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 still more my inability to go to you, as I lose the prospect not only of pleasant society, but also of listening to fine verses well declaimed, and I confess I have a weakness for both. I devote myself every day to Judith. I should like to repeat some portions at my house one Thursday. Let me know if you authorise me to do so. Should you have the least objection, do not scruple to say so.

On the 21st June of this year she wrote to Madame de Girardin from Marseilles:—

The Marseillais are charming. If their enthusiasm were a little less noisy I should be quite in love with them. They do not take out my horses, certainly, but they prevent my carriage from moving. It takes me an hour and a half to advance a hundred steps on my return home in the evening. The last time I acted, hoping to escape more easily on foot, I begged M. Méry to give me his arm. Hardly had we reached the door than we were recognised, and crushed, smothered, pushed by an increasing crowd. The eloquence of my companion was unavailing against the enthusiasm of the good Marseillais. We had to take refuge in a hatter's shop, whose door was soon besieged. The Commissary of Police came to offer his assistance and the protection of about twenty soldiers. We, however, disdainfully rejected his suggestion, and, confident in the good nature of the crowd, we showed ourselves and begged them to let us pass. A thunder of applause was their only answer, and, amidst acclamations and expressions of good-will, I made a triumphal entry into my hôtel. Flattered as I felt, I was nearly dead with fatigue, and determined they should not catch me again.

Les Horaces has been the great success, the bye-play being particularly admired. Sincerely, I did not expect so much from the people of Marseilles. They show their affection, too, in a most substantial manner. The receipts have reached an unprecedented sum—8,200 francs. I am very proud, especially as they tell me those of Talma never exceeded 5,500. Certainly times have changed.

I cannot finish my letter without telling you of a piece of audacity, which frightens me when I recall it in cold blood. In the middle of one of the most stirring scenes of Bajazet, someone took it into his head to throw me a wreath. I took no notice, wishing to keep in the part (rester en situation), while the audience shouted, "The wreath! the wreath!" Atalide, thinking more of the public than of her rôle, picked up the wreath and offered it to me. Indignant at the vandalism of the proceeding, worthy of an opera audience, I took the unlucky wreath, and, throwing it brusquely on one side, went on with