indulge, in her case, as we said before, in inflated praise or exaggerated blame. She seems to have been endowed with the fictitious passions with which, in her imaginary creations, she swayed the public who crowded to see her. Were it not for the letters published recently by M. Heylli, we might imagine her, on the one side, to have been a Phèdre in her superhuman and violent passions, and, on the other, a Pauline in her heroism and devotion. Here, however, we see her thinking in the earlier days of the education of her little brother, and sisters, and later, when she had children of her own, occupied with the thousand and one trifles pertaining to their dress and well-being, writing to her mother to see that "Gabri" [her son Gabriel] wears his new suite, "that he may be as fine as his brother on the day of the prize-giving," telling her that there are some white trousers, a pair for each, put away in her room. "As they are only just made, I should like them sent to the wash first. I will allow you, Madame Félix, to offer a small black cravat and grey gloves to each of your grandchildren. I think Gabri wants a new cap. Your daughter, who is strong and well, thank goodness, gives you a good hug."
Later, in a letter, she shows herself solicitous about the literary attainments of her son Alexandre, and expresses a hope that she may soon receive a long letter from him.
Rachel had a horror of scandalmongers, those panderers to the morbid tastes of the crowd, who crave unceasingly to know the weaknesses and imperfections of those superior to them either in intellect or rank. Among her letters are some dashed off while she was smarting under the sting of certain cruel words or untrue statements.
