he twenty-first anniversary of the latter's birthday. In
what George Sand calls the "History of my Life," she inserted some
excerpts from a diary kept by her at this time, which throw much light
on the relation that existed between wife and husband. If only we could
be sure that it is not like so much in the book the outcome of her
powerful imagination! Besides repeated complaints about her husband's
ill-humour and frequent absences, we meet with the following ominous
reflections on marriage:--

Marriage is beautiful for lovers and useful for saints.

Besides saints and lovers there are a great many ordinary
minds and placid hearts that do not know love and cannot
attain to sanctity.

Marriage is the supreme aim of love. When love has left it,
or never entered it, sacrifice remains. This is very well for
those who understand sacrifice. The latter presupposes a
measure of heart and a degree of intelligence which are not
frequently to be met with.

For sacrifice there are compensations which the vulgar mind
can appreciate. The approbation of the world, the routine
sweetness of custom, a feeble, tranquil, and sensible
devotion that is not bent on rapturous exaltation, or money,
that is to say baubles, dress, luxury--in short, a thousand
little things which make one forget that one is deprived of
happiness.

The following extracts give us some glimpses which enable us to realise
the situation:--

I left rather sad. ____ said hard things to me, having been told
by a Madame ____ that I was wrong in making excursions without
my husband. I do not think that this is the case, seeing that
my husband goes first, and I go where he intends to go.

My husband is one of the most intrepid of men. He goes
everywhere, and I follow him. He turns round and rebukes me.
He says that I affect singularity. I'll be hanged if I think
of it. I turn round, and I see Zoe following me. I tell her
that she affects singularity. My husband is angry because Zoe
laughs.

...We quickly leave the guides and the caravan behind us.
We ride over the most fantastic roads at a gallop. Zoe is mad
with courage. This intoxicates me, and I at once am her
equal.

In addition to the above, we must read a remark suggested by certain
entries in the diary:--

Aimee was an accomplished person of an exquisite distinction.
She loved everything that in any way is