 256

" " Guernsey, 265-286

" " Paris, 290

Death 114

Her last letter, 310

Drouet, René Henri, 2

Ferrier, Mademoiselle Ida, 28

Fougères, 1

Gautier, Théophile, his description of Juliette, 19

Gauvain, Julienne Joséphine. _See_ Drouet, Juliette

Georges, Mademoiselle, 11, 12, 143

Granier de Cassagnac, 198

Guérard, Madame, 184

Harel, Félix, 9, 143

Hilaire, Monsieur St., 228

Hugo, Charles, 92;

death, 105

Hugo, François, 92, 293

Hugo, Victor (_see also_ Drouet, Juliette)

Meets Juliette, 13

Revival of _Hernani_, 57

Becomes an Academician, 62, 216

His opening speech, 65

Lives at Jersey and Guernsey, 94

Elected a member of the Assemblée Nationale, 105

Hugo, Madame Victor, 16

Joly, Anténor, 202

Juliette, Mademoiselle. _See_ Drouet, Juliette

Kock, Madame, 30

Kraftt, Madame, 133

Lanvin, Madame, 123, 227

Lespinasse, Mademoiselle de, 187

Lockroy, Madame, 309

Luthereau, Madame, 86

Luxembourg, 67

Mars, Mademoiselle, 142

Maxime, Mademoiselle, 226

Mechtilde, Mother Ste., 5

Ménard, Madame, 301

Meurice, Paul, 104

Orléans, Duc d', 225

Pasquier, Monsieur, 144

Pierceau, Madame, 144, 218

Pradier, Claire, 69;

death, 82

Pradier, James, 7;

makes Juliette his mistress, 8;

writes to Juliette, 73, 123

Quelen, Monsignor, Archbishop of Paris, 7

Récamier, Madame, 144

Teleki, 267

_Tudor, Marie_, 137

Verdier, Monsieur, 144

Watteville, Madame, 73, 123

_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._

THE PRINCESS MATHILDE BONAPARTE

By PHILIP W. SERGEANT, Author of "The Last Empress of the French,"

etc.

_Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 16/-net._

Princess Mathilde Bonaparte, the niece of the great Emperor, died only

ten years ago. She was the first serious passion of her cousin, the

Emperor Napoleon III, and she might have been, if she had wished,

Empress of the French. Instead, she preferred to rule for half a century

over a _salon_ in Paris, where, although not without fault, she was

known as "the good princess."

FROM JUNGLE TO ZOO

By ELLEN VELVIN, F.Z.S., Author of "Behind the Scenes with Wild

Animals," etc.

_Large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, with many remarkable photographs,

6/-net._

A fascinating record of the many adventures to which wild animals and

their keepers are subject from the time the animals are captured until

their final lodgment in Zoo or menagerie. The author has studied wild

animals for sixteen years, and writes from personal knowledge. The book

is full of exciting stories and good descriptions of the methods of

capture, transportation and caging of savage animals, together with

accounts of their tricks, training, and escapes from captivity.

THE ADMIRABLE PAINTER: A study of Leonardo da Vinci

By A. J. ANDERSON, Author of "The Romance of Fra Filippo Lippi,"

"His Magnificence," etc.

_Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 10/6 net._

In this book we find Leonardo da Vinci to have been no absorbed,

religious painter, but a man closely allied to every movement of the

brilliant age in which he lived. Leonardo jotted down his thoughts in

his notebooks and elaborated them with his brush, in the modelling of

clay, or in the planning of canals, earthworks and flying-machines.

These notebooks form the groundwork of Mr. Anderson's fascinating study,

which gives us a better understanding of Leonardo, the man, as well as

the painter, than was possible before.

WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTIONARY ERA

By Lieut.-Col. ANDREW C. P. HAGGARD, D.S.O., Author of "Remarkable

Women of France, 1431-1749," etc.

_Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 16/-net._

Lieut.-Col. Haggard has many times proved that history can be made as

fascinating as fiction. Here he deals with the women whose more or less

erratic careers influenced, by their love of display, the outbreak which

culminated in the Reign of Terror. Most of them lived till after the

beginning of the Revolution, and some, like Marie Antoinette, Théroigne

de Méricourt and Madame Roland, were sucked down in the maelstrom which

their own actions had intensified.

THE MEMOIRS OF THE DUKE DE ST. SIMON

Newly translated and edited by FRANCIS ARKWRIGHT.

_In six volumes, demy 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, with

illustrations in photogravure, 10/6 net each volume. (Volumes I.

and II. are now ready.)_

No historian has ever succeeded in placing scenes and persons so vividly

before the eyes of his readers as did the Duke de St. Simon. He was a

born observer; his curiosity was insatiable; he had a keen insight into

character; he knew everybody, and has a hundred anecdotes to relate of

the men and women he describes. He had a singular knack of acquiring the

confidential friendship of men in high office, from whom he learnt

details of important state affairs. For a brief while he served as a

soldier. Afterwards his life was passed at the Court of Louis XIV, where

he won the affectionate intimacy of the Duke of Orleans and the Duke of

Burgundy. St. Simon's famous Memoirs have recently been much neglected

in England, owing to the mass of unnecessary detail overshadowing the

marvellously fascinating chronicle beneath. In this edition, however,

they have been carefully edited and should have an extraordinarily wide

reception.

BY THE WATERS OF GERMANY

By NORMA LORIMER, Author of "A Wife out of Egypt," etc. With a

Preface by Douglas Sladen.

_Demy 8vo, cloth gilt, with a coloured frontispiece and 16 other

illustrations by_ MARGARET THOMAS _and_ ERNA MICHEL, _12/6 net_.

This fascinating travel-book describes the land of the Rhine and the

Black Forest, at the present time so much the centre of public interest.

The natural and architectural beauties of Germany are too supreme for

even the sternest German-hater to deny; and this book describes them and

the land around them well. But apart from the love-story which Miss

Lorimer has weaved into the book, a particularly great interest attaches

to her description of the home life of the men who, since she saw them,

have deserved and received the condemnation of the whole civilized

world.

BY THE WATERS OF SICILY

By NORMA LORIMER, Author of "By the Waters of Germany," etc.

_New and Cheaper Edition, reset from new type, Large Crown 8vo,

cloth gilt, with a coloured frontispiece and 16 other

illustrations, 6/-._

This book, the predecessor of "By the Waters of Germany," was called at

the time of its original publication "one of the most original books of

travel ever published." It had at once a big success, but for some time

it has been quite out of print. Full of the vivid colour of Sicilian

life, it is a delightfully picturesque volume, half travel-book, half

story; and there is a sparkle in it, for the author writes as if glad to

be alive in her gorgeously beautiful surroundings.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Her birth-certificate is drawn up in the following terms: "On April

11th, 1806, at 3 p.m. before me, Louis Pinel, mayor of Fougères and

registrar of births, deaths, and marriages, Julien Gauvain, tailor,

aged twenty-nine, residing at Rue de la Révolution, Fougères, presented

a female child, born on the preceding day at 7 a.m., the legitimate

daughter of himself and his wife Marie Caretandet; he declared his

intention of bestowing upon her the names of Julienne-Joséphine. The

said declaration and presentation were made in the presence of François

Dorange, sheriff's officer, aged twenty-five, residing in Fougères, and

François Paunier, gardener, aged sixty-eight, residing in Lécousse.

This certificate was duly signed by the father and the witnesses, after

the same had been read aloud to them. Signed: Julien Gauvain, François

Paunier, Dorange, and Louis Pinel."

[2] She posed, not, as has been stated, and as we ourselves have

erroneously printed, for statues in the towns of Lille and Strasburg,

but for numerous studies of the head and the nude which Pradier

afterwards made use of; thus the features of Julienne may be recognised

in almost all the rough studies belonging to the first portion of

Pradier's career, which are exhibited under glass in the museum at

Geneva.

[3] The portrait of Victor Hugo by Devéria has often been reproduced.

It is popular. Léon Noël's lithograph is less known. It is to be found

either in the _Artiste_ in the course of the year 1832 or in the Musée

Victor Hugo. We reproduced it in the _Contemporaine_ of February 25th,

1902.

[4] Victor Hugo, _Correspondance_. Letter to Sainte-Beuve, August 22nd,

1833.

[5] Victor Hugo, _Correspondance_. Letter to Sainte-Beuve, July 7th,

1831.

[6] _Lettres à la Fiancée._

[7] Under the heading: _A Ol._ (Olympio) XII.

[8] Théophile Gautier, _Portraits contemporains_.

[9] Alphonse Karr, _Une Heure trop tard_.

[10] We heard it from Monsieur Benezit, who was often with Frédérick

Lemaître about the year 1872.

[11] Théophile Gautier, _Portraits contemporains_.

[12] _Lucrèce Borgia._ First note to the original edition.

[13] She was forty-six and beginning to grow fat. According to

Juliette, she told Victor Hugo that his mistress was deceitful, vain,

lawless, and a flirt.

[14] V. H. Fleischmann, _Une Maîtresse de Victor Hugo_, chap. vii.

[15] Nothing remains of it now, save the name and the site. All the

rest, park, garden, and dwelling, has been completely altered.

[16] In 1877 Madame Drouet, although seventy-one years old, insisted

upon attending the funeral of Mlle. Louise Bertin. "I wish," she wrote

to Victor Hugo, "to show in this way that I have not forgotten the

marks of sympathy she gave you on my account in the early days of our

love" (_Letter of April 28th, 1877_).

[17] This inn still exists, and is not changed in any way. It is

exceedingly modest.

[18] It belongs now to Madame Veuve Bigot. On the left exterior wall a

Versailles society has thought fit to place an inscription recording

that Victor Hugo once inhabited the house. Four lines of _La Tristesse

d'Olympio_ follow. It would have been more correct to bracket the name

of Juliette Drouet with that of the poet, for after all it was not he

who lived there, but she.

[19] Here occurs the only discrepancy between _La Tristesse d'Olympio_

and the letters of Juliette. Victor Hugo writes in 1837: "They have

paved this rough, badly-laid road"; whereas Juliette, as early as 1835,

calls it _the pavement_.

[20] _La Tristesse d'Olympio._

[21] See also later, in the collection of letters, the one written

under date of January 25th, 1844.

[22] September 27th, 1845.

[23] September 29th, 1845: "I wish I had the money to buy it all before

it is desecrated." Victor Hugo understood her feeling, and a generous

impulse led him to propose to buy the house. The price asked was six

thousand francs. Very delicately Juliette refused. October 7th, 1845.

[24] 1834.

[25] December 15th, 1838.

[26] Théophile Gautier.

[27] In 1836 Victor Hugo was forced to take legal action against the

Comédie Française. He won his case the following year.

[28] We have proofs of this in two letters from Juliette to Victor Hugo.

[29] February 1st, 1836.

[30] It will be remembered that Mlle. Maxime brought an action against

the Comédie and Victor Hugo on that point, which made some considerable

stir. See the articles of Monsieur Jules Claretie in _Le Journal_ of

February 5th, 1902.

[31] _Les Burgraves_ alternated in the bill with a piece by Madame de

Girardin in which Rachel played the heroine.

[32] May 30th, 1841.

[33] The removal took place in the month of February 1845. The rent and

accommodation of the apartment were about the same as at No. 14. The

furnishing, which Victor Hugo wished to make somewhat more luxurious,

cost 2,256 francs, including the first quarter's rent.

[34] 1833.

[35] Monsieur Léon Seche, _Revue de Paris_, February 15th, 1903.

[36] Catalogue of an interesting collection of autograph letters of

which the sale took place on Saturday, November 30th, 1912, page 21.

Paris. Noël Charavay, 1912. In another note dated from Les Metz, Victor

Hugo tells Claire "that he loves her with all his heart, and uses his

best handwriting in writing to her, which is very praiseworthy in

an old student like himself." And he adds, "I kiss both your little

peach-cheeks." (Same, p. 22.)

[37] Autograph postscript by Victor Hugo to a letter to Juliette on May

28th, 1833, quoted above.

[38] Pradier did not fail to write a sermon on this occasion full of

the unction and solecisms in which he habitually excelled.

[39] June 5th, 1841.

[40] _Les Contemplations_, Livres V., XIV., Claire P.

[41] One of the sons of the sculptor was called John.

[42] April 25th, 1845.

[43] April 27th, 1845.

[44] The thrilling episode of Victor Hugo's political adventures in

1851, by which his life was placed in jeopardy through his espousal of

the cause of liberty and progress, is related by himself in _L'Histoire

d'un crime_. He was forced to go into hiding in December for several

days, and subsequently made his escape to Brussels in the disguise of

a workman. Juliette had preceded him thither, to prepare a safe refuge

for him.--_Translator's Note._

[45] Charles Hugo, _Les Hommes de l'Exil_, p. 104.

[46] _Ibid._

[47] May 18th, 1852.

[48] This passage constitutes the portion of the Galleries of St.

Hubert situated at right angles to the two others, called respectively,

Passage du Roi, and Passage de la Reine.

[49] May 24th, 1852.

[50] A packet of Victor Hugo's love-letters to Madame B. was

treacherously forwarded to her by the lady in question. They extended

over a period of seven years, 1844 to 1851. Victor Hugo had carried

on his secret intrigue with Madame B. while he was daily visiting and

corresponding with Juliette. The discovery of his duplicity almost

broke her heart.--_Translator's Note._

[51] Victor Hugo, _Correspondance_, letter to Émile Deschanel, December

11th, 1853.

[52] January 23rd, 1853.

[53] It was signed by Félix Pyat, Rougée, and Jourdain.

[54] Victor Hugo had disposed of the bulk of his furniture in June

1852, but he had stored the things he specially valued at Juliette's

apartment, Cité Rodier.

[55] These remarks may be verified by the series of photographs of the

poet taken by his sons during his exile and preserved in the Musée

Victor Hugo. Some of the snapshots, as we should call them nowadays,

are an indication of the distress of the great outlaw.

[56] _Victor Hugo Intime_, by Madame Juana Lesclide.

[57] A young girl in bad circumstances, to whom Juliette had given

shelter under her own roof, and who thus requited the charity of her

benefactress.--_Translator's Note._

[58] Juliette Drouet was buried on May 12th, 1883, in the cemetery

of Saint Mandé, near her daughter Claire, under a marble stone she

had selected for herself in 1881. Her funeral was attended by a large

body of journalists. The speech was delivered by Auguste Vacquerie.

According to a letter she wrote to Victor Hugo on November 1st, 1881,

she wished for an epitaph taken from one of the "sublime poems" he had

addressed to her. Her desire was not gratified; the tomb does not even

bear the name of our heroine.

[59] Juliette Drouet occasionally acted as the poet's secretary.

[60] This letter is not signed. The envelope is addressed: "M. Victor

Hugo. A quarter to twelve, midnight. I am going to your house."

[61] Victor Hugo was then living at 6, Place Royale, in the house which

is now the Musée Victor Hugo. Juliette Drouet lived not far away at 4,

Rue de Paradis au Marais, which is now one of the sections of the Rue

des Francs-Bourgeois.

[62] Juliette's furniture had just been seized, and her landlord was

threatening to evict her.

[63] Mlle. Mars, who was rehearsing a part in _Angélo_, at the Comédie

Française.

[64] There are traces of tears all over this letter.

[65] Eugène Hugo, brother of the poet, had just expired. See Number

XXIX of _Voix Intérieures, à Eugène, Vicomte Hugo_.

[66] This is an allusion to the second poem in the _Voix Intérieures_:

"Sunt lacrimæ...."

[67] One of the basins in the park of Versailles.

[68] Victor Hugo had given Juliette a _Quintus Curtius_ in which he had

formerly studied Latin. On the fly-leaf he had written a few words of

dedication.

[69] A critic.

[70] Juliette Drouet here enumerates the depreciation of various

stocks. The letter is of course written in a sarcastic vein induced by

_pique_.--_Translator's Note._

[71] This is an allusion to the lawsuit of Victor Hugo against the

Comédie Française.

[72] Casimir Delavigne.

[73] Scribe.

[74] Juliette's sums were always wrong.

[75] Alluding to the revival of _Hernani_ at the Comédie Française,

January 20th, 1838.

[76] The revival of _Marion de Lorme_ at the Comédie Française was to

take place the next evening, March 8th.

[77] Granier de Cassagnac, one of the most ardent champions of Victor

Hugo against the classical writers. The poet had introduced him to the

_Journal des Débâts_.

[78] _Ruy Blas._ The poet had considered the propriety of casting

Juliette for the part of the Queen, and had in consequence caused her

to be engaged by the Théâtre de la Renaissance.

[79] The creator of the part of the Queen in _Ruy Blas_. The first

performance had taken place on November 8th.

[80] Anténor Joly, Manager of the Théâtre de la Renaissance. He had

intended to produce Juliette in a musical comedy.

[81] Victor Hugo had already submitted himself three times as a

candidate for the Académie and was elected the fourth time, that is to

say, the day Juliette wrote this letter. His chief adversary in the

Académie was one of his former rivals, the Vaudevilliste, Dupaty.

[82] Victor Hugo was received into the Académie by Monsieur de Salvandy

on June 3rd, 1841.

[83] The poet's children.

[84] Victor Hugo had been elected Chancellor of the Académie Française

on the preceding June 24th. Charles Nodier was the President.

[85] François Victor Hugo, whose childhood was extremely delicate.

[86] This is an allusion to the recent death of the Duc d'Orléans, the

friend and protector of Victor Hugo.

[87] Rehearsals of _Burgraves_ at the Comédie Française.

[88] An allusion to the disagreement of the poet with Mdlle. Maxime, to

whom the Comédie Française wished to allot the part of _Guachumara_,

and whom he was afterwards able to replace by Mdlle. Théodorine (Mme.

Melingue).

[89] This letter is written after the catastrophe at Villequier on

September 4th, 1847, in which the eldest daughter and the son-in-law of

the poet perished.

[90] This is an allusion to a journey Juliette and Victor Hugo had just

made, the account of which had been published in _Alpes et Pyrénées_.

[91] Probably Ulrich Guttinguer.

[92] A bronze medal representing Victor Hugo, after the medallion by

David d'Angers.

[93] This letter was written at Auteuil, where Juliette was living,

with her dying daughter, in a house belonging to the sculptor, Pradier.

Victor Hugo visited her there nearly every day.

[94] The doctor chosen by Pradier.

[95] Juliette's own doctor.

[96] Victor Hugo was then a candidate for the Assemblée Nationale.

[97] Victor Hugo was to make a speech that day on _La Misère_, vide

_Actes et Paroles_, _Avant l'Éxil_.

[98] Mdlle. Rachel. Arsène Houssaye, who had recently been appointed

Director of the Comédie Française, had just introduced Victor Hugo to

the great tragedian.

[99] A speech on deportation. Vide _Actes et paroles_, _Avant l'Éxil_.

[100] Madame Biard.

[101] Madame Biard had sent Juliette a packet of Victor Hugo's letters

to her.

[102] The word "to-day" is left unfinished in the original, thus:

_aujo_....

[103] The period when Victor Hugo's intrigue with Madame Biard began.

[104] On December 2nd, 1851, Victor Hugo held a meeting of the

representatives of the people, at which he drew up a proclamation

addressed to the Army. On the 3rd he presided over a meeting of the

Republicans in the Faubourg St. Antoine. Word was brought that the

troops were marching on the Faubourg. Victor Hugo thereupon delivered

an impassioned appeal to his audience, which concluded in the following

terms: "On one side stand the Army, and a crime--on the other, a

handful of men, and the Right! Such is the struggle. Are you prepared

to carry it through?"--_Translator's note._

[105] A troupe of actors passing through Jersey had insisted upon

playing _Angélo_ before the exiled poet.

[106] Teleki, one of Victor Hugo's friends in Jersey.

[107] Victor Hugo had taken up photography.

[108] An allusion to spiritualism to which Victor Hugo had just fallen

a prey.

[109] Adèle Hugo, daughter of the poet.

[110] Victor Hugo's drawings. He was giving them away indiscriminately

to his friends, and Juliette was jealous.

[111] Probably one of the poems commemorating the catastrophe of

Villequier. They were collected and republished in _Les Contemplations_.

[112] Charles Hugo had lost his eldest son, Georges. He gave the same

Christian name to the second, who, with Petite Jeanne, figures in

_L'Art d'être Grand-père_.

[113] Madame Victor Hugo had just died.

[114] François Victor Hugo had just been given up by the doctors. His

slow agony lasted eleven months.

[115] François Victor Hugo died in the course of the day.

[116] The anniversary of the death of Claire.

[117] The removal from _Hauteville Féerie_.

[118] Victor Hugo was to make a speech at the funeral of Madame Louis

Blanc.

[119] A. Vacquerie and family.

[120] To the grave of Léopoldine.

[121] This letter is the last Juliette ever wrote.

[122] Monsieur Eugène Planès possesses the original editions of _Chants

du Crépuscule_, _Les Voix Intérieures_, _Les Rayons et les Ombres_,

dedicated to Juliette and annotated by herself. He has been good

enough to refer to them and verify our list in so far as the three

following collections are concerned. We have included in the selection

only the love-poems directly inspired by Juliette. We have left out

the miscellaneous pieces which were dedicated to her after they were

written, sometimes at her own request.

* * * * *

Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber:

the silent Bièvre=> the silent Bièvres {pg 33}

Juliette Drouet's Love-Letters to Victor Hugo Edited with a Biography of Juliette Drouet · 第 9 / 9 章

I come to you, my beloved, as you are unable to return to me this