Rachel.—"Yes. I already had a Corneille and a Racine; I wanted Molière. I bought it with my three francs and then confessed my sins."
Meantime, the other guests began to drop off. The servant returned with the jewels, four or five thousand franc's worth: bracelets, rings, crowns. She laid them on the table among the salad, spinach, and tin plates. I, thinking of the house-keeping, bed-making, and all the duties of straitened circumstances, took the opportunity of looking at Rachel's hands, fearing to find them ugly and coarse; they were, on the contrary, white, soft, and slender—the hands of a princess.
Some punch was made, and after some more laughing and talking, the character of the scene suddenly changed. A word was sufficient to call out the poetry and artistic instinct hidden for the time being under her childish playful manner.
I.—"How you read the letter this evening! You were very much moved."
Rachel.—"Yes. I felt as if something within me were going to break; but still I do not care for the piece (Tancrède). It is artificial."
I.—"You prefer Corneille and Racine?"
Rachel.—"Ah! I adore Racine; everything he writes is so true, so fine, so noble."
I.—"Do you remember, some time ago, receiving an anonymous letter on the subject of the last scene of Racine's Mithridate?"
Rachel.—" Certainly. I followed the advice given, and since then am always applauded in this scene. Do you know who it was who wrote to me?"
I.—"Yes, very well; it was the woman who has the largest mind and smallest foot in Paris.[1] What part are you studying now?"
Rachel.—"We are to play Mary Stuart this summer, and then Polyeucte, and perhaps"
I."Well?"
Rachel (putting down her little fist emphatically on the table).—"I will play Phèdre; they tell me I am too young, I am too thin, and a hundred other stupidities; I answer, it is Racine's finest conception. I am determined to play it. If they say I am too young and the rôle is not suitable, was it not the same with Roxane? If they think I am too thin, I maintain it is nonsense. A woman nourishing an unholy passion, but who would rather face death than give herself- ↑ George Sand was always said to have the largest mind and smallest foot of any woman in Paris. Five years before the scene described here, Alfred de Musset made his famous journey to Venice with the authoress of Lelia.
