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.
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