peror, who expected a list of her literary works, smiled and passed on. Madame Émile de Girardin worthy daughter of her witty mother, was one of these children. Clever and fascinating, what wonder that her drawing-room in the coquettish hôtel of the Rue Chaillot was looked upon as the centre of all that was brilliant and cultured in the Paris of her day. "Est-elle heureuse, cette Madame Gay?" a fashionable lady once said. "Elle fait tout bien, les enfants, les livres, et les confitures"—and certainly Madame de Girardin was a daughter of whom any mother might have been proud, with her genius and her beauty. She, however, could not boast the versatility of her mother, as she had no children, and, in spite of frequent attempts, never wrote either a good drama or a good novel. Her tragedy of Judith, read by the lovely hostess, with her melodious voice and inspired manner, in her own drawing-room, received the approbation of half the eminent poets and literary men of Paris, but was a complete failure before the calm impartial audience of the Théâtre Français. The subject was a disagreeable one, and even Rachel's grace and beauty was insufficient to infuse any vitality into "that Judas kiss in three acts," as Janin designated the play in his feuilleton.
One of those incidents, also, which often have sufficed to seal the fate of a better drama than Judith, took place the first night. At the most pathetic moment, in the opening scene, when the Hebrews were praying to Heaven to help them in their distress, a small grey cat crossed the stage. The audience broke into peals of laughter, and, in spite of the all-powerful presence of Rachel, it was impossible to restrain the merriment, which infected the actors and actresses themselves. The next dramatic attempt of Madame
