This is what was told to me at to-day's session:
Salvandy recently dined with Villemain. The repast
over, they adjourned to the drawing-room, and conversed. As the clock struck eight Villemain's three little daughters entered to kiss their father good night. The youngest is named Lucette; her birth cost her mother her reason; she is a sweet and charming child of five years.
"Well, Lucette, dear child," said her father, "won't you recite one of Lafontaine's fables before you go to bed?"
"Here," observed M. de Salvandy, "is a little person who to-day recites fables and who one of these days will inspire romances."
Lucette did not understand. She merely gazed with her big wondering eyes at Salvandy who was lolling in his chair with an air of benevolent condescension.
"Well, Lucette." he went on, "will you not recite a fable for us?"
The child required no urging, and began in her na?ve little voice, her fine, frank, sweet eyes still fixed upon Salvandy:
One easily believes one's self to be somebody in France.
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