Shortly before the departure of Madame Dudevant for Nohant, where she was about to spend three months, it was arranged between herself and Sandeau that they should each contribute a portion of a novel, whose title was to be ‘Indiana.’
On her return to Paris our heroine called upon Sandeau in order to submit to him what she had done, and found that he had not yet written a single line of his allotted share of the work.
He began to read the work of his collaborator, but had not proceeded beyond a few lines when he gave vent to enthusiastic expressions.
“You have written a masterpiece!”
“So much the better; let us go off at once to the publisher’s.”
“Wait a moment; you wrote that work alone—you alone must sign it.”
“Never! we will continue to sign Jules Sand.”
“Not at all,” replied Sandeau; “I am too honest to rob you of your glory. My conscience would never fail to reproach me with such an action.”
The young man was firm in his decision; and, in spite of the protests of M. de Latouche, declined to alter it.
At last an idea struck the director of the Figaro. “You wrote ‘Rose et Blanche,’ and gave the name of its author as Jules Sand; Sand is, therefore, your common property. Madame needs only to select another Christian name. Now, madame, to-day is St. George’s Day. Call yourself George Sand, and the difficulty is solved.” Madame Dudevant assented, and thus assumed a name upon which her genius conferred more imperishable titles of nobility than had been bestowed upon her either by birth or marriage.