One evening a member of the audience, an artizan, suggested that he and his fellow-workmen should subscribe for a bouquet to be presented to the rude citoyenne, Rachel Félix. A hat was sent round, into which each dropped a few sous. Twenty francs was the result. Jacques Bonhomme rushed out, bought a handful of flowers at the flower-shop in the Palais Royale, and, returning, clambered over the orchestra and up to the stage to present his purchase. After this, every time she sang the "Marseillaise" a contribution was raised among the audience, and camelias, Cape jasmin, Persian lilies, Parma violets, were showered on her with as much profusion as though the audience had been the aristocracy of Paris.
George Sand has recorded her admiration of Rachel in the "Marseillaise," and declared it to be the only performance in which she ever cared to see her. "All artists competing for the Statue of Liberty," she says, "ought to go and study the classic poses of Mademoiselle Rachel singing the 'Marseillaise.' She is an exquisite incarnation of pride, courage, and energy."
There was an absence of intellectual sympathy between George Sand and Rachel—undoubtedly the two greatest female artists of their day—that strikes one at first as curious, but, on second consideration, becomes more intelligible. They were separated as widely as the poles in their views of art. George Sand was the head, almost the initiator, of the old oak and tapestry novel, while Rachel was severely classical. George Sand was the friend of Marie Dorval, the great actress of the Romantic school. Rachel never cared for Madame Dorval, although she was an intimate friend of her husband Merle,
