The young wife, delicate in health and ardent in her affection, deeply resented the frequent absence of her husband. She at first meekly remonstrated with M. Dudevant, who would then stay at home for a few days, soon again to disappear. Months and years thus elapsed. When not out hunting, M. Dudevant indulged in feasting with his friends, eating enormously and drinking more, ... and almost forsaking his wife for the pleasures of the field and the table. RAPHAËL LEDOS DE BEAUFORT: _Biographical Sketch_, in ‘Letters of George Sand.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: The crisis.] I must inform you that in spite of my inertia, indifference, unsteadiness of purpose, the facility with which I forgive and forget sorrows and injury, I have just taken a _rash and extreme resolution_.... You are acquainted with my home life, you are able to judge whether it is tolerable. You, scores of times, wondered how I could display so much courage and equanimity when my pride was being constantly crushed. But there is a limit to everything.... There has been no scandal. While looking for something in my husband’s desk, I simply found a parcel addressed to me. That parcel had a kind of solemn appearance which struck me. It bore the inscription: _To be opened only at my death._ I could not find the patience to wait until I became a widow. With health like mine I cannot expect to survive anyone. At any rate, I supposed my husband dead, and felt rather anxious to know what he might think of me while still alive. The parcel being directed to me, I had a right to open it without being thought indiscreet, and, as my husband is in the full enjoyment of health, I could read his will without emotion. Good heavens! what a will! Curses for me and nothing else! He had collected therein all his impulses of temper and ill-humor against me, all his reflections respecting my _perverseness_, all his feelings of contempt for my character. And that is what he had left me as a token of his affection! I fancied that I was dreaming, I who, until now, was obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned. The perusal of that will has at last aroused me from my slumber. I said to myself that to live with a man who feels neither esteem for nor confidence in his wife, would be equivalent to trying to revive a corpse. My mind was made up, and, I dare say so, _irrevocably_. AURORE DUDEVANT: _Letter to M. Jules Boucoiran_, December, 1830. ‘Letters of George Sand,’ translated by Raphaël Ledos de Beaufort. London: Ward & Downey, 1886. * * * * * [Sidenote: Her life in Paris.]