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Updated: May 28, 2025
"I can understand it because I knew some one who had to fight for himself just that way, only perhaps it was harder because he wasn't educated as you are." "Did he confide in you?" Dudevant ventured, with delicate hesitation. "You are so kind I am sure he did, Mademoiselle." "He told me about it because he knew I wanted to hear," she answered.
The power of interference left to M. Dudevant by the recent legal decision had been exercised in a manner leading to fresh vexatious contention, and continual alarm on Madame Sand's part lest the boy should be taken by force from her side.
He is little civilised at first sight; but he is full of sacred fire and for some time past, since I noticed him making advances, I have been studying him without having the appearance of doing so...He has other qualities which compensate for all the defects he may have and ought to have. M. Dudevant, whom he has been to see, consents. We do not know yet where the marriage will take place.
The life of the great French novelist, George Sand, is as romantic as any of the characters in her novels. She was born at Paris in July, 1804, her real name being Armandine Lucile Aurore Dupin. At eighteen she married the son of a colonel and baron of the empire, by name Dudevant, but after nine years she separated from her husband, and, bent upon a literary career, made her way to Paris.
When Madame Dudevant, tired of her domestic rôle, went to Paris to take up a literary career, her mother-in-law, Baroness Dudevant, said to her, with incredulous horror, "Is it true that it is your intention to print books?" "Yes, madame." "Well, I call that an odd notion." "Yes, madame."
For she was George Sand now. Aurore Dupin was civilly dead, Aurore Dudevant was uncivilly effaced. She had taken half a name from Jules Sandeau, she had wrought the glory of that name herself. Yes, a glory, say what you will.
Madame Dudevant at this time had no formulated political creed, and political subjects were those least attractive to her. But though born in the opposite camp she felt all her natural sympathies incline to the Republican side. They were further intensified by the scenes of which she was an eye-witness, and which roused a similar feeling even among anti-revolutionists.
The extraordinary arrangement she and M. Dudevant had entered into four years before with regard to each other, was clearly one impossible to last. It will be recollected that she at that time had relinquished her patrimony to those who had thought it no dishonor to continue to enjoy it; and the terms of that agreement had since been nominally undisturbed.
No writer, though he write like Tennyson, or Longfellow, or Lamartine, or Dudevant, can hope for such an audience as Verdi or Meyerbeer. No orator speaks to such crowds as Rossini; no Everett or Kossuth, or Gavazzi or Spurgeon, has so many listeners as Donizetti.
So the story came out as written by Jules Sand. The young people thought their fortunes made that the four hundred francs were inexhaustible. Madame Dudevant now adopted a man's costume for the first time, that she might go to the theater with advantage at least this was her excuse. The young couple visited the theater at night, and Sandeau slept the days away.
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