who accosted him. But in the greatly
changed circumstances in which she soon found herself, the disguise
became useless and unavailing. Its economy was no longer needed, and the
face of its wearer was soon too well known to be concealed by hat or
coat-collar.

We would not be understood as relaxing in any degree the rigor of
repudiation which such an act deserved. Yet it is imaginable, even to an
undepraved mind, that a woman might sometimes like to be on the other
side of the fence, to view the mad bull of publicity in its own pasture,
and feel that it cannot gore her. Poor George! running about in the
little boots, and wearing a great ugly coat and woollen choker,--it was
not through vanity that you did this. Strange sights you must have seen
in Paris!--none, perhaps, stranger than yourself! The would-be nun of
the English convent walking the streets in male attire, and even, as you
tell us, with your hands in your pockets! Yet when little Solange came
to live with you, as we understand, you put on your weeds of weakness
again;--your little daughter made you once more a woman!

For she was George Sand now. Aurore Dupin was civilly dead, Aurore
Dudevant was uncivilly effaced. She had taken half a name from Jules
Sandeau,--she had wrought the glory of that name herself. Yes, a glory,
say what you will. Elizabeth Browning's hands were not too pure to
soothe that forehead, chiding while they soothed; and these hands,
not illustrious as hers, shall soil themselves with no mud flung at a
sister's crowned head.

Every one knows the story of the name: how she and Jules Sandeau wrote a
novel together, and sought a _nom de plume_ which should represent their
literary union,--how soon she found that she could do much better alone,
and the weak work of Carl Sand was forgotten in the strong personality
of George Sand. Of Jules Sandeau she speaks only as of the associate of
a literary enterprise;--the world accords him a much nearer relation to
her; but upon this point she cannot, naturally, be either explicit or
implicit. One thing is certain: she was a hard worker, and did with
her might what her hand found to do. She wrote "Indiana," "Lelia,"
"Valentine," and had fame and money at will. Neither, however, gave
her unmixed pleasure. The _eclat_ of her reputation soon destroyed her
_incognito_, while the sums of money she was supposed to receive for her
works attracted to her innumerable beggars and adventurers of all
sorts. To