uay. I can see Jules
now in a shabby, dirty-looking artist's frock-coat, with his cravat
underneath him and his shirt open at the throat, stretched out over
three chairs, stamping with his feet or breaking the tongs in the heat
of the discussion. The Gaulois used to sit in a corner weaving great
plots, and you would be seated on a table."

All this must certainly have been charming. The room was too small,
though, and George Sand commissioned Emile Regnault to find her a flat,
the essential condition of which should be some way of egress for Jules
at any hour.

A little flat was discovered on the Quay St. Michel. There were three
rooms, one of which could be reserved. "This shall be the dark room,"
wrote George Sand, "the mysterious room, the ghost's retreat, the
monster's den, the cage of the performing animal, the hiding-place for
the treasure, the vampire's cave, or whatever you like to call
it. . . ."

In plainer language, it was Jules' room; and then follows some touching
eloquence about the dear boy she worshipped who loved her so dearly.

This is the beginning of things, but later on the tone of the
correspondence changes. The letters become less frequent, and are also
not so gay. George Sand speaks much less of Jules in them and much more
of little Solange, whom she intended to bring back to Paris with her.
She is beginning to weary of Jules and to esteem him at his true value.
He is lazy, and has fits of depression and all the capriciousness of
a spoilt child. She has had enough of him, and then, too, it is very
evident from the letters that there has been some division among
the lively friends who had sworn to be comrades for life. There are
explanations and justifications. George Sand discovers that there are
certain inconveniences connected with intimacies in which there is
such disproportion of age and of social position. Finally there are the
following desperate letters, written in fits of irritation: "My dear
friend, go to Jules and look after him. He is broken-hearted, and you
can do nothing for him in that respect. It is no use trying. I do not
ask you to come to me yet, as I do not need anything. I would rather be
alone to-day. Then, too, there is nothing left for me in life. It will
be horrible for him for a long time, but he is so young. The day will
come, perhaps, when he will not be sorry to have lived. . . .
Do not attempt to put matters right, as this time there is no remedy.
We do not blame