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Updated: May 29, 2025
So that brief romance was over. An attachment of a different sort was that with Mme. Dudevant, known in literature as George Sand. The family at Nohant where she had spent her childhood, where her two children, Maurice and Solange, lived, and where her husband sometimes came, became distasteful to her; she wanted to see life. Paris offered it.
She wrote a poetical skit to commemorate the incident, which created great amusement among her friends. In the autumn, 1828, her daughter Solange was born. The care of her two children, to whom she was devoted, occupied her seriously. Maurice's education was beginning, a fresh inducement to her to study that she might be better able to superintend his instruction.
But, ma'am, I know better'n you do how you really feel. You think you want him killed but you don't." Solange abruptly straightened round and rode ahead without another word. Morosely, Sucatash followed. They came into the cañon at last and turned downward toward the spot where camp had been pitched that day, which seemed so long ago, and yet was not yet a week in the past.
As for Wilding, he began to conclude that he had gone crazy or else had encountered a set of escaped lunatics when he beheld Solange, slender and straightly tailored, but with hair hidden under a close-fitting little turban and face masked by a fold of netting. Marian Pettis was another shock.
There was nothing to keep him longer in the town since he saw no further prospect of getting any news, and his agreement to meet Solange necessitated his heading into the mountains if he were to be there on time. So, at the earliest moment, he got his packs on and started out of town, intending to cross the range from the south and come down into the cañon.
In this he was right, though he could not guess what the business was nor how it favored his own designs. On the following day he resumed his march. Now he followed the trail of the motor car which had brought Solange until he came opposite Wallace's ranch. From here he took up another trail, that of a considerable train of pack horses and three saddle animals.
A few minutes later Solange had resumed her watch beside De Launay while, outside, Sucatash and Murphy were busy unloading the sled and getting it ready for the wounded man. De Launay slept, apparently. Solange sat patiently as the long hours passed. At intervals he muttered in his sleep and she listened. Fragments of his life formed the subject of the words, incoherent and disconnected.
Solange still sat desolately on the log. Finally Sucatash came to her and assisted her to rise. He led her to her horse and held the stirrup for her as she swung to the saddle. He was about to mount himself when De Launay caught his eye. Instead, he stepped to the soldier's side. "Take this," said De Launay, holding out the envelope. "Give it to her to-morrow.
"For if I remain here much longer the gossip that you arouse will ruin me." "Again," said De Launay, rather dryly, "I apologize." Solange was left to feel at fault. She knew that she had been unjust, but De Launay's casual ways and his very indifferent deference angered her. Yet it could not last much longer since they were to take a train for Le Havre that evening and sail upon the following day.
At a quarter of ten Solange opened the door. We were both ahead of time. With one leap I was by her side. "I see you have good news," she said. "Excellent! First, here is a pass for you." "First my father!" She repelled my hand. "Your father is saved, if he wishes." "Wishes, you say? What is required of him?" "He must trust me." "That is assured." "Have you seen him?" "Yes."
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