she
confined herself to furnishing the proofs strictly demanded by the law,
and revealed only such facts as were absolutely necessary. But these
facts and proofs must have been of a very damaging nature, for M.
Dudevant answered them by imputations to merit one hundred-thousandth
part of which would have made her tremble. "His attorney refused to read
a libel. The judges would have refused to listen to it." Of a deposition
presented by M. Dudevant to the Court, his wife remarks that it was
"dictated, one might have said, drawn up," by two servants whom she had
dismissed. She maintains that she did not deserve this treatment, as she
betrayed of her husband's conduct only what he himself was wont to boast
of.

George Sand's letters [Footnote: George Sand: Correspondence 1812-1876;
Six volumes (Paris: Calman Levy).] seem to me to show conclusively
that her chief motives for seeking a divorce were a desire for greater
independence and above all for more money. Complaints of ill-treatment
are not heard of till they serve to justify an action or to attain a
purpose. And the exaggeration of her varying statements must be obvious
to all but the most careless observer. George Sand is slow in making
up her mind; but having made it up she acts with fierce promptitude,
obstinate vigour, and inconsiderate unscrupulousness, in one word, with
that concentration of self which sees nothing but its own desires. On
the whole, I should say that M. Dudevant was more sinned against than
sinning. George Sand, even as she represents herself in the Histoire
de ma Vie and in her letters, was far from being an exemplary wife, or
indeed a woman with whom even the most angelic of husbands would have
found it easy to live in peace and happiness.

From the letters, which reveal so strikingly the ungentlewomanlikeness
(not merely in a conventional sense) of her manners and her numerous and
curious intimacies with men of all ages, more especially with young men,
I shall now cull a few characteristic passages in proof of what I have
said.

One must have a passion in life. I feel ennui for the want of
one. The agitated and often even rather needy life I am
leading here drives spleen far away. I am very well, and you
will see me in the best of humours. [To her friend A. M.
Duteil. Paris, February 15, 1831.]

I have an object, a task, let me say the word, a passion. The
profession of writing is a violent and almost indestructible