An old woman, an excellent talker, came to Châteaubrun to reprove me because I had written a book full of lies about her and her master. She thought that I had intended to introduce the proprietor of the château and herself on my stage. She had heard of the book. People had told her that there was not a word of truth in it. It was impossible to make her understand what a novel is, and yet she invented one herself, for she told us of the assassination of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, who were stabbed in their carriage by the populace of Paris. They who accuse socialistic writers of inflaming people's minds should remember that they have forgotten to teach the peasants to read.
Shall I deny, now that the masses are stirring, the communism of Monsieur de Boisguilbault, a very eccentric and yet not altogether imaginary character in my novel? God forbid, especially after the socialists have been accused, in every key, of preaching the division of property.
The diametrically opposite idea, that of common ownership by association, should be the least dangerous of all in the eyes of the conservatives, since it is unfortunately the least understood and the least popular among the masses. It is especially antipathetic in the country districts and can be realized only by the initiative of a strong government or by a philosophic, religious and Christian renovation, the work of centuries it may be!
Attempts to form workingmen's associations have been made, however, among the best informed, the most moral, the most patient portion of the industrial population of the large cities. Enlightened governments, whatever their motto, will always protect these associations, because they offer a refuge to the genuinely social and religious thought of the future. Probably imperfect at their birth, they will perfect themselves in time, and when it is clearly proved that they do not destroy, but, on the contrary, preserve respect for family and property, they will insensibly lead to reciprocity among all classes, and to a union of interests and attachments,—the only path of safety open to the society of the future.
GEORGE SAND.
THE SIN OF MONSIEUR ANTOINE
I
EGUZON
There are few localities in France as unattractive as the town of Eguzon on the confines of La Marche and Berry, in the southwest part of the latter province. Eighty to a hundred houses, all of more or less wretched appearance, with the exception of two or three whose opulent proprietors we will not name for fear of offending their modesty, line the two or three streets and surround the public square of that municipality, famous for leagues around by reason of the litigious nature of its population and the difficulty of reaching it. Despite this last drawback, which will soon disappear, thanks to the laying out of a new road, Eguzon sees many travellers boldly traverse the solitudes by which it is surrounded and risk the springs of their carrioles on its terrible pavement. The only inn is situated on the only square, which seems the more vast because it has one side open to the fields as if awaiting the new buildings of future citizens; and this inn is sometimes compelled, in the summer, to invite its too numerous guests to accept accommodation in the neighboring houses, which are thrown open to them, we are bound to say, with much hospitality. Eguzon, you see, is the central point of a picturesque neighborhood dotted with imposing ruins, and whether one desires to visit Châteaubrun, Crozant, Prugne-au-Pot, or the still habitable and inhabited château of Saint-Germain, he must necessarily sleep at Eguzon, in order to start betimes on these different excursions on the following morning.
Several years ago, one lowering, stormy evening in June, the good people of Eguzon opened their eyes to their fullest extent to see a young man of attractive exterior crossing the square to leave the town just after sunset. The weather was threatening; it was growing dark more quickly than usual, and yet the young traveller, after taking a light repast at the inn, where he halted just long enough to rest his horse, rode boldly away toward the north, heedless of the representations of the innkeeper, and apparently caring naught for the dangers of the road. None knew him; he had answered all questions with an impatient gesture only, and all remonstrances with a smile. When the sound of his horse's hoofs had died away in the distance, the loafers about the inn said to one another: