And now, her real protectress being removed, the discords of life broke in upon her, and asserted themselves.  Scarcely was the beloved form cold, when Aurore’s mother arrived, to wake the echoes of the chateau with wild abuse of its late mistress.  By testamentary disposition, Madame Dupin had made Aurore her heir, and had named two of her own relatives as guardians; but the mother now insisted on her own rights, and, after much acrimonious dispute and comment, carried Aurore from her beloved solitudes to her own quarters in Paris,—­a journey of sorrow, and the beginning of sorrows.  In her childhood Aurore had often longed for this mother’s breast as her natural refuge, and the true home of her childish affections.  But it “was one of those characters of self-will and passion which deteriorate in later life, and in which no new moral beauties spring up to replace the impulsive graces of youth.  Regarding Aurore now as the work of another’s hands, she made her the victim of ceaseless and causeless petulance.  Her gross abuse of her mother-in-law gave Aurore many tears to shed in private, while her persecution of poor Deschartres drove her daughter to the expedient of shielding him—­with a lie.  The poor tutor had administered the affairs of Nohant for some time.  He was now called to account for every farthing with the most malignant accuracy, and a sum of money, lost by ill-management, not being satisfactorily accounted for, his new tormentor threatened him with prison and trial.  As he muttered to his late pupil that he would not survive this disgrace, she stepped forward and shielded him after the fashion of Consuelo.

“I have received this money,” said she.

“You?  Impossible!  What have you done with it?”

“No matter, I have received it.”

Deschartres was saved, and Aurore had only availed herself of the first of a Frenchwoman’s privileges.  Nor will we reckon with her too harshly for this lie, so benevolent in intention, so merciful in effect.  A lie sometimes seems the only refuge of the oppressed; but there is always something better than a lie, if we could only find it out.  Here is her account of the scene itself:—­

“To have gone through a series of lies and of false explanations would not, perhaps, have been possible for me.  But from the moment that it was only necessary to persist in a ‘yes’ to save Deschartres, I thought that I ought not to hesitate.  My mother insisted:—­

“’If M. Deschartres has paid you eighteen thousand francs, we can easily find it out.  You would not give your word of honor?’

“I felt a shudder, and I saw Deschartres ready to speak out.

“‘I would give it!’ I cried out

“‘Give it, then,’ said my aunt.

“‘No, Mademoiselle,’ said my mother’s lawyer, ‘don’t give it.’

“‘She shall give it!’ cried my mother, to whom I could scarcely pardon this infliction of torture.

“‘I give it,’ I replied;’ and God is with me against you in this matter.’