And, as a matter of fact, during six weeks of the spring of 1832, which she spent in the country, George Sand wrote a novel in two volumes. That novel was Indiana. She returned from the country, went to see Latouche and confessed, trembling, the fresh crime she had just committed.
"What good luck!" exclaimed de Latouche; "it will be said that I foresaw this; I have looked for and found you a publisher; give him your novel."
"Will you not have a look at it, then?" asked the author.
"No, you are hard to read, and I do not like reading manuscript. Take the two volumes to the publisher, claim your 1200 francs, and I will criticise the work in its printed form."
As George Sand knew of nothing better to do than to follow this advice, she did as she was told. Sometimes we say he and sometimes she; I hope George Sand will excuse us! Have we not said that her wonderful genius was as hermaphrodite as la Bragoletta of her master!
A month later, George Sand received from her publisher the twelve copies reserved for the author. Indiana had been published that very day. De Latouche entered.
"Oh! oh!" he said, scenting out the volumes fresh from the press, as the ogre in Tom Thumb smelt the fresh flesh; "what is this?"
"Alas!" replied the trembling pupil, "it is my book."
"Ah! yes, Indiana, I remember."
But we will let George Sand herself tell about this momentous occasion in her life.