nt, and that she
pined for Paris.

Returning thither, she is said to have set her cap at Victor Hugo,
who was, however, too much in love with himself to care for any one,
especially a woman who was his literary rival. She is said for a time to
have been allied with Gustave Planche, a dramatic critic; but she
always denied this, and her denial may be taken as quite truthful. Soon,
however, she was to begin an episode which has been more famous than any
other in her curious history, for she met Alfred de Musset, then a youth
of twenty-three, but already well known for his poems and his plays.

Musset was of noble birth. He would probably have been better for a
plebeian strain, since there was in him a touch of the degenerate.
His mother's father had published a humanitarian poem on cats. His
great-uncle had written a peculiar novel. Young Alfred was nervous,
delicate, slightly epileptic, and it is certain that he was given to
dissipation, which so far had affected his health only by making
him hysterical. He was an exceedingly handsome youth, with exquisite
manners, "dreamy rather than dazzling eyes, dilated nostrils, and
vermilion lips half opened." Such was he when George Sand, then seven
years his senior, met him.

There is something which, to the Anglo-Saxon mind, seems far more absurd
than pathetic about the events which presently took place. A woman like
George Sand at thirty was practically twice the age of this nervous boy
of twenty-three, who had as yet seen little of the world. At first she
seemed to realize the fact herself; but her vanity led her to begin an
intrigue, which must have been almost wholly without excitement on her
part, but which to him, for a time, was everything in the world.

Experimenting, as usual, after the fashion described by Dumas, she went
with De Musset for a "honeymoon" to Fontainebleau. But they could not
stay there forever, and presently they decided upon a journey to Italy.
Before they went, however, they thought it necessary to get formal
permission from Alfred's mother!

Naturally enough, Mme. de Musset refused consent. She had read George
Sand's romances, and had asked scornfully:

"Has the woman never in her life met a gentleman?"

She accepted the relations between them, but that she should be asked
to sanction this sort of affair was rather too much, even for a French
mother who has become accustomed to many strange things. Then there was
a curious happening. At nine