Victor Hugo.
The next day the play was read on the stage to the artistes. I believe that the reading did not take place, or at least not entirely, at the master’s house.
I then made the acquaintance of the monster. Ah, what a grudge I had for a long time against all those silly people who had prejudiced me!
The monster was charming, so witty and refined, and so gallant, with a gallantry that was an homage and not an insult. He was so good, too, to the humble, and always so gay. He was not, certainly, the ideal of elegance, but there was a moderation in his gestures, a gentleness in his way of speaking, which savored of the old French peer. He was quick at repartee, and his observations were gentle but persistent. He recited poetry badly, but adored hearing it well recited.
He often spoke in verse when he wanted to reprimand an artiste. One day, during a rehearsal, he was trying to convince poor Tallien about his bad elocution. I was bored by the length of the colloquy, and sat down on the table swinging my legs. He understood my impatience and, getting up from the middle of the orchestra, exclaimed:
“Une Reine d’Espagne honnête et respectable
Ne devrait point ainsi s’asseoir sur une table.”
I sprang from the table, slightly embarrassed, and wanted to answer him in rather a piquant or witty way—but I could not find anything to say, and remained there, confused and in a bad temper.
One day when the rehearsal was over an hour earlier than usual, I was waiting, my forehead pressed against the window pane, for the arrival of Mme. Guérard, who was coming to fetch me. I was gazing idly at the footpath opposite, which is bounded by the Luxembourg railings. Victor Hugo had just crossed the road and was about to walk on. An old woman attracted his attention. She had just put a heavy bundle of linen down on the ground and was wiping her forehead, on which were great beads of perspiration.
In spite of the cold, her toothless mouth was half open, as she was panting, and her eyes had an expression of distressing anxiety, as she looked at the wide road she had to cross, with carriages and omnibuses passing each other. Victor Hugo approached her, and after a short conversation, he drew a piece of money from his pocket, handed it to her, then taking off his hat he confided it to her and, with a quick movement and a laughing face, lifted the bundle to his shoulder and crossed the road, followed by the bewildered woman. I rushed downstairs to embrace him for it, but by the time I had reached the passage, jostled against De Chilly, who wanted to stop me, and descended the staircase, Victor Hugo had disappeared. I could see only the old woman’s back, but it seemed to me that she hobbled along now more briskly.