In a letter to Sainte-Beuve he says: “I live only by my emotions; to love, or to crave for love and friendship, is the fundamental aim—happy or unhappy, public or private—of my life.”[4] He might equally have added: “That is why for the last two years my brow is no longer placid, why my eyes seek the ground, why my lips are so bitterly compressed.”

The secret of the change in Victor Hugo’s physiognomy lies in the treachery of his wife and his best friend. Love and friendship failed him together. His moral distress was immense, his pain unfathomable. They inspired him with plaints so touching that, after hearing them, one asks oneself whether it can ever be possible for him to forget or recover. One despairs of the healing of the man who writes: “I have acquired the conviction that it is possible for the one who possesses all my love to cease to care for me. I am no longer happy.”[5]

Calmness did return to him, however. It was thus: For the last ten years, that is, practically ever since her marriage, Madame Victor Hugo had behaved in such a manner that when the day of the betrayal, in which she was the accomplice of his friend, dawned, the poet was able to consider her with contempt. Although fairly gifted in appearance, she possessed neither taste nor cleverness in the matter of dress; she had always shown herself to him in careless attire and unfashionable gowns. Absent-minded and limited in intelligence, she remained uncultured and oblivious of the genius of her husband, and of achievements of which she appreciated only the financial value. In addition, she had declined to share the noble ideal originally proposed to her by her twenty-year-old bridegroom: love considered as “the ardent and pure union of two souls, a union begun on earth to end not even in heaven.”[6] The poet was thus authorised, and even forced, to seek happiness in the arms of some other woman. If Victor Hugo had wished to avoid that “other woman “ he would have had to remain for ever concealed in his tower of ivory—which certainly did not happen.

VICTOR HUGO AS A YOUNG MAN.
In the possession of M. le D. F. Jousseaume.

He emerged from it in the spring of 1832, on May 26th, and appeared at an artists’ ball. There he saw Juliette for the first time; but she was so beautiful and so captivating that he was afraid of her, and dared not address her. Five years later he recorded this impression of admiring timidity in the book in which they had agreed to celebrate all their anniversaries, namely the Voix Intérieures.[7]

For more than six months the poet lacked the courage to seek his vision again, but in the early days of 1833 he found Juliette among the actresses Harel suggested to him at the Porte St. Martin for his play, Lucrèce Borgia. He accepted her at once and gave her a small part, that of Princesse Négroni. Then the rehearsals began. Juliette admits in one of her letters that she showed herself very coquettish and mischievous.

According to her, the poet made up his mind the first day and the first hour. But matters did not really proceed so easily. Victor Hugo, who, as stated above, cherished the highest and purest moral ideal, must have carried his principles with him into the wings and on the stage. He was not partial to actresses; he was suspicious of them, and made no secret of the feeling. One must picture him rather as on the defensive than bold and adventurous.

His attire and appearance were not calculated to ensure his social success. We hear from Juliette herself that he wore his hair en broussaille, and that his smile revealed “crocodile’s teeth.” Allowing himself to be dressed by his tailor in the fashions of four or five years earlier, his trousers were firmly braced above the waist, tightly drawn over his boots, and fastened under the instep by a steel chain. To sum up, as a dandy who writes these details concludes, he was a worthy citizen desirous of being in the fashion, but unable to compass it.

Fortunately the said citizen could speak, and his words of gold were sufficient to gloss over any personal disadvantages. To men he discoursed of his hopes and plans, and even his forecasts for the future; to women of their beauty and the supremacy of such a gift. Men found his arrogance intolerable, and complained that they must always either listen, or talk to him of himself. But women liked him for abasing his pride before them; they appreciated his good manners, his urbanity, and the incomparable art with which he cast his laurels at their feet. The god took on humanity for them; they were careful to pose as goddesses before him. Juliette possessed everything needful to accomplish this end.

She was about to enter her twenty-sixth year; very shortly afterwards, Théophile Gautier wrote this fulsome description of her, to please the master:

“Mademoiselle Juliette’s countenance is of a regular and delicate beauty; the nose chiselled and of handsome outline, the eyes limpid and diamond-bright, the mouth moistly crimson, and tiny even in her gayest fits of laughter. These features, charming in themselves, are set in an oval of the suavest and most harmonious form. A clear, serene forehead like the marble of a Greek temple crowns this delicious face; abundant black hair, with wonderful reflections in it, brings out the diaphanous and lustrous purity of her complexion. Her neck, shoulders, and arms, are of classic perfection; she would be a worthy inspiration to sculptors, and is well equipped to enter into competition with those beautiful young Athenians who lowered their veils before the gaze of Praxiteles conceiving his Venus.[8]

These elegant phrases probably represent very imperfectly the impression produced by Juliette. We have had the privilege of perusing some of the proposals addressed to her, and we have read the cruel novel Alphonse Karr prided himself on having written about her.[9] Everything conspires to show that she shone and dazzled especially by her all-conquering air of youth and ingenuousness. When she passed, spring was over. Her age, condition, manner of life, had made of her a woman, while her smile and movements kept her still a girl. Her gait was, in fact, so fairy-like that her admirers all make use, certainly without collusion, of the adjective, “aérien.” Her face presented a perfect image of calmness and purity. Did she raise her eyes, a soft, velvety, sometimes