I felt
embarrassed to know where to find viands meet to offer him, and
beverages not unworthy to pass his lips. There were in his works so many
souls exiled from heaven, so many tearful smiles, so many melancholy
glances constantly turned towards the infinite horizon, that it seemed
to me something like sacrilege to offer to the creator of this noble and
charming world a dish of _rosbif aux pommes_ and a _turbot a la
Hollandaise_ and a claret wine. I could have invented for him some of
those Oriental delicacies made by sultans during harem's heavy hours;
rose-leaves kneaded with snow-water, dreams or perfumes disguised as
sweetmeats, or citron and myrtle-flowers dew-diamonded in golden
beakers. Of a truth, the personal appearance of my poetical guest did
give something of a shock to the ideal I had formed. Many and many a
time I had pictured him to myself tall and thin and pale, with large
black eyes raised heavenwards, and hair curling naturally on a forehead
shadowed by melancholy! In reality, Monsieur Jules Sandeau is a good
stout fellow, with broad, stalwart shoulders, a tendency to premature
obesity, small, bright, gentle, acute eyes, a head as bald as my knee,
rather thick lips, and a rubicund complexion; he has an air of
good-nature and simplicity which excludes everything like sentimental
exaggeration; he wears a black cravat tied negligently around a muscular
neck; in fine, he looks like a sub-lieutenant dressed in
citizen's-clothes.
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