Aurelien de Seze was a young magistrate, a few years older than Aurore.  He was twenty-six years of age and she was twenty-one.  He was the great-nephew of the counsel who pleaded for Louis XVI.  There was, therefore, in his family a tradition of moral nobility, and the young man had inherited this.  He had met Aurore at Bordeaux and again at Cauterets.  They had visited the grottoes of Lourdes together.  Aurelien had appreciated the young wife’s charm, although she had not attempted to attract his attention, as she was not coquettish.  She appreciated in him—­all that was so lacking in Casimir—­culture of mind, seriousness of character, discreet manners which people took at first for coldness, and a somewhat dignified elegance.  He was scrupulously honest, a magistrate of the old school, sure of his principles and master of himself.  It was, probably, just that which appealed to the young wife, who was a true woman and who had always wished to be dominated.  When they met again at Breda, they had an explanation.  This was the “violent grief” of which George Sand speaks.  She was consoled by a friend, Zoe Leroy, who found a way of calming this stormy soul.  She came through this crisis crushed with emotion and fatigue, but calm and joyful.  They had vowed to love each other, but to remain without reproach, and their vow was faithfully kept.

Aurore, therefore, had nothing with which to reproach herself, but with 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.