ritten some fine poetry, dreamy, disturbing and
daring. He had also given _Les Caprices de Marianne_, in which he
figures twice over himself, for he was both Octave the sceptic, the
disillusioned man, and Coelio, the affectionate, candid Coelio. He
imagined himself Rolla. It was he, and he alone, who should have been
styled the sublime boy.

And so here they both are. We might call them Lelia and Stenio, but
_Lelia_ was written before the Venice adventure. She was not the
reflection of it, but rather the presentiment. This is worthy of notice,
but not at all surprising. Literature sometimes imitates reality, but
how much more often reality is modelled on literature!

It was as though George Sand had foreseen her destiny, for she had
feared to meet Musset. On the 11th of March, she writes as follows to
Sainte-Beuve: "On second thoughts, I do not want you to bring Alfred de
Musset. He is a great dandy. We should not suit each other, and I was
really more curious to see him than interested in him." A little later
on, though, at a dinner at the _Freres provencaux_, to which Buloz
invited his collaborators, George Sand found herself next Alfred de
Musset. She invited him to call on her, and when _Lelia_ was published
she sent him a copy, with the following dedication written in the first
volume: _A Monsieur mon gamin d'Allred_; and in the second volume: _A
Monsieur le vicomte Allred de Musset, hommage respectueux de son devoue
serviteur George Sand_. Musset replied by giving his opinion of the new
book. Among the letters which followed, there is one that begins with
these words: "My dear George, I have something silly and ridiculous to
tell you. I am foolishly writing, instead of telling you, as I ought to
have done, after our walk. I am heartbroken to-night that I did not tell
you. You will laugh at me, and you will take me for a man who simply
talks nonsense. You will show me the door, and fancy that I am not
speaking the truth. . . . I am in love with you. . . ."

She did not laugh at him, though, and she did not show him the door.
Things did not drag on long, evidently, as she writes to her confessor,
Sainte-Beuve, on the 25th of August: "I have fallen in love, and very
seriously this time, with Alfred de Musset." How long was this to
last? She had no idea, but for the time being she declared that she was
absolutely happy.

"I have found a candour, a loyalty and an affection which delight me. It
is the love of a youn