George Sand[347], otherwise Madame Dudevant, having spoken of _René_ in the _Revue des Deux-Mondes_[348], I thanked her; she did not reply. Some time after, she sent me _Lélia_: I did not reply. Soon a short explanation took place between us: "I venture to hope that you will forgive me for not having answered the flattering letter which you were good enough to send me when I spoke of _René_ in writing on _Obermann._ I did not know how to thank you for all the kind expressions which you have used towards my books. "I have sent you _Lélia_, and I anxiously desire that it may obtain the same protection from you. The fairest privilege of an universally accepted glory like your own is to welcome and encourage at their start those inexperienced writers for whom there can be no lasting success without your patronage. "Accept the assurance of my high admiration and believe me, monsieur, "One of your most faithful believers, "GEORGE SAND." At the end of October[349], Madame Sand gave me her new novel, _Jacques_: I accepted the present. "30 _October_ 1834. "I hasten, madame, to offer you my sincere thanks. I am going to read _Jacques_ in Fontainebleau Forest or at the sea-side. Were I younger, I should be less brave; but my years will defend me against solitude, without taking anything from the passionate admiration which I profess for your talent and which I hide from nobody. You have attached a new enchantment, madame, to that city of dreams whence I set out, in former days, for Greece with a whole world of illusions: returning to his starting-point, René lately aired his memories and his regrets on the Lido, between Childe-Harold, who had vanished, and Lelia about to appear. "CHATEAUBRIAND." Madame Sand possesses a talent of the first order; her descriptions have the truth of those of Rousseau in his _Rêveries_[350] and of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre in his _Études._[351] Her frank style is tainted with none of the faults of the day. _Lélia_, though painful to read and offering none of the delicious scenes of _Indiana_ and _Valentine_, is nevertheless a master-piece of its kind: of the nature of an orgy, it is without passion, but perturbing like passion; it lacks soul, and yet it weighs upon the heart; the depravity of its maxims, its insults thrown at rectitude of life could go no further than they do; but over that abyss the author sends down her talent In the Valley of Gomorrah, the dew falls at night upon the Dead Sea.