Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 8, No. 49, November, 1861 | Page 5

dangerous
rival. We will let him give his own account of the origin of this new
relation.
"You know that I was in love in Milan. You guessed it, because I did
not tell you of it. At times I fancied myself beloved in return, and then I
saw, or thought I saw, that I was not. I wished to divert my thoughts; I
went away, desiring to think no more of it.
"This charming woman is here, and we have hardly spoken to each
other. We scarcely exchanged a look. I felt a little vexation, though that
is scarcely in my nature. She was proud towards me, although her heart
is tender and passionate. This morning, during breakfast, we heard
distant cannon. The General ordered me to mount at once, and go to see
what it was. I rise, take the staircase in two bounds, and run to the
stable. At the very moment of mounting my horse I turned and saw
behind me this dear woman, blushing, embarrassed, and casting on me
a lingering look, expressive of fear, interest, love."
This fatal look, as the experienced will readily conceive, did the
business. The young soldier dreamed only of a love affair like twenty
others which had made the pastime of his oft-changing quarters; but
this "dear woman," Sophie Victoire Antoinette Delaborde, daughter of
an old bird-fancier, was destined to become his wife, and the mother of
his daughter, Aurore Dupin, whom the world knows as George Sand.
The circumstances of her youth had been untoward. She was at this
period already the mother of one child, born out of marriage, and seems
to have been making the campaign of Italy under the so-called
protection of some rich man, whose name is not given us. This
protection she hastened to leave, following thenceforward with
devotion the precarious fortunes of the young soldier, and gaining her
own subsistence, until their marriage, by the toil of the needle, to which
she had been bred. Of course, Maurice's confidences to his mother
under this head soon cease. An amour with a person in Victoire's
position could be admitted; but a serious, solid affection, leading to
marriage, this would break his mother's heart, and indeed not without
reason. The reader must remember that this is a chapter out of French
society, on which account we suppress all hysterical comment upon a
state of things universally received and acknowledged therein.
Maurice's trivial, and we should say, unprincipled pursuit of Victoire

would be considered perfectly legitimate in the sphere which made the
world to him. The sequel, perhaps, would not have been considered
differently here and there; for, however we may recognize the
sacredness of true affection, a marriage so unequal and with such
sinister antecedents would be regarded in all society with little
approbation, or hope of good. His mother soon grew alarmed, as
various symptoms of an enduring and carefully concealed attachment
became evident to her keen observation. In the years that followed, she
left no means untried to break off this dangerous connection;--her
remonstrances were by turns tender and violent,--her reasonings, no
doubt, in great part just; but Maurice defended the woman of his choice
from all accusations, from every annoyance, on the ground of her
devoted and honorable attachment to him. After four years of continued
trouble and irresolution, in which, George tells us, he had again and
again made the endeavor to sacrifice Victoire to his mother's happiness,
and after the birth of several children, who soon ceased to live, he
wedded her by civil rite. The birth of his daughter soon followed. "And
thus it was," says George, "that I was born legitimate."
"My mother had on a pretty pink dress that day, and my father was
playing some contredanses on his faithful Cremona (I have it yet, that
old instrument by the sound of which I first saw the light). My mother
left the dance and passed into her own room. As she went out very
quietly, the dance continued. At the last _chassez all round_, my Aunt
Lucy went into my mother's room, and immediately cried,--
"Come, come here, Maurice! You have a daughter!"
"She shall be named Aurore, for my poor mother, who is not here to
bless her, but who will bless her one day," said my father, receiving me
in his arms.
"She was born in music and in pink," said my aunt. "She will be
happy."
Not eminent, perhaps, has been the realization of this augury.
The young couple were so poor, at this moment of their marriage, that a
slender thread of gold was forced to serve for the nuptial ring; it was
not until some days later that they were able to expend six francs in the
purchase of that indispensable ornament.