than one not
quite white lie; the husband of the heroine is unfaithful, tyrannical as
far as he dare be, and a waster of his family's goods before his
fortunately rather early death; his pretty young sister, Mariette, is a
selfish and spiteful minx; and his paramour (sarcastically named "La
Severe") is unchaste, malignant, and dishonest all at once--a
combination which may be said to exclude any possible goodness in woman.

The only thoroughly white sheep--though the "Champi" or foundling (his
cradle being the genial fields and not the steps of stone) has but the
grey patches noticed above, and those acquired with the best
intentions--is Madeleine Blanchet, his protectress for many years, and
finally, after difficulties and her widowhood, his wife. That she is
some twelve years older than he is is a detail which need not in itself
be of much importance. It lends itself to that combination of maternal
and sexual affection of which George Sand is so fond, and of which we
may have to speak some harsh words elsewhere. But here it matters
little. Arcady is a kind of Saturnian realm, and "mixtures" elsewhere
"held a stain" may pass there.

[Sidenote: Others--_Mauprat_.]

We may make a further _glissade_ (to return to some remarks made above),
though of a different kind, over a few of the very large number of
novels that we cannot discuss in detail. But _Mauprat_ adds just a
little support to the remarks there made. For this (which is a sort of
crime-and-detection novel, and therefore appeals to some readers more
than to the present historian) turns wholly on the atrocious deeds of a
seignorial family of the most melodramatic kind. Yet it is questionable
whether the wickedest of them ever did anything worse than the action of
their last and renegade member, who actually, when he comes into the
property, ruins his ancestral castle because naughty things have been
done there. Now, when Milton said, "As well kill a man as kill a good
book," though it was no doubt an intentional hyperbole, there was much
sound sense in what he said. Still, except in the case of such a book as
has been produced only a few times in the world's history, it may be
urged that probably something as good might be written by somebody else
among the numerous men that were not killed. But, on the same principle,
one would be justified in saying, "Better kill a hundred men than ruin a
castle with hundreds of years of memories, bad or good." You can never