iness, they had had to resort to an affectionate _ruse_ to induce
her to take advice. Her habit of disregarding physical ailments,
fighting against them as a weakness, and working on in their despite,
led her to neglect for too long failing health that should have been
attended to. During the whole of May, 1876, Madame Sand, though
suffering from real illness, continued to join in the household routine
and to proceed with her literary work as usual. Not till the last days
of the month did she, unable any longer to make light of her danger, at
length consent to send for professional advice. It was then too late.
She was suffering from internal paralysis. The medical attention which,
sought earlier, might, in the opinion of the doctors, have prolonged her
life for years, could now do nothing to avert the imminent fatal
consequences of her illness. "It is death," she said; "I did not ask for
it, but neither do I regret it." For beyond the sorrow of parting it had
no particular terrors for her; she had viewed and could meet it in
another spirit. "Death is no more," she had written; "it is life renewed
and purified."

She lingered for a week, in great suffering, but bearing all with
fortitude and an unflinching determination not to distress those around
her by painful complaining. Up to her last hour she preserved
consciousness and lucidity. The words, "_Ne touchez pas a la verdure_,"
among the last that fell from her lips, were understood by her children,
who knew her wish that the trees should be undisturbed under which, in
the village cemetery, she was soon to find a resting-place--a wish that
had been sacredly respected.

Her suffering ceased a short while before death, which came to her so
quietly that the transition was almost imperceptible to the watchers by
her side. It was on the morning of the 8th of June. She was within a
month of completing her seventy-second year. Although her life's work
had long since been mainly accomplished, yet the extinction of that
great intelligence was felt by many--as fitly expressed by M.
Renan--"like a diminution of humanity."

Two days later she was buried in the little cemetery of Nohant, that
adjoins her own garden wall. The funeral was conducted with extreme
simplicity, in accordance with her taste and spirit. The scene was none
the less a memorable one. The rain fell in torrents, but no one seemed
to regard it; the country-people flocking in from miles around, old men
standin