e right in saying； later on； that it was of no use seeking any intellectual reason as the explanation of her social preferences。 Everything in her was due to sentiment。 Her socialism was entirely the outcome of her suffering and torments as a child。
Things had to come to a crisis； and the crisis was atrocious。 George Sand gives an account of the tragic scene in her _Histoire de ma vie_。 Her grandmother had already had one attack of paralysis。 She was anxious about Aurore's future； and wished to keep her from the influence of her mother。 She therefore decided to employ violent means to this end。 She sent for the child to her bedside； and； almost beside herself； in a choking voice； she revealed to her all that she ought to have concealed。 She told her of Sophie…Victoire's past； she uttered the fatal word and spoke of the child's mother as a lost woman。 With Aurore's extreme sensitiveness； it was horrible to receive such confidences at the age of thirteen。 Thirty years later； George Sand describes the anguish of the terrible minute。 〃It was a nightmare；〃 she says。 〃I felt choked； and it was as though every word would kill me。 The perspiration came out on my face。 I wanted to interrupt her； to get up and rush away。 I did not want to hear the frightful accusation。 I could not move； though； I seemed to be nailed on my knees； and my head seemed to be bowed down by that voice that I heard above me； a voice which seemed to wither me like a storm wind。〃
It seems extraordinary that a woman； who was in reality so kind…hearted and so wise； should have allowed herself to be carried away like this。 Passion has these sudden and unexpected outbursts； and we see here a most significant proof of the atmosphere of passion in which the child had lived； and which gradually insinuated itself within her。
Under these circumstances； Aurore's departure for the convent was a deliverance。 Until just recently； there has always been a convent in vogue in France in which it has been considered necessary for girls in good society to be educated。 In 1817； _the Couvent des Anglaises_ was in vogue； the very convent which had served as a prison for the mother and grandmother of Aurore。 The three years she spent there in that 〃big feminine family； where every one was as kind as God；〃 she considered the most peaceful and happy time of her life。 The pages she devotes to them in her _Histoire de ma vie_ have all the freshness of an oasis。 She describes most lovingly this little world； apart； exclusive and self…sufficing； in which life was so intense。
The house consisted of a number of constructions； and was situated in the neighbourhood given up to convents。 There were courtyards and gardens enough to make it seem like a small village。 There was also a labyrinth of passages above and underground； just as in one of Anne Radcliffe's novels。 There were old walls overgrown with vine and jasmine。 The cock could be heard at midnight； just as in the heart of the country； and there was a bell with a silvery tone like a woman's voice。 From her little cell； Aurore looked over the tops of the great chestnut trees on to Paris； so that the air so necessary for the lungs of a child accustomed to wanderings in the country was not lacking in her convent home。 The pupils had divided themselves into three categories： the _diables_； the good girls； who were the specially pious ones； and the silly ones。 Aurore took her place at once among the _diables_。 The great exploit of these convent girls consisted in descending into the cellars； during recreation； and in sounding the walls； in order to 〃deliver the victim。〃 There was supposed to be an unfortunate victim imprisoned and tortured by the good； kindhearted Sisters。 Alas！ all the _diables_ sworn to the task in the _Couvent des Anglaises_ never succeeded in finding the victim； so that she must be there still。
Very soon； though； a sudden change…took place in Aurore's soul。 It would have been strange had it been otherwise。 With so extraordinarily sensitive an organization； the new and totally different surroundings could not fail to make an impression。 The cloister； the cemetery； the long services； the words of the ritual； murmured in the dimly…lighted chapel； and the piety that seems to hover in the air in houses where many prayers have been offered up all this acted on the young girl。 One evening in August； she had gone into the church； which was dimly lighted by the sanctuary lamp。 Through the open window came the perfume of honeysuckle and the songs of the birds。 There was a charm； a mystery and a solemn calm about everything； such as she had never before experienced。 〃I do not know what was taking place within me；〃 she said； when describing this； later on； 〃but I breathed an atmosphere that was indescribably delicious； and I seemed to be breathing it in my very soul。 Suddenly； I felt a shock through all my being； a dizziness came over me； and I seemed to be enveloped in a white light。 I thought I heard a voice murmuring in my ear： _‘Tolle Lege。'_ I turned round； and saw that I was quite alone。 。 。 。〃
Our modern _psychiatres_ would say that she had had an hallucination of hearing； together with olfactory trouble。 I prefer saying that she had received the visit of grace。 Tears of joy bathed her face and she remained there； sobbing for a long time。
The convent had therefore opened to Aurore another world of sentiment； that of Christian emotion。 Her soul was naturally religious； and the dryness of a philosophical education had not been sufficient for it。 The convent had now brought her the aliment for which she had instinctively longed。 Later on； when her faith； which had never been very enlightened； left her； the sentiment remained。 This religiosity； of Christian form； was essential to George Sand。
The convent also rendered her another eminent service。 In the _Histoire de ma vie_； George Sand retraces from memory the portraits of several of the Sisters。 She tells us of Madame Marie…Xavier； and of her despair at having taken the vows； of Sister Anne…Joseph； who was as kind as an angel and as silly as a goose； of the gentle Marie…Alicia； whose serene soul looked out of her blue eyes； a mirror of purity； and of the mystical Sister Helene； who had left home in spite of her family； in spite of the supplications and the sobs of her mother and sisters； and who had passed over the body of a child on her way to God。 It is like this always。 The costumes are the same； the hands are clasped in the same manner； the white bands and the faces look equally pale； but underneath this apparent uniformity what contrasts！ It is the inner life which marks the differences so vigorously； and shows up the originality of each one。 Aurore gradually discovered the diversity of all these souls and the beauty of each one。 She thought of becoming a nun； but her confessor did not advise this； and he was certainly wise。 Her grandmother； who had a philosopher's opinion of priests； blamed their fanaticism； and took her little granddaughter away from the convent。 Perhaps she felt the need of affection for the few months she had still to live。 At any rate； she certainly had this affection。 One of the first results of the larger perspicacity which Aurore had acquired at the convent was to make her understand her grandmother at last。 She was able now to grasp the complex nature of her relative and to see the delicacy hidden under an appearance of great reserve。 She knew now all that she owed to her grandmother； but unfortunately it was one of those discoveries which are made too late。
The eighteen months which Aurore now passed at Nohant； until the death of her grandmother； are very important as regards her psychological biography。 She was seventeen years old； and a girl who was eager to live and very emotional。 She had first been a child of Nature。 Her convent life had taken her away from Nature and accustomed her to falling back on her own thoughts。 Nature now took her back once more； and her beloved Nohant feted her return。
〃The trees were in flower；〃 she says； 〃the nightingales were singing； and； in the distance； I could hear the classic； solemn sound of the labourers。 My old friends； the big dogs； who had growled at me the evening before； recognized me again and were profuse in their caresses。 。 。 。〃
She wanted to see everything again。 The things themselves had not changed； but her way of looking at them now was different。 During her long； solitary walks every morning； she enjoyed seeing the various landscapes； sometimes melancholy…looking and sometimes delightful。 She enjoyed； too； the picturesqueness of the various things she met； the flocks of cattle； the birds taking their flight； and even the sound of the horses' feet splashing in the water。 She enjoyed everything； in a kind of voluptuous reverie which was no longer instinctive； but conscious and a trifle morbid。
Added to all this； her reading at this epoch was without any order or method。 She read everything voraciously； mixing all the philosophers up together。 She read Locke； Condillac； Montesquieu； Bossuet； Pascal； Montaigne； but she kept Rousseau apart from the others。 She devoured the books of the moralists and