dette_ is another analysis of a love which
has been silent for a long time. It is difficult to say which is the
best of these delightful stories, but perhaps, on the whole, this last
one is generally preferred, on account of the curious and charming
figure of little Fadette herself. We can see the thin, slender girl,
suddenly appearing on the road, emerging from a thicket. She seems to be
part of the scenery, and can scarcely be distinguished from the objects
around her. The little wild country girl is like the spirit of the
fields, woods, rivers and precipices. She is a being very near to
Nature. Inquisitive and mischievous, she is bold in her speech, because
she is treated as a reprobate. She jeers, because she knows that she is
detested, and she scratches, because she suffers. The day comes when she
feels some of that affection which makes the atmosphere breathable for
human beings. She feels her heart beating faster in her bosom, thanks to
this affection, and from that minute a transformation takes place within
her. Landry, who has been observing her, is of opinion that she must
be something of a witch. Landry is very simple-minded. There is no
witchcraft here except that of love, and it was not difficult for that
to work the metamorphosis. It has worked many others in this world.

The _Maitres Soneurs_ initiates us into forest life, so full of
mysterious visions. In opposition to the sedentary, stay-at-home life
of the inhabitant of plains, with his indolent mind, we have the
free-and-easy humour of the handsome and adventurous muleteer, Huriel,
with his love of the road and of all that is unexpected. He is a
_cheminau_ before the days of M. Richepin.

I do not know any stories more finished than these. They certainly prove
that George Sand had the artistic sense, a quality which has frequently
been denied her. The characters in these stories are living and active,
and at the same time their psychology is not insisted upon, and they
do not stand out in such relief as to turn our attention from things,
which, as we know, are more important than people in the country. We are
surrounded on all sides by the country, and bathed, as it were, in
its atmosphere. And yet, in spite of all this, the country is not once
described. There is not one of those descriptions so dear to the heart
of those who are considered masters in the art of word-painting. We do
not describe those things with which we live. We are content to have