sory. Here,
however, is not the place to prove this. Nor has _Mauprat_ been burdened
with a proof of the theory; only, the sentiment by which I was specially
penetrated at the time of writing it is embodied in the words of
_Mauprat_ towards the end of the book: "She was the only woman I loved
in all my life; none other ever won a glance from me, or knew the
pressure of my hand."

GEORGE SAND.

June 5, 1857.

TO

GUSTAVE PAPET

Though fashion may proscribe the patriarchal fashion of dedications, I
would ask you, brother and friend, to accept this of a tale which is not
new to you. I have drawn my materials in part from the cottages of our
Noire valley. May we live and die there, repeating every evening our
beloved invocation:

SANCTA SIMPLICITAS!

GEORGE SAND.

MAUPRAT

On the borders of La Marche and Berry, in the district known as
Varenne, which is naught but a vast moor studded with forests of oak
and chestnut, and in the most thickly wooded and wildest part of the
country, may be found, crouching within a ravine, a little ruined
chateau. The dilapidated turrets would not catch your eye until you were
about a hundred yards from the principal portcullis. The venerable trees
around and the scattered rocks above, bury it in everlasting obscurity;
and you would experience the greatest difficulty, even in broad
daylight, in crossing the deserted path leading to it, without stumbling
against the gnarled trunks and rubbish that bar every step. The name
given to this dark ravine and gloomy castle is Roche-Mauprat.

It was not so long ago that the last of the Mauprats, the heir to this
property, had the roofing taken away and all the woodwork sold. Then,
as if to give a kick to the memory of his ancestors, he ordered the
entrance gate to be thrown down, the north tower to be gutted, and a
breach to be made in the surrounding wall. This done, he departed with
his workmen, shaking the dust from off his feet, and abandoning his
domain to foxes, and cormorants, and vipers. Since then, whenever the
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners from the huts in the neighbourhood
pass along the top of the Roche-Mauprat ravine, if it is in daytime they
whistle with a defiant air or hurl a hearty curse at the ruins; but
when day falls and the goat-sucker begins to screech from the top of
the loopholes, wood-cutter and charcoal-burner pass by silently, with
quickened step, and cross themselves from time to time to ward