At last, however, she came; and I went to see her at her house, Place d’Orleans.  I found it a handsome modern residence.  She had not answered my letter, written about a week before, and I felt a little anxious lest she should not receive me; for she is too much the mark of impertinent curiosity, as well as too busy, to be easily accessible to strangers.  I am by no means timid, but I have suffered, for the first time in France, some of the torments of mauvaise honte, enough to see what they must be to many.

It is the custom to go and call on those to whom you bring letters, and push yourself upon their notice; thus you must go quite ignorant whether they are disposed to be cordial.  My name is always murdered by the foreign servants who announce me.  I speak very bad French; only lately have I had sufficient command of it to infuse some of my natural spirit in my discourse.  This has been a great trial to me, who am eloquent and free in my own tongue, to be forced to feel my thoughts struggling in vain for utterance.

The servant who admitted me was in the picturesque costume of a peasant, and, as Madame Sand afterward told me, her god-daughter, whom she had brought from her province.  She announced me as “Madame Salere,” and returned into the ante-room to tell me. “Madame says she does not know you” I began to think I was doomed to a rebuff, among the crowd who deserve it.  However, to make assurance sure, I said, “Ask if she has not received a letter from me.”  As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood looking at me an instant.  Our eyes met.  I never shall forget her look at that moment.  The doorway made a frame for her figure; she is large, but well-formed.  She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and lady-like dignity, presenting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea of George Sand.  Her face is a very little like the portraits, but much finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy temperament and strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive, and the air of the whole head Spanish, (as, indeed, she was born at Madrid, and is only on one side of French blood.) All these details I saw at a glance; but what fixed my attention was the expression of goodness, nobleness, and power, that pervaded the whole,—­the truly human heart and nature that shone in the eyes.  As our eyes met, she said, “C’est vous” and held out her hand.  I took it, and went into her little study; we sat down a moment, then I said, “Il me fait de bien de vous voir” and I am sure I said it with my whole heart, for it made me very happy to see such a woman, so large and so developed a character, and everything that is good in it so really good.  I loved, shall always love her.