Camille looked at her mistress in surprise. She did not understand, she

thought it was an attack of the vapors, and began to _arrange_ her, as

the phrase went in those days, afraid to break the silence. Julie,

depressed and distraught, allowed herself to be dressed. And when her

maid had retired, carrying away the gray dresses which became her

property, she looked at herself from head to foot in a long mirror. She

was fascinatingly dressed, and as lovely as an angel. That is why, as

her heart continued to ask: _What is the use?_ she hid her face in her

hands and began to cry like a child.

V

If Julien had been a libertine, he could have adopted no better plan to

arouse Madame d'Estrelle's passion. The days succeeded one another, and

no chance brought them face to face for an instant. And yet Julie,

whether from excess of confidence or from heedlessness, lived much more

in her garden than in her salon, and preferred a solitary stroll among

the shrubbery to the conversation of her intimate friends. There were

evenings when she denied herself to callers on the pretext of

indisposition or weariness, but on those evenings she dressed none the

less carefully, as if she expected some unusual visit; then she would go

to the further end of the garden, hurry back in alarm at the faintest

sound, then return to see what had frightened her, and fall into a sort

of panic-stricken revery when she found that everything was quiet and

that she was really alone.

One day she received a declaration of love, in well-turned language,

without a signature and without a private seal. She was deeply offended

at it, thinking that Julien had broken all his promises to her, and

saying to herself that it deserved no other treatment than cold disdain.

On the following day she discovered that this effusion came from the

brother of one of her friends, and her first impulse was one of joy. No,

of course Julien would not have written in such terms; Julien would not

have written at all! The letter, which, in the confusion of uncertainty,

had seemed to her not lacking in delicacy, now seemed to be in the worst

possible taste; she tossed it scornfully into the fire. But what if

Julien had written! Doubtless he knew how to write as well as talk. And

why did he not write?

Julie had no sooner given way to this inward weakness than she was

bitterly ashamed of it.

"Of what use are my strength and my common sense," she said, "when my

heart rushes outside of me thus, to grasp an affection which eludes me?

Upon my word, it is only the indifference with which I am regarded which

preserves me, and yet the shame of that thought does not cure me. Am I

guided by a spirit of contradiction? It seemed to me at first that any

advance on that young man's part would have disgusted me and that I

should have repelled him proudly; and lo and behold! his resignation

irritates me, his silence distresses me, and I am angry with him for

thinking no more of me! Evidently my mind is badly diseased."

One day when she was at her perfumer's, she met Julien going out. He had

no right to bow to her in public, and he pretended not to see her. She

found on the counter a very pretty fan which he had painted for his

mother, and had just brought to the shop to be made up. She imagined

that it was intended for her, and made up her mind to refuse it;

however, she awaited the little gift with intense impatience.

"He will send it to me mysteriously," she thought; "it will be an

anonymous offering, and in that case----"

But the gift did not arrive; so it was not for her after all. What folly

to think that he intended it for her! Julien was in love with some other

woman--some petty bourgeoise or some society woman of easy

morals--perhaps an actress! She did not sleep for two nights; then she

happened to see the fan in Madame Thierry's hand, and she breathed

again.

In spite of her determination, she could not avoid speaking of Julien to

his mother, and she resorted to every sort of detour to bring him into

the conversation. She wished to know about the sort of life led by a

young painter, of which she had no idea; and, although she dreaded to

learn some unpleasant or painful details, she continued to ask

questions, at first concerning the tastes and habits of artists, in

general; then of a sudden she asked:

"Your son, for example; did he not lead a brilliant, dissipated, or at

least an enjoyable life before the death of his father and your

subsequent troubles?"

"My son has always been of a serious turn of mind," replied Madame

André, "and I must say that the young men of all ranks seem to me very

different to-day from those whom I used to see in my youth. My dear

husband was a type of those men with fertile, ingenious and easily

impressed imaginations, whose lives were filled with unexpected

pleasures, and whose aim seemed to be the enjoyment of everything that

was agreeable, rather than the ambitious pursuit of renown. He painted

_chefs-d'œuvre_ for amusement, and no anxieties ever disturbed his

mind. To-day the modern artists are tearing themselves to pieces to do

better than their predecessors. Criticism has been invented. Monsieur

Diderot, whom my husband used to see very often, taught him to have a

higher opinion of himself than he would have thought of doing, and my

little Julien would listen to that great intellect, devouring him with

his searching, inquisitive great eyes. Then Monsieur Diderot would say:

'There's a child who has the sacred fire!' But my husband didn't want to

have too many ideas put into his head. He thought that the beautiful

should be keenly _felt_ and not studied overmuch. Was he right? He

sought to embellish the imagination, not to overburden it. Julien was

gentle and placid; he read and mused a great deal. His painting is more

highly esteemed than his father's by genuine connoisseurs, and when he

is talking of art you can see that he understands everything; but his

work isn't so universally liked, and he doesn't care at all for society.

His mind is full of all kinds of subjects of meditation, and when I say

to him: 'You don't laugh, you are not in good spirits, you haven't the

enthusiasm of your years,' he answers: 'I am happy as I am. I never feel

the need of excitement. There are so many things to think about!'"

These outpourings of Madame Thierry's heart gradually revealed Julien to

Madame d'Estrelle, and the sort of instinctive respect which had taken

her by surprise when she first saw him, became a sort of awe which made

her love him all the more. It was no longer possible for her to look

upon him as an inferior, and yet the young artist was one of the class

whom her associates referred to as _those people!_ She made an effort

sometimes, when she was talking with her friends, to plead for the

strong and the intelligent in whatever class they might be found. Her

friends were sufficiently far advanced to reply to her: "You are a

thousand times right, birth is nothing, merit alone is of consequence;"

but those were simply maxims for the benefit of enlightened persons, and

nothing more. The actual practice of equality had in no wise been

incorporated in the national morals, and the same persons were not at

all backward, a moment later, in blaming the Duke of So-and-So for

fertilizing his estates with a plebeian dowry, or Princess Blank for

falling in love with a wretched adventurer to the point of wanting to

marry him, to the great scandal of _virtuous folk._ A young woman,

unmarried or widowed, might fall in love with a man of noble birth, even

though he were poor; but, if he _had no birth_, it was a disgraceful

infatuation, an indecent attachment; she sacrificed her principles to

her passions; marriage failed to justify her and she became an object of

public contempt. Julie, who had lived in the esteem and regard of her

friends, her only compensation for her unhappy youth, had ice-cold

shivers when she heard that sort of talk; and if the object of her

secret passion had chanced at such a moment to enter her little circle,

apparently so tolerant and good-humored, she would have been compelled

to rise and say to him: "Why have you come here, monsieur?"

But the little party separated at nine, and ten minutes later Julie was

in the garden; she gazed at the light in the pavilion, twinkling like a

green star through the foliage, and she fancied that, if Julien should

appear at a bend in the path, she should not be able to fly.

Throughout all this period of agitation on poor Julie's part, Julien was

almost calm; his purpose was so upright, so sincere, that his mind had

recovered its health sufficiently to deceive itself.

"No," he thought, "I did not lie to my mother. What Madame d'Estrelle

inspires in me is a very strong, lofty, exquisitely delicate friendship;

but it is not, as I thought at first, a frantic and disastrous passion;

or, if I had an attack of that fever at the beginning, it disappeared on

the day when I saw that simple, kindly, trustful woman close at hand,

when I heard her sweet, chaste voice, when I realized that she was an

angel and that my aspirations were not worthy of her. No, no, I am not

in love, according to the common understanding of the term; I love with

a full heart, that is all, and I will not allow my imagination to

torment me. The earth has hardly closed over my poor father; I have not

an hour to waste if I wish to save my mother. No, no, I have no right, I

have no time to give way to passion."

Marcel noticed Julien's tranquillity and was unable to understand the

mental perturbation which made itself manifest in Madame d'Estrelle's

behavior. He found her one day just returned from a visit to her

father-in-law the marquis. His life was thought to be no longer in

danger, and Marcel might hope to talk with him again before long

concerning his client's pecuniary embarrassments.

"Oh! _mon Dieu_, you put yourself to very great trouble for me," said

Julie; "but is it worth while? I give you my word that I am quite

willing to be poor; I should probably be no more bored than I am now."

"And yet you are beautifully arrayed and intending to pass the evening

in company."

"No, I am going to change my dress; I don't expect to go out. With whom

should I go out, pray? I am at odds with Madame d'Ancourt, the only

person to whose house I might venture to go alone in the evening, as she

was my schoolmate at the convent. I am not intimate enough with any of

the others to appear at their houses without a chaperone; Madame

Desmorges, who might act in that capacity for me, is indolent beyond

words; my cousin the _présidente_ is not received in aristocratic

society, and the Marquise d'Orbe is in the country. Really I am terribly

bored, Monsieur Thierry, I am too much alone, and there are days when I

can do nothing, having no heart for anything."

It was the first time that Julie had complained of her situation. Marcel

looked at her attentively and reflected.

"You must divert your mind a little; why don't you go to the play

sometimes?"

"But I haven't a box anywhere now; you know very well that I can no

longer afford it."

"An additional reason for going wherever you please. A box by the year

is downright slavery; it puts you on exhibition and makes a chaperone a

necessity. There are some small pleasures which the bourgeois indulge in

at small expense and without inconvenient display. To-day, for instance,

I am to take my wife to the Comédie-Française. We have hired a closed

box on the ground floor."

"Ah! what a pleasure it must be to go there! You are not seen at all,

are you? You enjoy the play, you can laugh or cry without being hooted

by the gallery. Have you a place for me, Monsieur Thierry?"

"I have two; I intended to offer one to my aunt."

"And the other to her son? In that case----"

"That makes no difference; he can go some other day; but what will

people think to meet you on your solicitor's arm in the foyer? Or if

some one should recognize you sitting beside Madame Marcel Thierry, what

would they say?"

"They may say what they please, and they will be very absurd if they

find anything reprehensible in it."

"That is my opinion; but people are absurd, and they will say that you

keep beggarly company; I soften the word out of respect for my wife, for

they will say low company."

"The folly of society is shameful! Your wife is very attractive, I am

told, and highly esteemed. I will go to see her to-morrow, for I know

that to go to occupy a seat in her box unceremoniously, before asking

her permission, would not be proper. Yes, yes, I will call to make her

acquaintance, and we will go to the theatre together another day."

Marcel smiled, for he thoroughly understood the cowardice which had

taken possession of his noble client at the idea of being accused of

mixing with low company. She considered it cruel, unfair, insulting,

absurd; but she was afraid none the less: fear does not reason.

"Very well, very well," Marcel replied; "I recognize your delicacy of

feeling and your kind heart. My wife will be grateful to you for the

intention, and she will be flattered to offer you her box this very

evening; but take my advice, madame la comtesse, and do not go outside

of your own circle to-night, nor to-morrow, nor ever, unless for some

well-matured and well-digested reason. We must eat when we are hungry,

but not force ourselves when we have only a suspicion of an appetite.

The society to which you belong wants no mixture, and you must not defy

it except for some great personal advantage or to do some very good

deed. No one will understand that you do something outside of the

conventional solely for the pleasure of doing it. They will be surprised

first of all, and then they will look for motives, concealed or

serious."

"And what will they find?" said Julie, uneasily.

"Nothing," replied Marcel; "but they will invent, and what people invent

is always malicious."

"The result being that I am condemned to solitude?"

"You have accepted it courageously thus far, and you know well that it

will cease when you choose."

"Yes, by marriage; but where am I to find a husband to fill the

conditions demanded by the world and by me? Consider: he must be

wealthy, so you yourself say, noble, according to my friends, and I

myself insist that he must be agreeable and a man made to be loved! I

shall not find him, you know, and I shall do better----"

Julie dared not finish her thought. Marcel thought that he ought not to

question her. There was a pause, embarrassing to them both, then Julie

exclaimed abruptly:

"Ah! _mon Dieu_, do not think that I am tempted to be false to my duty

and to enter into a frivolous liaison!--I was thinking--I must tell

you--I was thinking that I should do better to desire an obscure

marriage in which I might find happiness."

"Obscure?" said Marcel. "That depends on what you mean by the word. You

must insist upon wealth in any event; for, I warn you that if you hold

your rank cheap, the Estrelle family will abandon you to your

destruction."

"Well, what then?"

"What then? Why, if the husband of your choice is poor and you bring him

debts----"

"Ah! yes, you are right; I increase his poverty with all my wretchedness

and all the dangers that are hanging over me. I did not think of that.

You see what a weak head mine is! Look you, Monsieur Thierry, there are

days when I would like to be dead, and you do wrong not to take me to

the play. I feel very depressed this evening, and I would like to be

able to forget that I exist."

"Is it as bad as that?" rejoined Marcel hastily, terrified by her

distressed expression. "In that case put on a very thick black veil and

a very full black cape; I have a cab below; we will call for my wife, to

whom I will explain your whim in two words, and we will go to hear

_Polyeucte_, which will change the current of your thoughts. Hurry! for

if anyone comes you won't be able to go out."

Julie jumped for joy like a child. She quickly transformed herself into

a nun, dismissed her servants for the evening, and went with Marcel,

half pleased, half frightened, and as excited as if this escapade with a

solicitor and his wife were an adventure big with fate.

"And Madame Thierry?" she said when they were in the cab.

"Madame Thierry--we will leave her where she is," said Marcel. "Nothing

has been said to her about going, and she would delay us while dressing.

Besides, I should prefer--if you are to be recognized in spite of all

our precautions--that you should not be seen with a woman who has a

grown-up son--of whom, I may say parenthetically, Uncle Antoine has been

exceedingly jealous. Mine is only a little law-student in embryo, barely

twelve years old; we will take him, and that will make our bourgeois

and--patriarchal party complete."

They arrived at Marcel's house. He ran upstairs, leaving Julie alone in

the tightly closed cab. He soon came down again with his wife and son.

Madame Marcel Thierry was very much frightened; but, like a sensible

woman, she made no apologies and in a very few moments felt entirely at

ease with the amiable Julie, who, on her side, found her a pleasant and

sensible companion. They left the cab just before they reached the line

of people waiting to purchase tickets, walked to the theatre, and passed

in without meeting any spying or inquisitive persons. They were ushered

into a very dark box, where Madame Marcel and her little boy took their

places in front to conceal Madame d'Estrelle and the solicitor. They

enjoyed the tragedy extremely. Julie had never taken so much pleasure in

a performance. She had a feeling of greater mental freedom, and that

middle-class family interested her deeply. She watched them curiously as

types entirely unfamiliar to her, and, although they were a little

self-conscious in her presence, she surprised divers little loving

tokens between the husband and wife and child, which went to her heart.

At the interesting passages in the play, Madame Marcel would turn to her

husband and say in an undertone:

"Can you see, my dear? my bonnet isn't in your way?"

"No, no, my girl; don't worry about me. Enjoy yourself all you can."

And the child applauded when he saw the pit applaud. He would clap his

little hands with an air of importance, then suddenly throw himself on

his mother and kiss her, which meant that he was enjoying himself

immensely and that he thanked her for bringing him there.

All those simple ways of middle-class life, the familiar form of

address, the endearing epithets, vulgar if you please, but sacred,

aroused in Julie sometimes an inclination to laugh, sometimes a wave of

emotion which brought tears to her eyes. Of course it would all be

considered execrable form in her circle; it was the way that inferior

people talked and acted. Marcel, when in Madame Estrelle's salon,

readily adopted the manners and language of a man who is able to conform

to what is considered proper in all ranks of society. In his own family

he laid aside that conventional manner, and, without ever being vulgar,

he resumed the familiar tone of happy domesticity. Thus Julie surprised

him oblivious of his ceremonious manner and living for his own enjoyment

a sweet, trustful, unconstrained life. She was distressed and delighted

at the same time, and little by little she reached the point where she

said to herself that those people were in the right, and that all

husbands and wives ought to call each other _thou_, all children to

throw their arms about their mothers' necks, and all spectators to be

interested in the performance. In the circle in which she lived people

always addressed one another as you, they had no simple phrases that

came from the heart, they emasculated every noble sentiment. Refinement

was the most essential point in speech, and dignity in endearments. The

heart entered into them only in a subordinate capacity, and its

effusions must be concealed beneath a certain frigid or absurdly

symbolical gloss. Admiration for genius must never become enthusiasm.

They enjoyed, or appreciated, their words were carefully confined within

certain bounds. In short they made it a point not to display emotion on

any subject, and with the perpetual little smile of the grace that

accompanies noble birth, they became so charming that they ceased to be

human.

Madame d'Estrelle realized all these things for the first time, and was

deeply impressed by them. Little _Juliot_, who was so called to

distinguish him from Master Julien, whose godson he was, had an

interesting face. He was a funny little rascal, with a shrewd face,

turned-up nose, keen eye and sly mouth, and had the artless and cunning

self-possession of a schoolboy in vacation. Had he been disguised as a

great nobleman, he would never have been confounded with the too pretty

and too polished little men who are all covered with the same

aristocratic varnish. Juliot had his coating of caste, to be sure, but

of that peculiar shading which the bourgeoise mind does not seek to

efface, because in that social stratum every one has to exist by his own

exertions, and to make a place for himself with the aid of the means

which are at his command. Thus the child had the biting wit, combined

with a certain innocent curiosity, which denoted the freshly ground

Parisian, inquisitive and loquacious, credulous and shrewd all at once.

In order not to expose Madame d'Estrelle's name to the possible

consequences of his chatter in the office, he had been told that she was

a client from the country newly arrived in Paris, who had never been to

the theatre before; and, as Julie enjoyed questioning him, he did the

honors of the capital city and the stage, between the acts. He pointed

out the king's box to her, and the pit and the chandelier; he even

explained the play and the relative importance of all the characters.

"You are going to see a beautiful play," he informed her before the

curtain rose. "Perhaps you won't understand it very well, because it's

in poetry. I have read it with my godfather Julien, and he explained it

all to me just as if it was in prose. When you don't understand,

mademoiselle, you must ask me."

"You chatter like a magpie," said his mother. "Don't you suppose madame

knows Corneille better than you do?"

"Oh! perhaps she does; but I don't believe she knows as much as my

godfather!"

"Much madame cares about your godfather's knowledge! You fancy that the

whole world knows him!"

"Oh well! if you don't know him," said Juliot to Madame d'Estrelle,

"I'll show him to you. He isn't far away, you know!"

"What!" said Marcel, much annoyed, "is he here? do you see him?"

"Yes, I've seen him quite awhile. He likes _Polyeucte_ so much! He has

seen it more than ten times, I am sure! See, look in the pit, the third

row. His back is turned to us; but I recognize him, _pardi!_ He has on

his black coat and his _chapeau à gances._"

Madame d'Estrelle's heart beat very fast. She looked at the bench which

the child indicated, and recognized no one there. Marcel scrutinized it

closely. Juliot had made a mistake. The person he had taken for Julien

turned his face toward them. It was not he; he was not there. As a

matter of fact, he was in one of the upper galleries, just over the box

in which Julie was hiding, and he was a hundred leagues from suspecting

that by going down to the ground floor, he might at least have made an

attempt to see her. Indeed, if he had known it, he would have kept his

place. He was fully determined not to seek any more furtive

opportunities to meet her. As an artist he was entitled to admission at

the Français. He listened to _Polyeucte_ meditatively, as a pious

person listens to the sermon, and he went out before the end, fearing

that his mother would sit up for him. As he passed through the

vestibule, he was very much astonished to find himself face to face with

Uncle Antoine. It was Uncle Antoine's invariable rule to go to bed at

eight o'clock, and it was probable that he had never set foot in a

theatre. Julien accosted him frankly; that was the better way, even

though he were to be ill received.

"So you are found at last?" he said. "We were anxious about you."

"Who are _we?_" rejoined the uncle in a surly tone.

"Marcel and I."

"You are very good! Did you think I had gone to the Indies, pray, that

you are so surprised to see me?"

"I confess that I hardly expected to see you here."

"And I, on the contrary, was sure of meeting you here!"

And without explaining that reply, which to Julien was absolutely

enigmatical, he turned his back on him.

"Well, well! his mind is really unhinged," thought Julien.

And he passed on, but not without turning two or three times to see if

the amateur in gardens went in or out, and if it were not the case that

he had come there unconsciously; but every time that he looked he saw

Monsieur Antoine standing motionless at the foot of the staircase, and

looking after him with a mocking expression, in which however there was

no sign of mental derangement.

Uncle Antoine disappeared in the crowd, which invaded the peristyle a

few moments later. One of the first groups that he saw consisted of the

solicitor's family, with a stranger taller than Madame Marcel, and

completely concealed by her black silk headgear. He stole down to the

street and took the number of the cab which that group entered, then

despatched in pursuit of that cab the same shrewd and nimble-footed spy

who had notified him that Madame d'Estrelle had gone out with her

attorney, and who had been keeping watch outside the D'Estrelle mansion,

and inside it at times, for a month past, under disguises of all sorts

and on all sorts of pretexts.

In those days the play came to an end early enough to allow people to

sup. Julie had returned home by ten o'clock, after dropping Madame

Marcel on Rue des Petits-Augustins. Marcel, who had escorted Julie to

her door, was about to go away without entering, when she called him

back. Her concierge had just told her some very serious news. The old

marquis, her father-in-law, had died at eight o'clock that evening, just

when they believed that he was cured. Julie had been sent for, so that

she might be present at the administration of the sacrament. Her

absence, which was very hard to explain by reason of the situation which

she herself had explained to Marcel, might have disastrous consequences.

"Ah! you see how it is!" said Marcel, sorrowfully, in a low tone (they

were on the stoop); "I told you how it would be. I foresaw some trouble;

but there is no time to be wasted in lamentation. The most disturbing

thing of all is the old man's too sudden end. Come, madame, you must

show yourself at that death-bed. You must take a cab once more. I will

escort you to your mother-in-law's house. I shall not appear there, for

it would not be proper for you to be seen to arrive under the escort of

your solicitor. To-morrow I will take the field in your interest, and we

will find out the contents of the will, if there is a will, which God

grant!"

Julie, sorely disturbed, reëntered the cab.

"Stay," said Marcel, "I can't wait for you at the dowager's door; her

servants would see me, and I have an idea that they report everything to

her. I will alight before you drive into the courtyard, and as I should

not enjoy the idea of your returning alone in this vehicle, you must

order your people to harness at once and send your carriage to the

house."

"You think of everything for me," said Julie; "I don't know what would

become of me without you."

She gave her orders and they started.

"Think of this also," said Marcel. "You will not find the widow in

tears, but at prayer. Do not allow that appearance of sanctity to

encourage you as to her frame of mind. Be sure that she has noticed your

absence and that she will arrange to make you undergo an examination in

the very midst of her devotions. Do not forget that she hates you, and

that, in order to justify herself in robbing you all that she possibly

can, she will think of nothing but finding you at fault."

Julie tried to think how she could best explain the innocent escapade of

the evening.

"You can find nothing better than the truth," replied Marcel. "Say that

you have been at my house----"

"At your house, very good; but what about the play? Going to the play is

a horrible sin in my step-mother's eyes, with or without you."

"Then--say that my wife was sick, that you are interested in my

wife--because--because she has done you a service at some time--because

she is charitable, and assists you in charitable work! Throw a slight

varnish of piety over it; then what can she say to you?"

They reached their destination. Marcel ordered the cabman to stop; then

he alighted, and Julie entered the courtyard of the hôtel D'Ormonde, on

Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, in a cab! That mansion belonged to the

dowager D'Ormonde, who had married for her second husband the Marquis

d'Estrelle, who had thereafter occupied her first husband's house with

her.

The dowager was very rich; her establishment had a grand air of

ceremonious inhospitality: few servants, small outlay, a frigid,

deathlike splendor. The house consisted of several wings, and the

mistress's apartments were located on a rear courtyard planted with

trees and secured from intrusion by a wicket at which Julie had to ring

and wait; but, being certain that she would be admitted, and knowing

that Marcel would have to return on foot unless she sent the cab after

him at once, she dismissed the cabman when she saw that the wicket was

about to be opened.

Instead of opening it, the porter entered into a strange parley with

her. Monsieur le marquis could not receive visitors because he was dead.

The priests had come to administer the sacrament and to keep watch

through the night; madame la marquise was closeted with them and the

dead man. She gave _audience_ to nobody at such times. Julie insisted to

no purpose, on the ground that she was a very near relation. The porter,

leaving her outside, purposely or through inadvertence, went to make

inquiries, and returned to say that no member of the household was

allowed access to madame.

As these negotiations had lasted a considerable time the Comtesse

d'Estrelle understood perfectly well that some one had gained access to

the marchioness, and that she refused to see her. Her duty was done, so

she insisted no longer. She judged that her carriage, travelling much

more rapidly than the cab, must have arrived: so she retraced her steps,

crossed the outer courtyard and passed through the street gate, which

was kept by the porter's wife and was closed behind her instantly, with

indecent precipitation. A carriage was there; but Julie, notwithstanding

her defective sight, saw at once that it was only a cab.

Thinking that it was the one that had brought her, and that the driver

had misunderstood her orders, or that Marcel had sent it back for her by

way of precaution, she called the driver, who was sound asleep on his

box. It was impossible to wake him except by pulling the skirt of his

coat. They who remember what cab-drivers were forty years ago, can judge

what they were forty years earlier than that. This one was so dirty that

Julie hesitated to touch him with her gloved hand. She carefully

gathered up her ample silk skirt to avoid brushing the dirty wheels.

Never before had she been in such an embarrassing plight; she was

afraid, too, to be alone in the street near midnight. The occasional

passers-by stopped to stare at her, and she trembled lest, from good

nature or malice, they should attempt to interfere in her affairs.

The driver woke at last and answered that he did not know her, that he

had brought two priests of the parish to attend the dying man, and that

his orders were to wait for them. He would not stir at any price. Julie

glanced anxiously about her. Her carriage did not appear. She raised the

heavy knocker on the gate, intending to return to the courtyard of the

hôtel. The gate did not open, whether because special orders had been

given with respect to her, or because the general orders were

inflexible.

Extreme terror took possession of her; the idea of returning alone, on

foot, could not be entertained; nor was it possible to remain standing

in front of that gate. There was not a single shop on the street, and

she must wait for her carriage somewhere, no matter where, provided it

was not in the street. The outbuildings of the hôtel D'Ormonde were

some distance away, at the right and left. In one direction was an

abbey, in the other the Convent of the Visitation, where she might seek

shelter; but it was at least ten minutes' walk, and there again she

would have to parley before obtaining admission. She noticed on the

opposite side of the street a high gate at the end of a passage between

the hôtel De Puisieux and the hôtel D'Estrées. She thought that if

she gave a louis to the gate-keeper, he would allow her to wait in his

lodge. She crossed the street, but, when she attempted to ring, she

found that there was neither keeper nor bell. It was simply a servants'

gate for both houses. Julie was rapidly losing heart, when she suddenly

saw close beside her, as if he had risen from the ground, a man who

terrified her so that she almost fainted; but he instantly named

himself, and she uttered a joyful exclamation: it was Julien. She

explained her misadventure in a few somewhat incoherent words. Julien

understood because he was already half informed, and he was not there by

chance.

"It is useless for you to wait here for your carriage," he said; "it

probably will not arrive for some time."

"How do you know?"

"I was at the Comédie-Française this evening."

"Did you see me there?"

"Were you there, madame? I did not know it."

"In that case----"

"In that case I can understand my meeting with Monsieur Antoine Thierry

and his words. He must have known that you were to be there. He was on

the watch; he made an ironical remark which I did not understand, but

which gave me something to think about. As I returned to the pavilion, I

stopped, being somewhat uneasy, in front of your hôtel. Your servants

were in great commotion. It seems that your coachman could not be found.

I accosted the concierge, who knows my face, and, seeing that he was

greatly disturbed, I asked him if any accident had happened to you. He

told me of the Marquis d'Estrelle's death, and that you had driven here

with my cousin Marcel. Your coachman appeared at last, dead drunk and

unable to understand any of the orders you had left for him. The

concierge left me, saying that when Bastien was once on his box, he

would go all right. That did not seem very reassuring to me. I am not so

phlegmatic as your concierge, and I came here as fast as I could. I

hoped to find Marcel still here and to tell him not to trust you

unattended to the care of a drunken coachman; but I arrived a few

moments too late. You are alone and you have been frightened."

"It is all over," said Julie, "and I am calm again; take me home on

foot. You are my Providence!"

"On foot, it is too far," replied Julien, "and you are not properly shod

for walking. This cab here will take us, willingly or by force, I give

you my word, and I will get up behind and accompany you."

Julien returned with Madame d'Estrelle to the cab. He put her in and

ordered the driver to start. The driver refused. Julien jumped up beside

him and seized the reins, swearing that he would throw him into the

gutter if he resisted. The young man's manly bearing and determined air

awed the cab-driver, who submitted; but he had not driven a hundred

yards when he stopped, yelling _thief_ and _murder._ A party of men had

just come out of a house, and the poor devil hoped to find some aid

against the violence he was undergoing.

As luck would have it these men were young dandies fresh from a

sumptuous supper, and a little the worse for wine. The adventure

presented itself at that moment of excitement when one gladly

constitutes himself a redresser of wrongs, especially when the odds are

four to one in his favor. They abruptly stopped the horses, and one of

them opened the door, for the cabman was yelling at the top of his

voice:

"Help! here's a villain carrying off a nun!"

"Let us see if she's worth the trouble!" replied the party with one

voice.

[Illustration 04: _JULIEN ESCORTS MADAME D'ESTRELLE_

_Julien defended himself with his cane, and used it with

such self-possession, skill and strength, that one of

the assailants fell and the others retreated._]

Before the door was open Julien was on his feet and vigorously repelled

the most zealous of the intruders. The young man thus roughly treated

drew his sword, calling him a clown, and his companions followed his

example. Julien did not take the time to draw his. He defended himself

with his cane, and used it with such self-possession, skill and

strength, that one of the assailants fell and the others retreated.

Julien, who had not left the step, took advantage of this respite to

enter the cab and take Julie out by the opposite door. He took her in

his arms and carried her some distance. Then he turned to await his

adversaries; but, whether because some one of them had received a

serious wound, or because the approach of the watch sobered them, they

made off as rapidly as possible in the opposite direction.

"Let us walk, madame," said Julien. "Let us avoid the curiosity of the

police."

Julie walked rapidly and well. If fear had paralyzed her for an instant,

the sight of the danger to which her protector was exposed had restored

her energy. After taking a somewhat roundabout course to throw the watch

off the scent, they arrived safely on the _Nouveau Cours_, now Boulevard

des Invalides. It was completely deserted and dimly lighted by lanterns.

Julie did not notice a stain on her glove, but she felt the moisture of

blood on her wrist, and stopped abruptly, exclaiming:

"Oh! _Mon Dieu!_ you are wounded!"

Julien felt nothing, he was very sure that nothing serious had happened

to him; he wrapped his bruised hand in his handkerchief and offered

Julie his other arm.

"I swear to you that I am not wounded," he said; "and suppose I were!

Unfortunately those fellows were not very formidable, and I deserve

little credit for ridding you of them. Coxcombs, dandies! And they bear

titles of nobility in all likelihood!"

"Do you detest the nobility so very bitterly?"

"I, detest them? No! but I abhor impertinence, and as such fellows are

not always willing to fight a duel with plebeians, I am very glad to

have beaten them as a bargeman might have done."

"Alas!" said Julie, thinking aloud, "nevertheless they are at liberty to

insult and trample on the weak!"

"The weak! Who are the weak, pray?" rejoined Julien, mistaking the

meaning of her words. "People without a name? Undeceive yourself,

madame; they are the ones to whom the future belongs, because they have

the right, true justice on their side, and, withal, the determination to

put an end to the abuses of the past."

Julie did not understand, but she trembled anew; this time, however, she

was not afraid of disagreeable encounters, but of an indefinable

mysterious force which seemed to emanate from Julien. She glanced

furtively at him; she fancied that she could see his face glow in the

darkness, and that her feeble hand was resting on the arm of a giant.

But Julien was a simple-hearted youth, an artist without ambition in the

practical affairs of life on his own account. He did not feel called

upon to play a conspicuous part in the revolutionary tempests; he looked

forward to no other labor for himself than that of studying the charms

of nature all his life. That awe-inspiring power with which he was

endowed in Julie's eyes was simply the reflection of the divine power on

the mind of the new class. He was one of the hundred thousand among the

millions of disappointed and soured men who were about to say on the

first opportunity: "The cup is full, the past has had its day." The

brief allusion he had just made to this general frame of mind among men

of his class--a subject which was in every mouth at that time--seemed to

Madame d'Estrelle a most impressive prophecy from the lips of an

exceptional man. It was the first time that she had ever heard anyone

speak defiantly and contemptuously of what she had always considered

invincible. The species of superstitious terror which she felt was

blended with fervent trust, with a longing to lean the more heavily on

that sturdy arm which, under the impulsion of a noble heart, had fought

alone, in her cause, against four swords.

"So you think," she said, still walking rapidly, "that one can shake off

the yoke of this unjust world which oppresses men's consciences, and

condemns true principles? I would like to agree with you that is

likely to happen!"

"You believe it already, since you desire to believe it."

"Possibly; but when will it happen?"

"No one can say when or by what means; what is just and right cannot

fail to happen; but what does it matter to you, madame, whether all this

lasts fifty or a hundred years longer? Are you not one of those who

profit innocently by the misfortunes of others?"

"Oh! I profit by nothing. I have nothing of my own, and I am nobody in

society."

"But you are of society, you belong to it, it owes you protection, and

it will never wound you in your own person."

"Who knows?" said Julie.

Then, fearing that she had said too much, she changed the subject by

recurring to the scene which had just taken place.

"When I think," she said, "that a great disaster might have happened to

you just now! Ah! your poor mother--how she would have cursed me if I

had been the cause--"

"No, madame, that could not have happened," replied Julien; "I had right

on my side."

"And you believe that Providence interposes in such cases?"

"Yes, since Providence is with us. It gives us strength and presence of

mind. A man who defends a woman's honor against scoundrels has all the

chances on his side. Courage comes very easy to him; he feels that he

cannot succumb."

"What faith you have!" exclaimed Julie, deeply touched. "Yes, I remember

you said at my house _the other day_ that faith would move mountains,

and that you were faith personified."

"_The other day!_" Julien repeated ingenuously. "That was more than a

month ago."

Julie dared not pretend not to know how many days and nights had passed

since that brief interview. So she said nothing. Julien carried his

respect for her so far as not to continue the conversation himself, and

the longer the silence endured the less able was Julie to summon the

presence of mind to break it without betraying the emotion she felt. At

last they reached the pavilion.

"Do you not think," he said, "that you should take your arm from mine

now, so that your people may not see me? then I will follow you at a

little distance until I have seen your door close behind you."

"Yes," she replied; "but what will my people think to see me returning

alone and on foot at such an hour? The best way is for me to go through

the pavilion and through my garden; then they will think that Monsieur

Marcel brought me back that way."

That seemed in truth the best plan. Julien had his key in his pocket.

"I will go and wake my mother," he said, "and tell her to get up; for I

told her, as I passed, not to sit up for me. She thinks that I have been

to take supper with Marcel."

"Don't wake her, I forbid it. To tell her all our adventures would take

too long now. She would be distressed, perhaps, being half asleep.

To-morrow you can tell her everything. Open the garden door for me, and

I will run home without making any noise. Thanks, and adieu!"

To pass through the narrow passage way leading from the street door to

the garden door, inside the pavilion, they had to walk several seconds

in absolute darkness. In that straitened household no lamps were kept

burning needlessly, and Babet came for the day only and did not sleep in

the house. Julien went first, opened the garden, bowed low to Madame

d'Estrelle and immediately closed the door, to prove to her that he

never used it and that he should not presume to follow her, even with

his eyes, along the paths through which she glided like a ghost.

Such perfect discretion, such unswerving respect, such delicate,

thoughtful, untiring, really serviceable devotion touched Madame

d'Estrelle profoundly. It was a magnificent June night. She knew that by

knocking on the window of her bedroom, which was on the ground floor,

looking on the garden, she could summon Camille, who was sitting up for

her. She knew too that Camille's vigil consisted in enjoying a good nap

on the best couch in the apartment. She thought that she might without

unkindness allow her to keep vigil in that way a few moments more; and

feeling that her heart was overflowing with emotion, her mind fairly

drowned by conflicting thoughts, she could not resist the temptation to

sit down beside the basin in which the moon was reflected, clear and

motionless, as in a Venetian mirror.

The nightingale had ceased to sing. It was sleeping on its young brood.

All was still, and the young zephyr (the night breeze of those days) was

slumbering so sweetly that it did not even stir a blade of grass. Paris

too was asleep, at all events the tranquil quarter of which the hôtel

D'Estrelle marked the outer limit. The sounds of the country were more

audible there than those of the city; at that hour they were confined to

an occasional cock-crow and the barking of a dog in the distance at long

intervals. The clocks rang out in clear tones, answering one another

from convent to convent; then everything relapsed into blissful silence;

and if one could hear the distant rumbling of a carriage on the pavement

of the real Paris, it resembled the dull murmur of the waves rather than

a sound produced by human activity.

Julie, tired out and slightly bewildered, breathed deep of the

tranquillity of the night, of that perfume of solitude, with the keenest

pleasure. She fixed her eyes on a great white star, which shone near the

moon and was reflected in the same basin. At first she sat there without

thinking, oblivious of everything, enjoying absolute repose; soon her

heart began to beat so violently that it pained her; first she felt hot,

then cold. She rose to go away. She went to her bedroom window, but she

did not knock. She returned to the stone bench. She sat down and wept.

Then she rose and walked around the basin like a soul in torment; at

last she stopped, smiling like a soul at peace. She consented to

question herself, and when her heart replied: _I love_, she was

frightened and forbade it to speak. Then she called her conscience to

account for that terror, that shrinking austerity, opposed to the laws

of nature and useless to God. Her conscience replied that it had nothing

to do with it, and that the obstacle was not due to it but to the

_reason_, a sort of artificial conscience wherein God and nature gave

precedence to conventional ideas, fear, selfish scheming, precautions

due to misapprehension of one's real interests. In this order of

reasoning everything was expressed in terms of six-franc pieces. Marcel

had reason on his side in view of the actual facts. So the heart must be

sacrificed to the most sordid of facts, to the implacable menace of

poverty.

"No," said Julie to herself, "that shall not be! If necessary I will

sell everything, I will have nothing of my own, I will work; but I

_will_ love, even though I have to ask alms! Besides, _he_ will work for

three, he who works now for two! He will undertake that burden, he will

be overjoyed to do it if he loves me! In his place, I should be so

overjoyed!"

Julie began to walk again with increasing agitation.

"Does he love me as much as that? Does he love me with the passion that

I thought that I detected the first day?--Ah! that is the question that

I ask myself incessantly, that is all that troubles me, that is

something that neither my conscience nor my reason, nor my heart can

tell me. Perhaps he has only a friendly feeling for me, for he is a good

son, and he is grateful to me for what I tried to do for his mother. He

owes me gratitude and he proves his gratitude by admirable devotion. And

what then? Why should he love me madly? why should he want to pass his

life at my feet? He has no craving for it, for he is never at hand

except on occasions when I may need him. The rest of the time he gives

his mind to his real duties, his work, his mother, perhaps to some girl

of his own station who will bring him a comfortable dowry--whereas I, a

poor, ruined--But am I ruined?--If my husband's father has provided for

my future, I am still a _grande dame_--and in that case--in that case

everything in my dream is changed; I forget this young man who is not

suited to me, I marry a man in society, at my choice, I am proud and

happy, I love without perplexity and without shame.--Oh, yes! But now it

is _he_, no stranger, no other than he, whom I love; it is he alone, and

I do not know whether one can be cured of that. I do not know if one

ever forgets. I fear not, since the more I try, the more utterly I fail;

the more I defend myself, the more completely I am beaten. My God, my

God! in all this there is but one real fear, one real torture: and that

is the fear that he does not love me! How shall I find out? Perhaps I

shall never find out. Can I live without it?"

Tormenting herself thus, she found herself quite near the pavilion,

having no idea how she came there. The door was open, a black figure

stood in the doorway. Julien, as if he had overheard her thoughts, as if

he were irresistibly impelled to answer them, came straight to her side.

Julie at once recovered her reason and her pride. Taken by surprise, she

was about to speak in the character of an insulted queen. He did not

give her time.

"Why are you here, madame?" he said. "Can you not get in? Are your

servants asleep, or are they all expecting you to come from the street?

You cannot pass the night in the garden, dressed as you are. It is two

o'clock. The dew is falling, you will be frozen, you will be ill. And

your hood is over your shoulder, your head bare, your arms hardly

covered. Here, take this heavy mantle of my mother's at once, and

forgive me for being here."

"But how did you know?"

"I heard you walking on the gravel--a very light step which could be

nobody's but yours, and constantly stopping and going on again. I was in

the studio, then I came here and held the door ajar, saying to myself:

'She is still out-of-doors, she can't get in, she will take cold, she is

tired, she is suffering, perhaps she is afraid!' I could not stand it

any longer; indeed, it was my duty. And this must not go on, you know;

whatever people may say or think, I do not propose that you shall kill

yourself; no, I do not!"

Julien was profoundly moved, his voice trembled, and so did his hands as

he placed his mother's cloak over Julie's shoulders; but he did not

struggle against the surprises of passion; he chided rather, like a

father who sees his child in danger. It did not occur to him that he

could be accused of selfish love or of a treacherous exploit. So that he

forgot all considerations of propriety, and there was in his solicitude

a passionate intonation which overpowered Julie. She grasped both his

hands and, carried away herself by an outburst of exalted passion, the

first in her life, the least expected and the most unconquerable, she

exclaimed wildly:

"You love me, you love me, I am sure! Then tell me so, that I may hear

it and know it! You love me--as I want to be loved!"

Julien stifled a cry, lost his head completely and carried Julie into

his studio; but she had led so chaste a life that the alarm of her

modesty inevitably caused her lover's respect, momentarily submerged, to

rise again to the higher regions of his heart. He fell at her feet and

covered the tips of her ice-cold fingers with kisses, imploring her to

have perfect confidence in him.

"Confidence!" he exclaimed, "confidence! I have sworn that I would be

your brother. It is your brother who is here beside you, do not doubt

it, and your confidence will save me. I told you that I adored you; that

is truer than I can possibly tell you, stronger than you can dream, more

terrible than I myself imagined; but I will not cause you to shed a

tear, I would kill myself first! Have no fear; you shall never need to

blush for having ordered me to love you."

Could he have kept his word? He believed that he could, even at the

height of his delirious joy. Julie increased his strength by her own

boldness.

"No, I do not propose to blush," she said, with the frankness of a

serious resolution; "I propose to be your wife, for to be your mistress

would degrade you. Commonplace love affairs are not becoming to a man

like you; to a woman like me, dissolute conduct is impossible. I too

would kill myself first! Julien, let us take our oath here and now to

marry, whatever happens, whether I am rich or destitute, for there is as

much chance of one as of the other. If I am poor, your determination

will never weaken, you will sustain and support me. If I am rich, you

will have no vain pride, you will share my destiny. This must be

decided, agreed upon, sworn to. I am not brave, I warn you; that is why

I insist upon pledging myself irrevocably, and then I know that I shall

look neither to the right hand nor to the left. My love will become a

duty; then I shall be strong, resolute and self-possessed. I was able to

endure despair in marriage, because I have principles and true piety;

with all the more reason I shall accept happiness, and I will struggle

to be happy as I struggled formerly not to desire to be. Swear, my

friend; we must be everything to each other, or we must never meet

again; for this is certain, we love each other and our love is stronger

than we are. Society can have nothing to say. For a fortnight past I

have ceased to live, I have felt that I was dying. To-day, I went mad; I

should have run after you just now if you had said to me: 'I do not love

you.'--Or no, I should have thrown myself into the basin, with the moon

and the star that shine in its depths. Julien, I am losing my mind, I

never said such things before, I did not think that I should ever dare

to say them, but here am I saying them to you, and I am not sure that it

is myself who speaks. Have pity on me, sustain me, preserve my honor,

which is yours, preserve your wife's purity for your own sake."

"Yes, my wife! yes, I swear it!" cried Julien, in an ecstasy of joy.

"And do you too, Julie, swear it before God!"

"_Mon Dieu!_" said Julie, bewildered and suddenly becoming a little

cowardly, "we have known each other a month----"

"No, not a month," replied Julien. "Only an hour; for we met a month ago

for a quarter of an hour here, a quarter of an hour at your house, and

this evening in the street for half an hour. We may as well say, Julie,

that, so far as appearances go, we do not know each other at all, and

yet we love each other. God above hears us and knows it well, for it was

He who wished it, who still wishes it!"

"Yes, you are right," she replied excitedly, for she felt recreated by

her lover's exalted faith; "we know nothing of each other but our love.

Is not that enough? is not that everything? What is all the rest? You

are a clever artist, an estimable young man, a good son; that is what

everybody knows about you; but is it because of those things that I love

you? I am a virtuous person, not ungenerous and of a gentle disposition,

or so you may have heard; but that is not what made you love me. There

are other good men, other estimable women, to whom we should never have

thought of becoming attached; we love each other because we love each

other, that is the whole story!"

"Yes, yes," said Julien, "love is like God, it is because it is, it is

the alkahest! What does it matter that we discover in each other this or

that peculiar development of mind or character? The great, the only

business of our lives is to love, and since we possess each other's

love, we have known each other a hundred years, forever--our love has

neither beginning nor end!"

They hyperbolized thus for more than an hour in the studio, talking in

low tones, by the vague light of the moon shining through the trees;

Julie seated, Julien on his knees, hand in hand, but refraining from the

kiss which would have been their ruin. Suddenly the moon, which was

sinking toward the horizon, seemed to shine so brightly, that they were

forced to conclude that the dawn was lending its light. Julie rose and

fled, after making Julien swear a hundred times that their union was

indissoluble.

Camille was greatly surprised, when she opened the door for her

mistress, to find that it was nearly three o'clock.

"Are the servants still waiting for me?" inquired Madame d'Estrelle.

"Yes, madame; they think that madame has decided to pray all night by

monsieur le marquis's body. The carriage went to fetch madame. Madame

must have found it at the gate of the hôtel D'Ormonde?"

"No, I did not wait for it; it was too slow in coming. Monsieur Marcel

Thierry brought me home by way of the pavilion, where I had to stop and

talk business with him. Tell the servants to go to bed; the carriage

will return when the coachman is sober."

"Ah! _mon Dieu!_ so madame knows? Poor Bastien! I can take my oath,

madame, that he got tipsy from vexation because madame had taken a cab."

If this explanation made Julie smile, her own explanations seemed

strange to the soubrette; but she suspected nothing wrong. Julie's life

was so regular and so pure! Camille concluded simply that her financial

position must be in great danger, since she passed the night talking

with the solicitor; and she imparted her solicitude to the other

servants, who were distressed by it, even while thinking that they must

not allow their wages to go unpaid. The footman, who was a friend of

Camille, and as such inclined to shield Bastien, went to the hôtel

D'Ormonde, but did not find him there. Bastien had understood that his

orders were to go back to the wineshop, and thither he had gone; he was

sleeping the sleep of the angels, the only slumber supposed to be

delicious enough to be compared with that of a drunken man. The carriage

was waiting for him at the door, and the groom, his subordinate, had

consented to watch the horses on condition that he was supplied with

something to warm him on the box every fifteen minutes. The rascals did

not reappear at the hôtel until daylight and did not recover their

senses for twenty-four hours. Under other circumstances Julie would have

dismissed them; but she foresaw that the bacchanalian episode would

introduce confusion into the accounts of the romantic episode, in the

gossip of the servants' hall and the porter's lodge. That is what

actually happened, and as the people in Madame d'Estrelle's service were

not ill-disposed toward her, it seemed that nothing was likely to

transpire of her actions during that extraordinary night.

On the next night, as a matter of prudence the lovers held aloof from

each other; but on the night following that, although they had made no

appointment, they found themselves once more among the shrubbery in the

garden, and repeated with renewed delight all that they had said two

days before. They continued in this way, undisturbed and without

apparent danger, nothing being easier than for Madame d'Estrelle to

steal out of her apartments, even without very great precaution, her

people being accustomed to see her go out alone for a breath of fresh

air, at a late hour on summer nights.

What a delightful existence if it could have lasted! Those meetings had

all the charm of mystery, with no remorse to disturb their joys. Both

perfectly free, and aspiring only to the most sacred union, sustained by

a love strong enough to be able to wait, they sat there in the darkness,

amid bushes laden with flowers, in the splendor of the early summer

which retains all the charm of spring; they were like two fiancés, who

are permitted to love each other, and who, without abusing the

permission, keep out of sight in order to arouse no jealousy. It was the

honeymoon of sentiment preceding the honeymoon of passion. Passion was

already awake, but they fought against it, or rather held it in reserve,

by mutual consent, for the time when they would be forced to fight and

display their courage; for well they knew what they would have to face,

and Julien said to his friend:

"You will suffer terribly for my sake, I know; and I shall suffer to see

you suffer; but then we shall belong to each other, and love will afford

us ineffable joys which will make us invulnerable to assaults from

outside. Even if you were not guarded here by your own modesty and my

veneration, it seems to me that my selfish interests, rightly

understood, would enjoin upon me not to exhaust all my happiness at

once."

At other times Julien was more agitated and less resigned to wait. Then

Julie would pacify him by imploring him to remember what he had said the

day before.

"I have been so happy since we have loved each other thus!" she would

say to him. "Let us not change this blissful condition of affairs.

Remember that on the day when I shall say to you aloud that I have

chosen you for my life companion, people will laugh and cry out and

accuse me of a vulgar infatuation; and I know virtuous women who will

say to me cynically: 'Keep him for a lover, since you must have a lover;

but see him in secret and don't marry him!' With what sort of a

countenance could I endure such impertinences, if my conscience were not

clear, and if I no longer felt that I had the right to reply: 'No, he is

not my lover! he is my fiancé, whom I love, and who has proved his

respect for me as no other man could ever have proved it!' Let us keep

all our weapons, Julien; truth is the most powerful of all weapons in

the struggle against false ideas."

Julien submitted, because he was entirely devoted to her, and also

because his spirit was loyal to that indefinable strain of heroism which

had guided his life and restrained the first impulses of his youth. He

was still able to conquer his passions, having never allowed them to

dominate him entirely. Moreover, this romance of pure love, in the

perfume-laden darkness, appealed to his imagination, and to the artist

those poetic nights were intoxicating festivals. That garden had dark

recesses and imposing masses of foliage, such as we see in Watteau's

pictures. The appearance of Julie, charmingly dressed, not over tall,

and of graceful outline in her simple gown, was in harmony with that

distinctive savor which makes of Watteau a serious painter, a realistic

and thoroughly alive Italian, amid conventional surroundings and in an

age of affectation. There was a secluded nook where a tall white marble

urn, standing high upon an ivy-wreathed pedestal, stood forth vaguely in

the darkness, like a spectre, against the black background of the trees.

Bluish, indistinguishable lights flitted over the foliage, and the

shadows of the branches played about the marble, whose outlines

constantly disappeared, although its shape was always graceful and

majestic.

Thither Julien repaired to wait for Julie, as soon as his mother had

gone to bed, and, when she approached, as smiling and tranquil as

happiness itself, with her silk petticoats shimmering in the darkness

and her lovely bare arms holding up her skirts, Julien fancied that he

was looking upon some modern muse who ruled his destiny, bringing him

promises of future bliss with all the charms and fascinations of present

real life.

They must enjoy the present without giving too much thought to the

morrow, for the uncertainty of future events made it impossible for them

to form definite plans. They did not know yet whether they could live on

thus, deserted by society, forgotten and at peace in that garden which

had become an earthly paradise for love; or whether, ejected from the

pavilion by inexorable creditors, they would go to seek an attic chamber

in some suburb, with a garden on the window-sill. They proposed to face

everything together; that was the only absolute certainty, the only

irrevocable determination.

VI

Two weeks had passed since the Marquis d'Estrelle's death, and, after

search had been made in every conceivable place, there was no trace of a

will. It was generally believed that there was one; no one dared say

aloud that the marchioness had persuaded him not to make one. There were

divers indications that Marcel believed that to be a fact, but it was of

no use to suspect, they could prove nothing, and the consequences were

enforced with overbearing placidity; that is to say, the marchioness,

while holding fast to the rights guaranteed by her marriage contract,

also inherited all the property of the deceased, and made no suggestion

of any sum being set aside to pay the late count's debts. And yet such

a provision seemed to be implied by the terms of Julie's marriage

contract. It was a matter for judicial settlement, and Marcel advised

Julie to appeal to the courts, if for no other purpose than to delay the

suits with which she was threatened. Julie would not consent. It was her

idea that lawsuits were always lost by both parties, and Marcel agreed

that she was not very far astray.

"I am well aware," she said, "that the marchioness does not love me, and

it is very possible that she owes me nothing; but she is a very great

lady, and it is not possible that, rich as she is, she will allow a

person who bears her name to be entirely denuded. Let us wait a little

longer. It would not be becoming to begin so soon to talk to her about

money, and it would be most imprudent, as you yourself said, to appear

to be in too much of a hurry. When the time has come, I will take that

step, let it cost what it may; you must advise me of the fitting

opportunity."

"Go there at once," said Marcel to her one day. "There is no time to

lose, your creditors propose to take action to-morrow."

Julie, undeterred by the ill-success of her first visit, had called upon

the dowager on the morning following the marquis's decease. On that

occasion she was received very coldly, but courteously. Perhaps, the

marquis's testamentary provisions having been put out of the way, her

presence was no longer dreaded. There was a sort of bitter-sweet comment

upon the worldly pleasures in which Madame d'Estrelle indulged at the

close of her period of mourning, in allusion to her absence from home on

the preceding evening. Julie had given the explanation agreed upon with

Marcel. It was received with a decidedly incredulous air of curiosity,

and then the marchioness observed:

"I am very sorry for you, countess, but you are obliged to wear mourning

again!"

Julie had paid other visits to the dowager, without mentioning her

pecuniary troubles. When the moment had come to do so, she summoned all

her courage, began the interview with her usual gentleness of manner,

and laid bare her position in a few words, which she could not succeed

in making very humble.

"I beg your pardon, madame," the marchioness replied, "but I do not at

all understand these matters of business, as I have not enjoyed the

advantage of living on terms of intimacy with solicitors. If you will be

good enough to send your solicitor to my notary, he will be informed of

my rights as well as my duties, and will be convinced that you are not

included among the burdens left for me to bear."

"That is not the reply which I expected from your sense of honor, madame

la marquise. It may be that you owe me nothing; it must be so, since you

so declare."

"I thought that for family reasons----"

"I have not the honor to be of your family," rejoined the marchioness

dryly.

"You mean," replied Julie, excited by the sneer, "that Monsieur le Comte

d'Estrelle made something of a misalliance when he married a young woman

of a family whose nobility was partly of the sword and partly of the

gown. That does not wound me, for I am not ashamed of those of my

ancestors who were magistrates, and I do not consider myself inferior to

anyone; but I did not come here to discuss my right to the honor of

bearing the name which you also bear. It is a fact that I am the

Comtesse d'Estrelle; am I to lose the status which was promised me, and

which seemed to be secured to me? If monsieur le marquis forgot me when

he was dying, does it not result from the intentions which he must have

communicated to you, that you will pay his son's debts, in part, at

least?"

"No, madame, that does not follow from any intention that he ever made

known to me. I simply know his opinion, and it was this: that you must

absolutely abandon your dower, since it is insufficient to pay the debts

in question, and that he would then attend to the balance."

"That has often been proposed to me, madame, and I have asked whether,

in exchange for that sacrifice, any allowance would be made me."

"Are you absolutely penniless? did your family leave you nothing?"

"Twelve hundred francs a year, madame, no more, as you know."

"Well, one can live with that, my dear; that is enough to enable one to

ride in cabs, to see the play from a closed box, consort with

solicitors' wives, and walk about the streets at midnight on a

sign-painter's arm. Those are your tastes, I am told; gratify them,

renounce your rights, or allow the property which you hold from the

Estrelle family to be sold at any price; it makes little difference to

me! All that I desire is that you should marry somebody or other, so

that your name will be changed and I shall never be confounded with you

by those who do not know us."

"You shall have that satisfaction, madame, for I am more anxious than

you to avoid that unpleasant confusion."

She bowed and went out.

Marcel was waiting at her house. When she returned with pale cheeks and

eyes blazing with indignation, he said:

"All is lost, I can see that! Speak quickly, madame, you frighten me."

"My dear Thierry, I am hopelessly ruined," she replied; "but that is not

what is suffocating me with rage. She insults me, she tramples me under

her feet; at the very outset, without any presumption or provocation on

my part, she hurls insults in my face! I am surrounded by spies, who

carry tales to her and poison the most innocent things. Thierry," she

added, sinking into a chair, "you are an honest man; I swear to you that

I am an honest woman."

"Only a miserable villain could deny that!" cried Marcel. "Come, have

courage, tell me what you mean."

When Marcel knew everything, excepting only the understanding between

Julien and the countess, for they had thought it best to keep their

secret temporarily, even from Madame André Thierry, he was much cast

down and considered the situation very desperate.

"Here you are," he said, "between sudden, absolute destitution, a

terrible thing to a woman with your habits, and a lawsuit of which the

result is very doubtful. I no longer know what to advise you. I see that

my anticipations are being realized. She can strip you bare and obtain

the approval of society, by trying to besmirch your reputation. She has

weapons all sharpened for you, she laid in a store of them when she saw

that the marquis was sinking, and, feeling sure that he was on his

death-bed, she used them; she has manœuvred in cold blood to ruin you,

she has set spies upon you and had you followed."

"One moment, Monsieur Thierry; hasn't Monsieur Antoine had a hand in all

this?"

"Julien thinks so; I still doubt it; I will find out, and, if necessary,

I will set up a counter-system of espionage; but the most urgent thing

is not to find out who is betraying you, but to determine what you will

do."

"No lawsuits, in any event!"

"No; but let us not make that announcement; we will threaten to make

trouble; I will attend to that. They insist that you shall abandon your

dower; I propose that they shall purchase that sacrifice, and I will

make a stout fight over the conditions."

"Meanwhile," said Julie, "I am at odds with my husband's family, for you

can imagine that I shall never set foot inside the marchioness's doors

again."

"In view of her very evident determination to drive you to extremities,

I do not pretend to advise you to be patient. War is declared, the

hostilities are not of our making. Our proper course is to avoid

retreating."

But Marcel had no time to fight. He had at his heels two or three

solicitors of decidedly unsavory renown, who talked of selling at

auction, and who would grant no further delay. He thought that they must

submit to the marchioness's demands. He went to Julie and told her so.

"They are robbing you," he said; "indeed I fear that they may force you,

in case you resist, to part with the slender capital you inherit from

your own family. It is absolutely certain that the count's debts, with

the accumulated interest, will absorb much more than what you still

retain of his fortune. The Marquise d'Estrelle desires to occupy, or at

all events to own, the hôtel D'Estrelle."

"And its appurtenances?" queried Julie; "the pavilion too?"

"The pavilion too. My aunt must have something to indemnify her for

moving; another point to fight over, but one in which you are not

interested."

Julie made no reply, but became profoundly sad. The idea of being

ruined, of being reduced to twelve hundred francs a year, had not

hitherto presented itself very clearly to her mind: but to leave forever

that lovely house and that delightful garden, which had become so dear

to her in the past few weeks; to lose that proximity to the pavilion,

the fascination and the perfect security of those nocturnal

interviews--that was a genuine catastrophe! A whole world of bliss

crumbled to dust behind her. One phase of the purest happiness she had

ever known was brutally closed, before she had any time to prepare for

it.

Marcel returned at once to the marchioness's notary. He found him very

domineering in face of the countess's concessions--not as a man, for he

was a most gallant individual, but as the agent engaged to contest his

client's cause foot by foot. Moreover he had been warned against Julie,

and he saw in her only a foolish young woman, determined to sacrifice

everything to illicit passions. Marcel could not contain himself; he

lost his temper, swore on his honor that there were no secret relations

between the countess and his cousin, that they hardly knew each other,

and that Julie was the purest of women and the most worthy of respect

and compassion. Marcel had the reputation of an exceedingly upright man:

the warmth of his convictions shook the notary; but, recurring to the

marchioness's rights, he showed that she was mistress of the situation,

and that the countess would be very fortunate to extricate herself in

any way that the other chose to allow.

However, he promised to do his utmost to bring her to a more generous

frame of mind toward her stepson's widow. The next day he announced, in

a letter to Marcel, that the marchioness desired to inspect the hôtel

D'Estrelle, which she had not entered for a long time. She desired to

see for herself the condition of the property and then to have an

appraisal made and discussed in her presence by her advisers and the

countess's. It was easy to see, from the tone of this letter, that the

notary had displeased his client by pleading the moral side of Julie's

cause, as he had promised to do, and that he himself was far from

pleased with the dowager's suspicions and harsh dealing.

He appeared with her on the same day. Julie, preferring not to see her

heartless enemy again, locked herself into her boudoir, leaving the

doors of all the other rooms open.

The Marquise d'Estrelle was a shrewish Norman. In Madame d'Ancourt's

circle she was called _Madame de Pimbeche, Orbeche_, etc. She was

accused of borrowing money by the year to lend secretly at usurious

rates. This may have been an exaggeration; but it is certain that, if

she expended a considerable sum to set Julie free, she proposed to

recoup herself on the details. The promptness with which she came to

make this sort of expert inspection demonstrated that purpose.

She went through the house, examined everything with a keen, unerring

eye, made her comments and her deductions on account of the slightest

crumbling of the walls, cried down the furniture and the fixtures as

much as she possibly could, and talked and acted with a cynicism born of

avarice and aversion, which fairly sickened Marcel and made the notary

blush more than once. When she came to the boudoir where Julie had taken

refuge, she demanded that the door be opened. It was opened instantly.

Julie had heard her approaching, and being unwilling to undergo the

supreme affront of receiving a hateful visitor against her will, she had

gone out through the garden, bidding Camille open the door as soon as

the demand was made. Camille was proud, she could point to sheriffs

among her ancestors! She could not resist the temptation to give the

dowager a lesson: she walked to a chest of drawers in which she had

hastily and designedly placed a few trifles, and said in a tone of

sarcastic resignation:

"Perhaps madame desires to count the linen? There are some of my

mistress's ribbons and neckerchiefs here."

The dowager cared little for the chatter of a lady's maid; but her

hatred of Julie was lashed into fury. She cast a rapid glance through

the window and saw Madame d'Estrelle crossing the garden toward the

pavilion.

Doubtless that was a great mistake on Julie's part; but she too was

exasperated. She felt as if she were driven from her house, from her

bedroom, from her most sacred retreat, by the shamelessness of

persecution. She longed for a refuge, her brain was in a whirl, and she

bent her steps, without reflection, as if by instinct, toward Madame

Thierry and Julien.

"She will not come to their house to rout me out," she thought; "she

will not dare. I am still the owner of the place, and I alone have the

right to enter the premises of my lessees. Moreover, it is time for me

to acknowledge my friendly relations with Madame Thierry, and after

to-day I propose to go to her house as I go to the houses of other women

who have sons or brothers."

As she resolutely entered the pavilion, the marchioness, impelled by a

no less sudden resolution, rushed from the boudoir into the garden.

"Where are you going, madame?" asked Marcel, who had not seen Julie

fleeing, but who distrusted the gleaming eyes and the jerky gait of the

vigorous and active old woman.

The marchioness did not deign to answer, but hopped on like a plucked

magpie. Marcel and the notary followed her, being unable to stop her.

She knew the place very well, although she had not shown herself there

for a long while, having had a falling-out with her step-son the count

at the time of her second marriage. She arrived at the pavilion a few

minutes after Julie, and entered the studio like a bombshell.

Julien was alone; he was not even aware that Madame d'Estrelle had come

in and gone up to his mother's room. Since he had been seeing Julie in

secret, he had ceased to be on the lookout for her. They were so

entirely agreed that they would not meet by chance! He was working and

singing over his work. Julie, as she passed through the little porch,

had had an indefinable sudden presentiment of the danger of being

followed; so she had gone upstairs, convinced that the widow's bedroom

was an inviolable refuge.

Surprised by the sudden appearance of the old dowager, Julien, who had

never seen her, rose from his chair, thinking that she had come from the

street and that she wished to give him an order. That red-faced, panting

apparition, angular and repellent, caused him more displeasure than

hope.

"Here is a person who will haggle like a pawnbroker," he thought

rapidly, "unless indeed she is a female pawnbroker herself."

The lady's shabby costume in nowise indicated her rank and her wealth.

"Are you alone here?" she asked, without any sort of salutation.

Marcel and the notary appeared, and Julien's wondering eyes questioned

the former, who made haste to reply:

"Madame desires to purchase this pavilion, and----"

"I don't need to be introduced to this gentleman," retorted the

marchioness, sharply, "and I am quite able to explain myself."

"In that case, madame," laughed Julien, "this _gentleman_ awaits your

orders."

"I asked you a question," continued the marchioness in nowise

disconcerted; "I will make it more distinct. Where did the Comtesse

d'Estrelle go?"

Julien started back; Marcel, seeking to avoid an absurd scene, hastily

motioned to him and touched his forehead with his finger, to indicate

that the woman's mind was deranged.

"Ah! very good," said Julien, speaking in the tone which one adopts with

children and madmen. "Madame la Comtesse d'Estrelle? I don't know her."

"A silly answer, master painter, and altogether useless. I desire to

speak to that lady, and I know that she lives here--from time to time!"

"Marcel," said Julien, turning to his cousin, "was it you who brought

_this lady_ to me?"

Marcel, in dire distress, shook his head.

"Then it was you, monsieur?" Julien asked the notary.

"No, monsieur," the notary replied with decision; "I followed madame,

and I have absolutely no idea why she came here."

"Then you would have done better not to have followed me," replied the

marchioness with calm asperity; "I had a reason for coming to this

picture-shop, you have none. Do me the favor to allow me to conduct

myself here as I please."

"I wash my hands of the affair," replied the notary, saluting Julien

with much courtesy; and he took his leave, cursing the shrewish and

capricious humor of his client.

"As for you, monsieur le procureur,--" said the marchioness to Marcel.

"As for me, madame," retorted Marcel, "this house is occupied by members

of my own family, and I receive orders from no one except the mistress

of the house, who is my aunt."

"I know all that. I know your relationship and the understanding between

you as between good friends, and your neighborly relations with the

Comte d'Estrelle's widow. Remain if you choose, or turn me out if you

dare."

"Let us have done with this, madame," said Julien, losing patience. "I

am not in the habit of failing in respect to a woman, however

_extraordinary_ her conduct may appear to me; but I am an artist, a

mechanic if you choose; I am on my own premises, in my picture-shop, as

you well describe it; I am working, I have no time to waste. You talk to

me of subjects which I do not understand and of a person whom I have not

the honor to receive; if you have no other motive for interrupting me,

permit me to leave you."

With that he picked up his palette and his sketch and left the studio,

with an expressive glance at Marcel, which seemed to say: "Get me out of

this as best you can."

"Very good!" said the marchioness, not at all crushed by this dismissal

in due form. "I will remember the shepherd's ballad. Let us look about

this hovel a bit. I will spare you nothing; I want to see the whole

pavilion, inside, upstairs and down, as I saw the hôtel."

"Come, madame," said Marcel, "since you insist upon it. Simply allow me

to warn my aunt, who lives upstairs!"

"No, not at all," replied the dowager, walking toward the door, "I will

warn her myself, and if she turns me out--why, I shall be very well

pleased, monsieur le procureur!"

"Ah! this is enough to drive one mad!" cried Marcel involuntarily; "is

it possible that you really believe that Madame d'Estrelle is in hiding

here? In that case, come, madame; I will show you the way. When your

mind is at rest--"

Marcel was a hundred leagues from imagining that Julie was in his aunt's

room. Suddenly, as he hastily opened the studio door, he saw Madame

d'Estrelle and Madame Thierry before him, and stood still, in the most

painful attitude one can attribute to disappointment.

Julie had heard the marchioness's noisy arrival in the studio. Julien

had gone up to tell his mother that a madwoman was below talking

nonsense. He had been first of all amazed to see Julie, then sorely

distressed by her presence, on learning from her that the madwoman was

the dowager in person. Julie recognized her at last, and knew that she

would ferret her out if she had to go to the garret. She at once made up

her mind what to do, and, taking Madame Thierry's arm, said to her:

"Come! it is not becoming for me to be surprised in your room, like a

guilty person in hiding; I prefer to brave the storm, and I feel that I

can do it because it is my duty."

Julien, bewildered and ready to explode, remained at the top of the

stairs, listening and wondering if Marcel single-handed could save the

two women whom he loved and respected above all the world from being

insulted by a fury.

But, strangely enough, as soon as the dowager saw those two women before

her, her countenance brightened and her anger seemed to vanish. What was

her real purpose? To ascertain with her own eyes that she had not been

deceived by those who told her that Julie had formed a friendship with

the widow Thierry, and consequently that she was her son's mistress. The

consequence was slightly forced; but, as Julien had told the marchioness

that he did not know Julie, the marchioness had some excuse for

believing what she wished to believe. This satisfaction appeased her, as

the possession of a victim appeases the excitement of the vulture. She

laughed a wicked laugh, glancing at Marcel triumphantly; and said to

him, without bowing to anyone, without waiting to be spoken to:

"Come, monsieur le procureur, I am satisfied; I have seen all I want to

see here; let us go about our business."

Julie felt the sarcasm and was about to reply to it. She was

desperate--so desperate that she desired to tell her secret in presence

of everybody. In her view that was the opportunity, or it would never

come. Since the tongue of calumny chose to call her a degraded sinner,

she proposed to reassert her dignity by avowing a serious passion soon

to be consummated by marriage. It was a most courageous act on the part

of a woman who had never known how to be brave; so that she was not

perfectly cool when she formed that extreme resolution, hastily and

without Julien's knowledge.

But she was not allowed to carry it out in that way. Marcel and Madame

Thierry each grasped one of her hands, saying almost in unison:

"Don't answer; let the insult fall at your feet!"

And, while they detained her thus, the dowager passed on without

deigning to look at her, and took the path leading to the hôtel, while

the honest notary, who was awaiting her outside, and accompanied her,

saluted Julie with most significant deference.

"You see," said Marcel, "her own adviser protests against the

unworthiness of such conduct; and now that woman has taken off her

mask, no one will be on her side against you; but, in God's name,

madame, how did you allow yourself to be caught here, where you never

come? You are most imprudent I am bound to tell you!"

"My dear Thierry, I have something to say to you," replied Julie. "Go

and arrange matters with the marchioness; yield everything in the matter

of money, but save my own tiny fortune. I will wait for you here."

"Why here?" said Marcel.

"I will tell you that when you return," Julie replied.

"Really, madame," said Julien, as soon as Marcel had gone, "by what

unlucky chance do you honor my mother with a visit on the very day when

your deadly enemy is watching you? And why do you remain here now, as if

to confirm her in her extraordinary suspicions?"

Despite Julien's affectionate and respectful tone, his words contained a

sort of rebuke which surprised Madame Thierry.

"Julien," said Madame d'Estrelle earnestly, "the moment to be sincere

has arrived. It has arrived sooner than I expected, but it cannot be

avoided, and I do not propose to retreat before my destiny. My excellent

friend," she cried, throwing her arms about Madame Thierry's neck,

"listen to the whole truth. I love Julien. I am bound to him by the most

sacred pledges. Embrace and bless your daughter."

"O _mon Dieu!_" cried Madame Thierry in utter bewilderment, pressing

Julie to her heart, "are you married?"

"Surely not, never without your consent," said Julien, embracing his

mother in his turn; "but we solemnly promised each other to ask your

consent when the time came that there would be nothing in this

disclosure likely to alarm your affection. Julie has spoken sooner than

I could have wished, but she has spoken, and what can I add? I deceived

you, dear mother, I love her madly, and I am the happiest of men because

she loves me too!"

Madame Thierry was so profoundly moved by these revelations that it was

a long time before she was able to speak. She overwhelmed Julie and

Julien with the most loving caresses, and, trembling from head to foot,

with cold hands and streaming eyes, she felt a curious mixture of terror

and joy. The first feeling was the more powerful, perhaps, for her first

words were to ask Julien why, amid his happiness, he seemed to reproach

Julie for acting a little too quickly.

"Ah! there you are!" said Julie. "Last evening--for we talk together

every evening, dear mother--we agreed to await the final decision as to

my fate before revealing our secret to our friends and to you. I saw

that I was marching to my destruction. Julien was content. But he would

have liked, for my sake, that all the wrong should be on the

marchioness's side; and it is quite certain that my resolution, when

known and published, will give her numerous partisans in her circle of

pious hypocrites and evil-tongued prudes; but for my part I cannot

endure the thought of being represented to be a lewd woman, and that

would happen if I were afraid to tell the whole truth."

"Yes, of course," replied Julien; "now, we must tell it; but you put

forward the hour, my dear Julie! For that rash act I adore you more than

ever; but it was my duty not to assent to it. Love and destiny carried

the day over my prudence; they made my devotion entirely useless. A

truce to reflections! Bless your children, dear mother; Julie has said

it, Julie wishes it, and I know that you wish it as much as she does."

While the occupants of the pavilion were thus pouring out their hearts,

the marchioness, installed in the salon of the hôtel, proceeded to make

a rigidly exact appraisal of both properties. Marcel fought, the notary

made sincere but vain efforts to adjust the respective claims. At last

they reached a conclusion intensely disappointing to Marcel--that Julie

could not hope to save her furniture from the enemy's clutches. It was a

great concession to allow her to retain her diamonds and her laces. She

had no choice but to submit to those harsh terms, because otherwise she

might get nothing; nobody had appeared to outbid the marchioness. Marcel

had written to Uncle Antoine, hoping that he would feel a longing for

the garden and would not haggle overmuch, for all his wrath; but Uncle

Antoine had held aloof.

After a final half hour of discussion concerning the articles, which

were already drawn up, divers erasures were made and divers blank spaces

filled up. The dowager signed, and as Marcel, still complaining and

protesting, started to take the document and submit it to Julie for her

ratification, the dowager demanded roughly:

"Why isn't she here? The matter is of sufficient importance for her to

leave her dear pavilion for a few moments!"

"You will admit, madame," rejoined Marcel, "that you are not treating

the Comtesse d'Estrelle so generously as to make her feel inclined to

come into your presence."

"Bah! she is very susceptible! Go to fetch her, Master Thierry! I am in

haste to be off, and if, on reading the document, she makes any fuss

over it, I am not one of the sort to wait for her. Let her come and

state her views here, that will be the shortest way. What is she afraid

of? I have nothing more to say to her about her conduct, which I care

very little about now, and which I didn't reprove her for after all. Did

I say a single word to her just now? If I did touch her a little the

other day, it was because she undertook to appeal to feelings which I do

not owe her; but let her abstain from recriminations, and I will agree

not to humiliate her."

"If you authorize me to go to her with words of peace, and to repeat

them in mild and becoming sentences," said Marcel, "I will try to bring

her here."

"Moreover," observed the notary, "madame la marquise doubtless has

something to say to her outside of the terms of the contract. Madame

certainly intends to give her time to find somewhere to go on leaving

the hôtel?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure," said the marchioness; "that is my intention. Go,

Master Thierry!"

Marcel ran to the pavilion and persuaded Julie to return with him. It

had seemed to him that the marchioness, satisfied with her bargain,

proposed to try to make some slight amends for her harshness; and it

would be more generous of Julie, and perhaps more prudent as well, not

to reject that sort of patching up process with which society is

accustomed to be content.

Time was pressing, and Marcel was not admitted to the secret at the

pavilion; but Julie whispered to Madame Thierry:

"You know now what my marriage portion is; I bring a very small income;

but by selling my jewels, we may be able to buy the house at Sèvres. So

I am a suitable match for Julien, and everything can be arranged in that

direction as nicely as possible."

The marchioness concealed the impatience caused by having to wait a few

moments. She was almost polite as she requested Julie to read and sign.

Julie took the pen; but as she found that the conciliatory words which

Marcel had led her to expect were not forthcoming, she hesitated an

instant and glanced at the notary, as if to ask his opinion. Her

deferential air did not escape the keen eye of the lawyer, who had a

decidedly sympathetic feeling for her.

"This would be the fitting moment," he said to his pitiless client, "to

inform madame of your generous intentions with regard to the question

still left open."

"Oh! yes, of course," replied the marchioness, "I wish to enter into

possession of the hôtel at once, to-morrow at the latest; but I will

allow madame to retain the pavilion for two or three months."

"The pavilion?" said Marcel in amazement. "Why, the pavilion is let!

Surely madame la marquise knows that it is let for nine years?"

"But the lease is void, Master Thierry, for I did not sign it, and by

the provisions of our matrimonial agreements, Monsieur le Marquis

d'Estrelle was not empowered to do any act without my express assent."

"So that Madame Thierry will be compelled to give up her lease without

indemnity?"

"I am very sorry for her; but you know my contract by heart; look at the

lease and you will be satisfied that it is of no validity."

She produced the lease, which was in her pocket, and showed it. There

was nothing to be said.

"What difference does this make to you?" said the marchioness, laughing

at Marcel's consternation. "Madame la comtesse is still in a position to

compensate Madame Thierry for this annoyance. We don't count the expense

with our friends!"

"You are right, madame," replied Julie with dignity, "and I thank you

for the opportunity you give me of showing my devotion to Madame

Thierry. But I decline your gracious offer. Madame Thierry and I will go

from your house together in an hour."

"Together?" said the marchioness. "So much frankness was not necessary,

madame!"

Julie was about to reply when a loud ring in the antechamber made the

marchioness start.

"Come, no useless quarrels!" she said, suddenly changing her tone; "here

are visitors. Sign, my dear; let us have done!"

And, as the footman was about to announce someone, she called to him:

"Say that we are not receiving yet; let the person wait!"

"Excuse me, madame," said Julie, offended by this authoritative tone in

her presence, "I am still still in my own house."

Marcel, who had noticed the marchioness's sudden impatience, was

conscious of an ill-defined but imperative impulse. He took the pen from

Julie's hand. The marchioness turned pale, Marcel kept his eyes upon

her.

"Shall I announce the visitor?" the footman asked Julie.

"Yes," replied Marcel, hastily, for he had seen the visitor's face

through the open door.

"Yes," echoed Julie, impelled by Marcel's excitement.

"Monsieur Antoine Thierry!" said the servant in a loud voice.

Julie rose with a gesture of surprise. The marchioness, who was

standing, sat down again with an angry exclamation. The horticulturist

entered, embarrassed, awkward as usual, but none the less holding his

head erect, with the irascible countenance which always presented such a

curious contrast to his timid manners. Without a direct salutation to

anyone, he walked forward in a zigzag line, but very quickly, to the

table, to the document, to the inkstand, and, looking at Julie, said in

a sullen tone, in which an indefinable trace of anxiety could be

detected:

"Have you concluded anything?"

"Nothing is concluded, since you are here," replied Marcel. "Do you

happen to have come to make a bid, monsieur my uncle?"

"No one can bid," said the marchioness, in great excitement. "Everything

is settled. I appeal to the good faith of----"

"Good faith is safe enough," retorted Marcel. "We were subjected to

harsh conditions. No one ever blamed a man condemned to death, however

resigned he might be, for accepting a pardon when it came to him as a

surprise. Come, monsieur my uncle, speak! You want the hôtel

D'Estrelle. I say more, you need it; you can pull down the wall and make

a fine addition to your garden. The hôtel De Melcy is old and dismal

and depressing and badly located. This one is cheerful, cool in summer,

warm in winter. You want it, you claim it, do you not?"

"This is an outrageous proceeding!" cried the marchioness. "Madame's

consent is equivalent to a signature, and an agreement is never

retracted at the last moment."

"I beg your pardon, madame," rejoined Marcel, "you were warned. I

resisted to the very last minute, and I said to you three times during

the discussion: if the door should open at this moment, and a new bidder

appear, I don't care who he might be, I would tear up this draft of an

agreement which I consider most lamentable for my client. I submitted, I

did not consent; I invoke the testimony of my colleague here present.

Uncle, everyone knows that you are infallible on questions of honor;

tell me, have I the right to object to my client's signing before you

have spoken?"

"To be sure," replied Monsieur Antoine, "especially as my rights

antedate madame la marquise's. Let us look over this paper!"

He ran his eye over it and said:

"That is not my appraisal, madame la marquise; you pluck your victim too

close, and you compel me to remind you of our little agreements."

"Go on, monsieur, overbid me!" replied the dowager. "I am unable to

contend against you who have millions. I throw the whole thing over and

give up my place to you."

"Wait, wait!" replied Antoine, "we can still agree with a word, madame!

I can act here in a way to satisfy everybody. It depends on you!"

"Never!" cried the marchioness indignantly; "you are a lunatic and I am

ashamed to have accepted your services!"

She went out, forgetting her notary, and Antoine stood abashed, with

contracted brows, buried in mysterious meditation, and with eyes fixed

on the door.

"They had agreed to act against me," Julie whispered to Marcel; "now

what are they going to do?"

"Be patient," Marcel replied; "I think that I can guess."

He had no time to explain himself. Monsieur Antoine emerged from his

reverie and said, addressing the notary:

"Well, how far have we gone, and what is our decision?"

"For my own part, monsieur," replied the notary, putting his papers

together and looking for his spectacles, "what took place between the

marchioness and yourself is a mystery. My client apparently abandoned

the object she was pursuing, and I shall await further orders from her

before taking part in this affair."

"It is between us two then?" said Monsieur Antoine to Julie, while the

notary made his exit.

"No, monsieur," she replied, pointing to Marcel; "I ask your permission

to leave you together."

"Why so," said Antoine, with a peculiarly distressed air, putting out

his hand to detain her, but not daring to touch her sleeve. "You bear me

a grudge, Madame d'Estrelle! You are wrong; everything that I have done

is in your interest. Why don't you want me to tell you?"

"Yes, indeed," said Marcel, "why should she refuse to find out what you

have on your stomach? Pardon the expression, madame la comtesse, for I

am a little irritated; but, pray set me the example of patience. Let us

listen, since this is the day to defy the enemy all along the line."

Julie resumed her seat, with a cold and severe glance at Monsieur

Antoine, which put the finishing touch to his confusion. He stuttered

and stammered, and was incomprehensible.

"Come, come," interposed Marcel, "you don't succeed in making your

confession, my poor uncle! It becomes my duty to question you. Let us

proceed in order. Why did you leave Paris mysteriously on the day

following a certain tragic adventure which happened to one of your

plants?"

"Ah! you propose to talk about that, do you?" cried the horticulturist,

his little eyes glaring wrathfully.

"Yes, I propose to talk about everything! Answer, or I take the judge

away, and your condemnation stands."

"Condemnation to what?" said Antoine, glancing at Julie; "to her

hatred?"

"No, monsieur, to my reprobation and my pity," replied Madame

d'Estrelle, despite the mute remonstrances of Marcel, who wished to

induce his uncle to mend his ways.

"Your pity, pity for me!" he retorted in high dudgeon. "No one ever used

that word to me before, and if you were not a woman!"--Then he turned to

Marcel. "Pity! why that is contempt! If it was you who advised her to

talk like that, you shall pay me for it!"

"Justify yourself if you can," retorted Marcel, boldly; "for if you have

behaved as you seem to have done, you are a detestable fellow, and every

honorable woman insulted by you has the right to tell you so."

"In what have I insulted her? I have insulted nobody. I saw that she was

ruining herself; I tried to prevent her from----"

"From ruining herself! You are talking nonsense, my dear uncle. There

are some dangers which a woman like her in whose presence we are does

not know and never will know."

"Ah, yes! that is all talk! I am not to be put off with phrases learned

in books, I tell you! When a woman makes appointments with a young

man----"

"Appointments? Where did you pick up such foolish stuff? The man who

told you that lied in his throat!"

"You are the one who lies! you are the confederate--the obliging

friend!"

"Be careful, uncle! Death of my life, you'll make me lose my temper!"

"Lose your temper, if you choose. I saw you myself coming out of the

theatre."

"Well, what then? My wife----"

"Oh! your wife--your wife's a fool! I saw Julien come out too."

"Julien was not with us; he had no more idea that we were downstairs

than we had that he was in the gallery. Besides, even if he had been

with us, what is this mania of yours for incriminating----"

"_Encriminating!_" interposed Monsieur Antoine, all whose errors in

language we do not attempt to reproduce; "I _encriminate_ what is

_encriminatable!_ And what about the long walk at night, arm-in-arm,

from the hôtel d'Ormonde to the pavilion, where madame remained, by the

way, till three o'clock in the morning? Madame André may have been

present at the conversation. I don't deny that; but that's another

reason for _encriminating,_ as you call it, you ass of an attorney! And

all the meetings in the garden in the evening, when madame never goes in

till two o'clock--often later?"

"Where do you pick up this servants' gossip?" cried Marcel,

indignantly--"these antechamber slanders?"

"I don't go into antechambers, and I don't get my information from

servants; I have my own little police. I am rich enough to pay shrewd

ones who watch and tell me the truth. As to that, I don't make any

secret of it. I wanted to find out madame's sentiments, the reasons for

the affront she put upon me by employing Master Julien to show me the

door; that was my right; and, if I revenged myself as I could, that,

too, was my right."

Madame d'Estrelle, being determined to tell everything and to take all

the consequences, listened to Uncle Antoine with proud impassibility.

The brutality of his language, which she attributed to chronic madness,

and excused because of his lack of education, did not wound her like the

premeditated, deliberate impertinence of the marchioness. Marcel, who

watched her during his uncle's fine discourse, mistook the disdainful

serenity of her smile for a denial more eloquent than any words could

be.

"Why, look at her," he cried, shaking the rich man to make him hold his

peace; "observe the paltry effect of the fables and lies you have been

made to swallow! You cannot bring the faintest flush to her brow, and

her silence confounds your brutal eloquence!"

"I will speak in a moment," said Julie; "let Monsieur Thierry go on. As

you see, he does not anger me, and I am waiting until he has finished

his account of my conduct and has given me an account of his. You are

under the ban of my indignation, Monsieur Antoine Thierry, do not forget

it. You claim that you do not deserve it; it remains for you to prove

that to my satisfaction."

The old man was confounded for a moment; then, having determined upon

his course, he replied:

"Very well, despise me if you choose; I don't care much about that. I

have my own esteem and that's enough for me! I was angry, true! I talked

about you angrily, vindictively, I don't deny it--and yet I don't hate

you, and it rests with you whether you will have me for a friend."

"Confess before imploring absolution," said Marcel; "what has happened?

what have you done? Tell us!"

"What has happened? this is what has happened, _Mordi!_ chance helped me

to vent my bile. The dowager Madame d'Estrelle sent to beg a favor of

me. Two or three days before her husband's death, they sent to ask me to

come to her house. I had known her a long while, because she once sold

me some land, none too dear. She wasn't so shrewd in business then as

she is to-day. She said to me: 'My husband won't last long; I inherit

his property; but I don't pay his son's debts unless the countess turns

over her dower to me; and to force her to do it I propose to buy up the

claims. Lend me the money and you shall have part of the plunder. I will

pay you well for obliging me.'--'Excuse me, madame,' I said, 'I want to

make that lady feel that I have her in my power; but I want to be able

to forgive her if it suits me.'--At that it was: 'Aha! what

have you got against her?'--And to that I answered; 'I have what I

have!'--'Indeed!'--'No.'--'Tell us,' etc., etc. In short from one thing

to another, from one word to another, I unbosomed myself, I told her

that I tried to be your friend and that you treated me like a pirate,

and all because you had let yourself be drawn into the intrigues of

Madame André Thierry, who wanted to marry her son to a great lady from

vanity, and to have somebody else do as she did, like the _wolf_ in the

fable who had his tail cut off, so they say. And the marchioness was

very glad to learn of the adventure, and made me say more than I meant

to perhaps, although I took pleasure in telling it to her. At last, to

wind up, she said: 'Monsieur Thierry, you must let this fine marriage go

on, it suits me!'--'But it don't suit me!' said I.--'Bah! you are in

love with her at your age!--Spite, jealousy, can you think of such

things?'--'No, madame, I am not in love at my age; but at any age it

makes a man angry to be fooled, and I have been fooled. I am not a bad

man, but I am powerful, and I propose that they shall find it out. It

isn't proper for me to persecute her myself, but when you have worried

her well, since it amuses you, I propose to pardon her, if she asks me

to.'--'Very well! very well!' said the marchioness. 'I swear to deal

fairly with you as a good friend. Lend me the money. Here's my note, and

you have my word.'--The lady sent for me again after the marquis was

buried. I knew some fine stories about the goings-on here, and I told

her everything, and it relieved us both to _slaughter_ the countess.

Then the dowager said to me: 'Revenge yourself. I am going to hunt her

down to the last ditch.'--And I still said: 'All right, but let me know.

I intend to redeem, if she mends her ways.'--Now, the excellent dowager

deceived me; but I arrived in time. Everything's at an end between us;

she's a crafty woman, she shall pay me for it; that's all I say!"

"You don't tell us everything, uncle. There was something else between

you. You said to her just now: 'It depends on you whether everything is

settled!'"

"That's my affair, it doesn't concern you."

"Pardon me; she answered _never_ with such evident temper----"

"She's an old fool!"

"But what question did that answer?"

"Oh! go to the devil! why do you put your nose in?"

"Come, admit that the affair is complicated by another scheme----"

"No, I tell you!"

Marcel persisted.

"Uncle," said he, "the thing is clear enough to me; as you were unable

to marry a countess, you concluded to marry a marchioness. Well, that

scheme was more sensible than the other; your ages and your fortunes are

more in harmony; but I see that you failed there also. She led you on by

some sort of hope in order to get a little of your money, but she went

on working on her own account, underhandedly and without your knowledge,

to obtain possession of the countess's property, and if you had arrived

a minute later, the thing would have been done and you would be neither

married nor revenged."

Antoine listened to this homily with his head dropped on his breast, in

the attitude of meditation, but furtively watching the smile of surprise

and irony which Madame d'Estrelle could not hide.

"As far as not being married to that old shark goes," he said, rising,

"I thank the good Lord with all my heart; but, as to the revenge I

propose to have here, why, I'll have it, and the devil himself should

not deprive me of it."

"Tell us about your revenge," said Julie with the utmost tranquillity.

"Who told you that it concerned you?" cried Uncle Antoine, whose tongue

always became loosened sooner or later. "Look you, there are three of

you women who have gulled me as if I was a little boy. Women can't do

anything else! The first was Madame André long ago, who called me her

brother and her friend, and that gave me confidence; the second was you,

who called me your good friend and excellent neighbor, so as to coax me

to give your lover something to marry on; the third--oh! she called me

her dear monsieur and her generous creditor, but she's the worst of the

three, because she only wanted to pluck me, like the avaricious vixen

she is: so she will have to pay for the other two. As for you, Madame

d'Estrelle, I excuse you and forgive you. Love makes people do idiotic

things, but at all events it's love, a thing which, so far as I can see,

muddles the brain and makes the reason limp. Well, let it go; give me

back your friendship, and let us hear no more of marriage, with me or

with the _other_. I still wish you well, and I will prevent you from

taking my nephew the painter, because my nephew the painter betrayed me,

and because it isn't suitable for you to marry a painter."

"Come, come!" said Marcel, interrupting him, "you were beginning to talk

sense; but now your mania is taking hold of you again. That seems to be

a fixed idea with you! Where the devil did you fish up that fancy?"

"Stay!" said Julie, "let us put an end to this. You and I are at cross

purposes, Monsieur Marcel; I am tired of pretending, when my heart is

sincere, and when I have already told the marchioness my intentions

clearly enough, in your presence. So let me speak now, and inform you

both that my marriage to Julien Thierry is a thing determined and that

we are irrevocably pledged to each other. Yes, Marcel, you will be my

cousin; and you, Monsieur Antoine, will be my uncle. You have been very

accurately informed, and you can pay your spies handsomely. Now that my

statement is made, you will see that I am forced to withdraw the

expressions I used to characterize your conduct toward me. Whatever you

may do henceforth, my respect for our relationship must close my mouth.

You are at liberty to abuse me, to slander me and to ruin me. I shall no

longer say a word in reply to you, but I shall not implore your favor

either; I have nothing to ask at your hands, and the more you oppress

me, the more you will increase my gratitude and esteem for the man who

is willing to bear the burden of my destiny."

Surprise had struck Marcel dumb. His uncle, who had glanced at him at

first with an air of triumph and had seen that his amazement was

entirely sincere, became gloomy and irritated anew when Madame

d'Estrelle defied him thus to his face.

"So it's all over, is it?" he said, rising; "you have made up your mind

and you don't choose to listen to my last propositions?"

"Yes, indeed!" replied Marcel, "say on. I do not myself approve of all

Madame d'Estrelle's ideas, and I notify her in your presence that I

shall fight against the idea of this marriage. So speak, supply me with

arguments."

"You are on the right side this time," rejoined Monsieur Antoine. "Very

well; as she turns her head away with an air of obstinacy and

contempt--for she is a contemptuous creature, that she is! a niece who

will treat me as my honored sister-in-law did--do you tell her what I

will do if she will give up her dauber of tulips. I will take care of

all her debts, I will let her keep her hôtel, her garden, her pavilion,

her diamonds, her farm in Beauvoisis, in fact everything she has left

now."

"Wait, wait a moment!" said Marcel to Julie, seeing that she was about

to reply.

"No," said Julie; "I will accept nothing from the man who treats Julien

and Madame Thierry with such disdain and aversion. I care nothing for

his insults to me personally. I forgive monsieur for having exposed me

to the sarcasms and slanders of the marchioness and her set; but the

enemies of those whom I love can never be my friends, and any

benefactions from them are an affront which I spurn."

"Wait, I tell you!" cried Monsieur Antoine, stamping on the floor; "have

you the devil in you? Do you think that I propose to ruin your friends?

Not at all. I will give them the house at Sèvres, which is mine to-day,

if you please! I will make them an allowance, I will assure them a good

share of my property when I am dead, for I propose to divide it between

you and Julien and this ass of an attorney here! So, you see, I make you

all rich and happy, but on one condition: that the pavilion is to be

vacated instantly, and that you swear on your honor, and put your oath

in writing, that Madame d'Estrelle will never see Monsieur Julien

again."

This time Julie was speechless. Even if that inexorable old man were

really mad, there was a sort of wild grandeur in that munificence, which

recoiled at no sacrifice in the effort to assure the triumph of his

jealousy. It was a shrewd move, too, to put Madame d'Estrelle in a

position where her refusal would sacrifice Julien's interests, Madame

Thierry's and Marcel's. The last-named at once expressed his views in

noble language.

"Uncle," he said, "you can take what measures you please with regard to

my future. You know me too well to believe that prospects of that sort

will ever have any influence on my conscience! I said just now that I

was opposed to Madame d'Estrelle's determination: I have some ideas

thereupon which it is my duty to submit to her even now; but understand

this, that if she does not feel disposed to yield to them, I shall never

remind her that her resistance may injure me in your mind, that I shall

never allow my dealings with her to be influenced by my personal

interests, and finally that, if madame and Julien persist in their

purpose of marrying, I shall assist them with my advice and my services,

and shall be their friend, kinsman and servant for all time."

Julie silently offered the solicitor her hand. Tears came to her

eyelids. She looked at Antoine and saw immovable obstinacy written on

his shrivelled, sunburned face.

"Let us go back to Madame Thierry and Julien," she said, rising; "it is

for them to decide."

"No!" cried Monsieur Antoine; "I don't propose to have you take them by

surprise. At first blush I know very well that the painter will play the

great man, and his mother will put on her grand manners, especially in

my presence. And then they'll be on their honor before madame, they

won't want to be left behind in the matter of pride; they will say just

what she did, with the right to repent an hour later; but I will wait to

see what you all say to-morrow morning! I will come again. Take then my

last word, attorney; do you reflect, also, my fine fellow, and then we

shall see if the four of you will agree in refusing my present gifts and

what I leave behind me hereafter. _Au revoir_, Madame d'Estrelle.

To-morrow, at twelve o'clock, here!"

Julie, when he had gone, fell back, pale and crushed, on her chair. He

turned as he was leaving the salon, and satisfied himself that he had

succeeded in shaking that haughty courage. Then he went away in triumph.

VII

By nature, as by profession, Marcel was a foreseeing man. A man may be

both practical and generous. Under the inspiration of those two

qualities he considered the situation of the lovers and talked to Julie.

"Madame," he said, taking both her hands with an affectionate kindliness

in which there was nothing offensive, "begin by disregarding me entirely

in this matter. If Julien and his mother are as brave and

self-sacrificing as you, I shall admire the sacrifice instead of

dissuading them. And first of all do not exaggerate the future

consequences of your action. Monsieur Antoine is a man of his word, that

is certain; in good as in evil, he does what he promises. But the matter

of his last will is a great problem, because he is now on the downward

slope of marriage. Surely it is a most extraordinary thing to see that

old bachelor, a confirmed foe of women and of love, rush headlong into

this matrimonial caprice in his declining years; as it bears the stamp

of monomania, no promise, no resolution that he may make can protect him

from it. He will find what he is seeking, be sure of that: some titled

woman or other, young or old, virtuous or not, beautiful or ugly, will

allow herself to be tempted by his cash and will swallow all his

property. So this simplifies the question, and you may put aside the

consideration of our inheritance. There is nothing certain beyond the

present facts, and you see I am not at all interested. So let us

consider these present facts which are submitted for our consideration.

They are of very serious consequence. I know Uncle Antoine; what he

proposes to do, he does in twenty-four hours or never. To-morrow he will

be here with documents all prepared, drawn up by himself in more or less

barbarous style, but with not a dot over an _i_ missing that would make

them good and binding, incontestable in the eye of the law, which he

knows better than I do myself. These documents will not set forth in any

form of words the strange provision, unforeseen in legislation, that you

shall formally break off relations with a certain person; but they may

very well impose the condition that you are not to marry again without

Monsieur Antoine's assent, and that they shall be revocable at once in

case of rebellion on your part. So we must not hope to evade the

stipulation which he demands; moreover, your character is an assurance

that you would not think of doing so."

"You are right, monsieur," said Julie with a sigh, "I shall never make a

promise and not keep it."

"Here we are then," continued Marcel, "face to face with an incredible,

but very real, closely impending fact, conclusive concerning the

existence of two persons who are dear to you, my aunt and Julien, since

my reasoning places me outside of the reckoning. You must reflect

seriously. Do you wish me to leave you alone for that purpose, or will

you allow me to say to you at once what I would have said to you an hour

ago if you had taken me for a confidant before Monsieur Antoine

appeared?"

"Say it now, Marcel; you must tell me everything."