her innate need of being frank, she considered it her duty to write a
letter to her husband, informing him of everything. This was the
famous letter of November 8, 1825. Later on, in 1836, when her case for
separation from her husband was being heard, a few fragments of it were
read by her husband's advocate with the idea of incriminating her. By
way of reply to this, George Sand's advocate read the entire letter in
all its eloquence and generosity. It was greeted by bursts of applause
from the audience.

All this is very satisfactory. It is exactly the situation of the
Princess of Cleves in Madame de Lafayette's novel. The Princess of
Cleves acknowledges to her husband the love she cannot help feeling for
Monsieur de Nemours, and asks for his help and advice as her natural
protector. This fine proceeding is usually admired, although it cost
the life of the Prince of Cleves, who died broken-hearted. Personally, I
admire it too, although at times I wonder whether we ought not rather
to see in it an unconscious suggestion of perversity. This confession of
love to the person who is being, as it were, robbed of that love, is in
itself a kind of secret pleasure. By speaking of the love, it becomes
more real, we bring it out to light instead of letting it die away in
those hidden depths within us, in which so many of the vague sentiments
which we have not cared to define, even to ourselves, die away. Many
women have preferred this more silent way, in which they alone have been
the sufferers. But such women are not the heroines of novels. No one has
appreciated their sacrifice, and they themselves could scarcely tell all
that it has cost them.

Aurelien de Seze had taken upon himself the _role_ of confidant to this
soul that he had allotted to himself. He took his _role_ very seriously,
as was his custom in all things. He became the young wife's director in