"Very well, madame; let us suppose that, despite his anger, Monsieur

Antoine outbids the marchioness; see how straitened your circumstances

will be; two or three thousand francs a year! You marry Julien, who has

nothing in the world but his arms, and soon you will be a mother, with

Madame Thierry to support and care for, a servant for her, and a nurse

for yourself, and a manservant, unless Julien lays aside his brushes

when the heavy work of the household is to be done, however modest it

may be. You will certainly live honorably, for he will work; Madame

Thierry will knit all the stockings for the family, and you will be

economical. You will have a single silk dress and will wear calicoes.

You will always walk when you go out, and you will not indulge yourself

in a bit of ribbon without counting on your fingers to see if your

little savings will stand it. That is how my wife began life when I

purchased my office. Well, I can tell you, madame, that we were not very

happy then, and yet we loved each other dearly; my wife was not vain, we

had never been well-to-do, and we did not know what luxury was. We knew

how to go without; but we were anxious,--my wife because I worked half

the night and trotted about, tired out and with a cold in my head, at

all hours and in all weathers; and I, because she had to go without

fresh air and good food, forever harnessed to household duties and the

labors of maternity. Each of us suffered from constant, painful

solicitude for the other. I give you my word that the more dearly we

loved each other, the more worried we were and the more we lacked real

happiness. We lost two children; one that we had to put out to nurse in

the country where he was not well cared for; the other we decided to

keep at home, and the foul air of Paris, combined with the poor health

he inherited from his mother, prevented him from developing. If we have

succeeded in raising the third, it is only because we were in somewhat

easier circumstances by dint of economy and industry. To-day we are very

happy and free from anxiety; but we are forty years old and we have

suffered terribly! Our earlier years were a constant struggle, and often

a martyrdom. Such is the life of the petty bourgeois of Paris, madame la

comtesse; that of the poor artist is even worse, for his profession is

less reliable than mine. People constantly have matters in dispute,

which cause them to have recourse to the solicitor; but they don't

always need pictures, and most people never need them. They are pure

luxuries. Julien will not make a small fortune, as his father did. His

character and talent are even more highly esteemed perhaps; but he has

not the attractive frivolity, the taste for society and the brilliant

external qualities which cause a certain sort of people to become

infatuated with an artist, bring him out, sing his praises, and make him

shine resplendent. Let me tell you that my Uncle André's talent,

genuine as it was, would never have extricated him from poverty, if he

had not been a fine table-singer, a great man for clever remarks and

piquant anecdotes, and if certain influential but volatile ladies had

not from time to time made him unfaithful to his wife, whom he adored

none the less, but of whom he said under his breath, innocently enough,

that he must needs deceive her a little, in her own interest.--You lose

color!--Julien will not follow that example of a time which has gone by;

but it will be of no use for Julien to produce masterpieces, he will

remain poor. Society does not become infatuated with modest merit, and

does not travel about in quest of unknown virtue. His marriage with you

will make a certain noise, a little scandal which will bring him into

notice. His father's marriage had that result at the time; but, once

more I say, times have changed: the world is more austere or more

hypocritical to-day than in La Pompadour's day. Then, too, the same sort

of adventure doesn't succeed twice. People will say that youngster

is very presumptuous to try to mimic his father; and you will raise up

more enemies than patrons for him. There will be a great outcry against

you. I don't suppose that the marchioness will try to have you put in a

convent and him in the Bastille, for the crime of misalliance: she has

no rights over you; but she will injure you much more by crying you

down, and you will not have the rigors of persecution to make you

interesting. People know you, they know that you are rigidly virtuous;

the reaction will be all the more violent and implacable, the old prudes

will go about everywhere saying that as such marriages threaten to

become common in society, they cannot be endured and must be severely

condemned. Even the liberally-minded--some of whom are Julien's patrons

now--will not dare to defend you. They too belong to society to-day.

They are no longer persecuted but are caressed and flattered, and Paris

is still quivering over the triumph awarded Monsieur de Voltaire after

his long exile. People laugh at Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who believed that

he was still a victim of the machinations of bigots, and who might have

lived in peace and honor, so they say, if his heart had not been soured

and his mind diseased. The philosophers have the upper hand to-day; they

are no longer over-solicitous to fight against prejudice, and the

remnant of the great crusade of free-thinkers will not mend its pen and

sharpen its tongue to sustain your cause against the outcry of the

salons. All these cowardly blows, all these insults will eventually fall

on Julien's heart. He will live in never-ending anxiety, always on the

quivive; he will fall out with all his friends; he may fight with some

of them----"

"Enough, enough, Marcel," said Julie, weeping. "I see that I have been

mad, that I have been led by the counsel of a selfish passion, or by my

absolute ignorance of social necessities. I see that Julien's life would

be made burdensome by public reprobation, that life would be a

never-ending source of danger and unhappiness.--Ah! Marcel, you have

broken my heart; but you have done your duty, and I esteem you the more.

Let us go and tell Julien that I mean to break--_Mon Dieu!_ how shall I

tell him that?"

"Julien will not believe you! He will laugh at your generous pretence;

he will tell you that he longs to suffer for you. He is courageous and

strong, and I have no doubt that he adores you. If you consult him, his

first exclamation will be: 'Love at any price, love and persecution,

love and poverty!'--He does not doubt himself, and his mother, who is

equal to him in the matter of courage and unselfishness, will assist him

to sacrifice everything; but imagine Julien a year or two hence, when he

sees his mother suffer. Only by the most extraordinary efforts is he

able now to shield her from the horrors of poverty, and in spite of him,

in spite of herself, in spite of everything, she suffers on that

account, you may be sure. Madame Thierry is an enthusiast, in nowise a

stoic. She was brought up to do nothing, and she doesn't know how to do

anything but knit and read, sitting comfortably in her easy-chair.

Moreover her health is frail. She is not like my wife, she would not sit

up till midnight mending her son's shirts; her beautiful hands are no

better acquainted with fatigue than yours. What will happen then, when

Julien has a wife and children? He will blame himself for your miseries,

and if remorse ever gains a foothold in that proud heart, farewell to

courage and perhaps to talent!"

"Enough, I tell you, my dear Marcel. Advise me, guide me; command, for I

surrender. Must I not see him or speak to him?"

"No, you certainly must not, my dear countess. He must know nothing of

what has happened, and Monsieur Antoine's gifts must fall into his hands

without any suspicion on his part of the terms on which our uncle became

tractable. Otherwise, he would be quite capable of refusing them."

"Marcel," said the countess, rising and ringing the bell, "I must leave

this house instantly and never return!"

A servant appeared.

"Send for a cab," she said, "and send Camille to me."

"I shall carry nothing away," she said to Marcel. "You must pay my

servants, collect my most necessary effects and send them to me."

"But where are you going?"

"To a convent, outside Paris, I don't care where, provided that nobody

but you knows where I am."

Camille appeared. Julie bade her fetch her cloak, and, when she had left

the room again, continued:

"You see, my friend, if I remain here a moment longer, Madame Thierry,

being anxious on account of what happened at her house, will come to

make inquiries, and even if I should feign before her--this evening, ah!

yes, this evening Julien would wait for me in the garden, and when I

failed to appear, he would not be able to refrain from coming to my

window and tapping on it.--I should not have the strength to leave him

in the grasp of mortal anxiety, and I could not lie to him. No, no, let

us go! I hear the cab coming into the courtyard. Come, do not give me

time to lose what little courage I have!"

Marcel felt that she was right; he offered her his arm.

"Come, madame," he said, "God inspires you and He will support you!"

They drove about at random at first, the countess having given the

cabman the address of one convent, then of another, having no idea where

she really wished to go. At last Marcel persuaded her to go to the

Ursulines at Chaillot, where he had a cousin who was a nun; and he

waited until she was settled there, himself paying the price of her

lodging and board for a week, reserving the right to prolong the

arrangement if the countess were properly treated. Julie took the name

of Madame d'Erlange, and Marcel's cousin, whom he enjoined to commend

her warmly to the superior, was not taken into the secret. As Julie took

refuge in the convent as a lodger, she was allowed to detain Marcel in

her room in order to give him her instructions.

"I absolutely refuse," she said, "to accept Monsieur Antoine's

benefactions in any shape; they were hateful to me, and I no longer need

any consideration at his hands. Let him pay himself in full, as he is

now my only creditor, as he has everything of mine in his hands. I have

nothing left but my twelve hundred francs a year, and, as I must live

alone hereafter, I need nothing more. Do not let him leave me my

furniture; do not let him send me my diamonds; I will not receive them.

He may draw up with his own hands the agreement I am to sign, pledging

myself never to marry. I will sign it in exchange for the gift to Madame

Thierry of the house at Sèvres, and an allowance which you will do your

best, in my name, to make as large as possible. You will also demand

that neither Madame Thierry nor her son be informed of the truth with

respect to my action. You will tell them that I have gone away; that I

cannot, that I do not wish to receive them again, because--Oh! _mon

Dieu!_ what will you tell them! I have no idea! Tell them whatever you

can invent that is least cruel, but most irrevocable, for we must not

leave them any of the hopes deferred which make the heart sick, and

render the final awakening the more bitter.--Tell them--no, tell them

nothing. Alas! alas! I have no strength left to think or decide; I have

no strength left for anything!"

"I will reflect," said Marcel; "I will think it over as I return. I

leave you in despair; but I must go to get your clothes; I must prevent

Julien from being panic-stricken and losing his head at the first

moment, and I must reassure your servants, who would otherwise wait for

you, and perhaps engage in compromising comments or investigations when

you failed to return. Come, madame, be heroic! Calm yourself; I will

return this evening, or sooner if I can. I will try to bring you some

consoling news from the pavilion; I must succeed in deceiving Julien,

although I have no more idea than you how I shall succeed in doing it.

_Au revoir._ Wait for me; do not write to anyone. We must not contradict

each other. You will weep bitterly! I have caused you much suffering,

poor woman! And now I must leave you alone. It is horrible!"

As he spoke, Marcel unconsciously shed tears. Seeing his affliction and

his unselfish devotion, Julie urged him to go, and strove to display an

energy which she did not possess. As soon as she was alone, she locked

her door, threw herself on the poor, shabby bed which had been prepared

for her, buried her face in the pillow, stifling her sobs, wringing her

hands, and abandoning herself to her grief so completely that she lost

all consciousness of the place where she was and all memory of the

events which had driven her thither so abruptly.

Marcel, returning to the cab, wiped his streaming eyes, blamed himself

for his weakness, and argued the facts anew.

"When you decide to do a thing," he said to himself, "you must do it."

He had one last hope which he had thought best not to suggest to Julie,

namely, to prevail upon Monsieur Antoine. He drove to his house first;

but he wasted there all the eloquence of his heart and his reason. The

selfish fellow was happy, triumphant; he was drinking his revenge with

gusto, and he did not propose to leave a drop in the bottom of the

glass. All that Marcel could obtain, after exchanging many reproaches

and invectives, was that Julien and his mother should be left in

ignorance of the bargain by which they were made rich.

"You are trying to do a very difficult thing," he said; "do not make it

impossible. Madame d'Estrelle is the only one who has submitted thus

far. Julien would surely resist; deceive him unless you wish to make

Julie's submission useless to your vengeance."

"You tire me with your Julie!" cried Monsieur Antoine. "She

deserves a great deal of pity, doesn't she, when I am giving her

everything--fortune, social consideration and liberty!"

"Yes, liberty to die of grief!"

"As if people died of that! Pretty twaddle in a lawyer's mouth! Let her

make a good marriage suited to her rank, I won't oppose it; she can

marry anyone she chooses. I bar nobody but the dauber. Within a

fortnight she will open her eyes and thank me. She will recognize my

grandeur of soul and will call me her benefactor. Upon my word, you are

all cracked! I pull hundreds of thousands of francs from my pocket; I

throw them by the handful to ingrates and fools, and they call me cruel

kinsman, hard heart, old hound, old miser and God knows what! The world

is upside down just now, on my word!"

"They won't call you all those names, uncle; they won't call you any

name. There are no names to describe the oddity of your character, and

nobody else in the world could have discovered the secret of causing the

hand that enriches to be cursed!"

"Bah! you are using big words; you fancy you're at the bar! Off with

you, you bore me to death. Tell your Julien whatever you choose; I don't

want to see him or you or anybody. I am going back to the country."

"That is to say that you will shut yourself up here and barricade

yourself against all the strong arguments I can bring forward."

"Possibly! now you know that your strong arguments will be wasted; they

will stay at the door."

Marcel was careful not to tell his uncle that there was a much simpler

and less expensive way to prevent the marriage: namely, to abandon

Madame d'Estrelle to her destruction, and trust to the wise and generous

reflections to which she had opened her mind. Nor did he feel called

upon to tell him that she refused his gifts.

"After all," he thought, "who knows how long this passion will last? In

a short time, perhaps, Julie will have conquered it, and then it will be

very agreeable to her to know that she is free and still rich."

He and Monsieur Antoine drew up a conditional discharge of the whole of

her debt, and he succeeded in procuring the insertion of this important

modification, that Madame d'Estrelle was at liberty to enter into

wedlock with anyone she chose _except an untitled person._ He procured

Monsieur Antoine's signature and seal to the document, and put it in his

pocket, pending an opportune time to hand it to Madame d'Estrelle, that

is to say, when she should be less agitated.

The deed of gift of the house at Sèvres and of an income of five

thousand francs in the public funds was all ready. Marcel had to fight a

terrible battle to prevent the insertion of a restriction analogous to

that to which Julie was expected to submit. He argued that, as Julie had

promised not to marry Julien, it was entirely useless for Julien to

pledge himself not to marry Julie.

"But your Julie can very easily give up her fortune, and then when the

other has made enough to live on, I shall have made a fine mess of it! I

shall have married them! No, no! I propose to have a letter from this

lady pledging herself on her honor and her religion never again in her

lifetime to see this gentleman, with his name all spelled out. Women are

bound tighter by such gilt-edged notes than by all your parchments. They

are more afraid of scandal than of pettifogging. I must have that

billet-doux addressed to me, or I'll not let anything go."

"You shall have it," said Marcel.

And he hurried away to the pavilion.

Julien was intensely agitated; he had not dared to ask any questions at

the hôtel. He had sent his mother to reconnoitre, and she found all the

apartments on the garden side closed. He did not know whether the

dowager was still there, he knew nothing of Monsieur Antoine's visit and

Julie's departure; he was surprised that, after confiding in Madame

Thierry, she could not find time to send her three lines to set her mind

at rest as to the results of the disturbance caused by the dowager. He

anxiously awaited the evening. Black thoughts rushed into his mind.

"Who knows that the dowager and Monsieur Antoine have not plotted

together to have Julie abducted and confined in a convent on the ground

of misconduct?"

At that time it was no longer very easy to obtain _lettres de cachet_;

but by going through formalities, an _ex post facto_ judgment, etc.,

arbitrary incarceration could still be accomplished under the forms of

law, especially as an intrigue with a plebeian might still be looked

upon in official society as a scandal which a family was entitled to put

down.

Julien was going mad when Marcel arrived. Madame Thierry was downcast

and very sad. Marcel saw that was not the moment to be outspoken.

"I have some news for you," he said, forcing himself to assume an

untroubled and even cheerful countenance. "We were about to sign, when

Uncle Antoine appeared like a god from the clouds at the Opera. He lost

his temper and had a row with the dowager, who, up to that time, had

been acting in concert with him against Madame d'Estrelle; but he has

repented of his folly, he proposes to give you a magnificent indemnity;

he takes this opportunity to make amends for all the wrong he has done,

and he does it handsomely, I must say; so be grateful to him for it,

also for his intention to deal handsomely with Madame d'Estrelle. He

will probably leave her twice as much as the dowager intended to leave

her; so she thought that it was her duty to show her gratitude by

yielding at once to a whim he had of turning her out of the hôtel----"

"She has gone!" cried Julien, turning pale.

"Gone! gone! she is going to pass a few days in the country; what is

there so surprising in that?"

"Ah! Marcel," said Madame Thierry, "you see, you don't know----"

"I do not wish to know anything outside of the serious matters which

require all my attention," Marcel replied with decision. "I have heard

to-day many foolish remarks, offensive insinuations and impertinent

comments. I prefer to believe none of them and to remember none of them.

The name of Madame Julie d'Estrelle is sacred to me; but I have advised

her to disappear for a few days."

"To disappear?" echoed Julien, still in dire distress.

"_Parbleu!_ one would think we were in Madrid and that she had been

immuned for life in a convent cell! What is the cause of this tragic

mood? I simply urged her to pretend to be dead for a week or two, long

enough to settle her affairs and find out where she stands. Let us keep

quiet and show neither anxiety nor displeasure on account of her

absence. Let us not stir up the marchioness's evil designs, which

Monsieur Antoine's intervention has blocked to some extent for the

moment. Above all, let us make sure that Julie does not lose the rich

old fellow's protection and esteem. This is no time to puzzle over the

man's strange logic; the devil could not explain it. The thing to do is

to make the most of it, and no one of us three must think of himself or

of anything but Madame d'Estrelle's future."

Thereupon he went into detailed calculations which compelled Julien's

attention. It was a matter of saving a modest competence for Julie by a

little prudence, or of throwing it away by excessive pride. Her

reputation was not yet compromised in society, and it was entirely

unnecessary that it should be. Thus far the plot against her formed by

the marchioness and Monsieur Antoine had not been executed. They had

been waiting for her to provoke the explosion by an attempt to resist

the dowager's claims. It was Monsieur Antoine's duty now to protect

Julie against the charges of which he was the author. He alone could do

it, having in his pocket weapons against the common enemy. He was

inclined to do it, he was penitent after his manner, he hated the

marchioness, he insisted that everything should be left to him to

settle: they must simply bow their heads and wait in silence.

Julien was still ill at ease on one point. Did Monsieur Antoine propose

to take full charge of Madame d'Estrelle's destiny and will-power in

order to bring her to consent to the abominable idea of marrying him?

Marcel was able to reassure him completely in that respect, and he gave

him his word that fancy had permanently moved out of the old

sphinx's brain. Finally, Julien asked Marcel if he would also give him

his word that he had advised Julie to go away suddenly, if she was free

to return when she chose, and if she was thoroughly convinced that her

absence would be of benefit to herself and only to herself. Marcel was

able to swear that all this was true.

"Of course you know where she is?" queried Julien.

"I do know; but I cannot tell anyone; she made me promise. If she

desires to confide her whereabouts to anybody else, she will write; but

as she is very anxious that Monsieur Antoine and the dowager should not

know, I think that it will be best for her to have no other confidant

but me. Now that all this is cleared up, let me tell you what Monsieur

Antoine proposes to give you by way of indemnity for the lease."

"One moment!" said Julien; "was this indemnity demanded, insisted upon

by Madame d'Estrelle? Was it not the price of some new torture inflicted

on her pride, of some sort of sacrifice on her part?"

"There was nothing whatever to dispute about," said Marcel. "Monsieur

Antoine declared his purpose without any demand or concession

whatsoever. He probably always intended to make you this gift, for he is

the owner of the house at Sèvres, and he gives it to you. Here are your

deeds."

"_Mon Dieu!_" cried Madame Thierry, as she looked over the papers, "and

an annuity too? I feel as if I were dreaming, I am happy, and I am

afraid!"

"Yes," said Julien, still suspicious, "there is something under this, a

trap perhaps!"

Marcel had great difficulty in inducing them to accept Monsieur

Antoine's treacherous gift. He had to tell them, to swear to them that

it was Madame d'Estrelle's earnest desire. He left them as tranquil as

possible, Julien struggling not to disturb by his apprehensions the

delight which his mother could not but feel at the thought of returning

to the home where she had lived happily so many years. Marcel then

hurried to the hôtel D'Estrelle and ordered Camille to pack up such

articles as her mistress needed for a brief stay in the country.

"Ah! _mon Dieu!_" said the amazed Camille, "does not madame la comtesse

send for me to join her?"

"It is unnecessary for so short a time."

"But madame can neither dress nor arrange her hair alone! Think of it! a

lady who has always been served according to her rank!"

"She will find servants in the house where she is."

"She must be with some poor people then, since she dislikes to have her

own servants boarded there. Perhaps madame is really ruined herself?

Alas! alas! such a kind and generous mistress!"

Camille began to weep, and, although her tears were perfectly sincere,

she added:

"And my wages, monsieur le procureur; who will pay them?"

"I will pay everything to-morrow," replied Marcel, who was accustomed to

that blending of sentiment and practicalness which is always noticeable

in such disasters; "have all the household accounts prepared, and

meanwhile take the keys. You will be responsible for everything until

to-morrow."

"Very good, monsieur, I will be responsible," said the maid, beginning

to sob afresh; "but are we to leave madame's service? will madame not

return?"

"I did not say that, and I have received no orders to dismiss you."

Marcel wrote to his wife that he had no time for dinner or supper, and

that she need not expect him until ten or eleven o'clock at night. He

returned to the convent. Julie had exhausted all her vitality in tears.

She had risen again, she had bathed her pale face, streaked with the

fire of tears, in cold water. She was calm, downcast, and resembled a

living corpse. She revived a little when she learned that Marcel had

succeeded in deceiving Julien, and in inducing him to accept, without

undue suspicion, the comparative affluence which Monsieur Antoine

bestowed on his mother and him. She wrote a note to Monsieur Antoine at

Marcel's dictation, pledging herself never to see Julien again during

her life, on condition that Julien should never be deprived of the house

at Sèvres or the annuity. She would not make a similar stipulation

concerning her own fortune, and Marcel dared not speak to her as yet of

accepting Monsieur Antoine's discharge of her debts. She made no

complaint; she was thoroughly exhausted, and Marcel, as he shook hands

with her, felt that she was feverish. He persuaded her to see Sister

Sainte-Juste, his cousin, and he urged the sister to have someone sleep

in the next room. He did not go away until he had, with the solicitude

of a father, seen everything arranged as he wished.

Julie passed a quiet night; hers was not one of those obstinate natures

which struggle for a long time. Her conscience told her that she had

done her duty, and the first suffering was so sudden and violent that

she soon yielded to exhaustion and slept. The next morning she thanked

the nun who had passed the night with her, and asked to be left alone.

She dressed herself and arranged her hair, and, realizing that she was

very awkward and unskilful in waiting on herself, she determined to

conquer her habits, to put her room to rights and make her bed, arrange

her clothes, and establish herself in that poor cell as if she were to

pass her life there. She did all this mechanically, without effort and

without reflection. When it was done, she sat down, clasped her hands

about her knee, and looked out through the open window but saw nothing,

listened to the convent bells but heard nothing, and did not dare think

of eating, although she had taken nothing for twenty-four hours. If

lightning had struck in the middle of her room it would not have

startled her.

About noon, Sister Sainte-Juste found her in this state of listless

contemplation, which she mistook for a beatific reverie. Some broken

hearts are still so sweet and gentle that one does not suspect their

suffering; but the sister had noticed, as she passed through the room

used as an antechamber and dining-room, that the breakfast brought by

the servant had grown cold untouched.

"Did you forget to eat?" she asked Julie.

"No, sister," replied the poor unhappy creature, who did not choose to

allow herself to be pitied, "I was waiting for my appetite to come."

The nun urged her to eat, obligingly waited on her, and thought to

divert her mind by her harmless, unmeaning chatter. Julie listened with

inexhaustible good humor, and carried mental submission so far as to

seem interested in all the minutiæ of that recluse's life, all the

details of the regulations of the convent, all the dull little events

which occupied the leisure of the community. What did she care whether

she heard that or something else? It was no longer in the power of

anyone to annoy or tire her. She was like an empty heart through which

everything passes and in which nothing remains.

When Marcel arrived in the afternoon his cousin said:

"Why did you tell me that lady was ill and had reasons for being

unhappy? She slept soundly without saying a word, she breakfasted

reasonably well, although a little late, and she took great pleasure in

talking with me. She is a very amiable person and she has no serious

sorrow. I give you my word that she has not, for I know about such

things!"

Marcel was alarmed by this sorrow without reaction. He came to tell her

what had taken place that morning at the hôtel D'Estrelle. Julie

confined herself to asking him for news of Julien and his mother. When

she learned that they were moving and that they were to pass that night

at Sèvres, she would not listen to anything else.

"I do not propose to hate anyone any more," she said; "it would cause me

more misery and do no good. Do not mention Monsieur Antoine to me for

three or four days. I beg you, my friend, allow me to become accustomed

to my lot as best I can. You see that I do not rebel; that is all that

is necessary."

On the following days Marcel found her calmer and calmer. She was very

pale; but the nun assured him that she slept and ate as much as was

necessary, and that was true. She did nothing during the day and did not

wish to see anyone, declaring that she was not at all bored. That also

was true. She was preoccupied, and sometimes she smiled. Marcel could

not understand it at all; he urged her to consult the convent physician,

who found her pulse a little weak, her complexion a little _phlegmatic_,

as they said in those days to indicate the presence of a certain amount

of lymph in the system. He prescribed quinine and told Marcel that it

would amount to nothing.

[Illustration 05: _JULIE AT THE CONVENT AT CHAILLOT_

_Julie obediently took the quinine, walked about the

garden of the convent, consented to receive visits

from several nuns, impressed them as a very

attractive person._]

It did amount to nothing, except that the heart was dying and the life

fading away with it. Julie obediently took the quinine, walked about the

garden of the convent, consented to receive visits from several nuns,

impressed them as a very attractive person, promised to read some new

books which Marcel brought her and which she did not open, prepared a

piece of embroidery which she did not begin, lived almost unnoticed in

the cloister, thanks to her unobtrusive manners, and continued to waste

away, slowly, without paroxysms, but without remission.

Marcel was deceived by appearances. Seeing that she was so placid

mentally, and mistaking that sudden disappearance of the will for the

symptom of a struggle between a mighty will-power and nature itself, he

sought the remedy where it was not. He turned his attention to her

physical health. He hired a small country house at Nanterre, and, giving

Julie to understand that he had purchased it for her, carried her

thither; then, having made sure of Camille's discretion and devotion to

her mistress, he sent for her. He supplied her with enough money to

enable her to hire a peasant woman who could cook, and he made

arrangements that the countess's table should be daintier and more

substantial than that at the convent. The little house was located in an

airy spot, with a garden of considerable size surrounded by walls, and

with not sufficient shade to keep the sun from doing its healthful work.

He supplied the salon with books, little articles to provide occupation

or amusement, and Julie's harp--every woman in those days performed on

that instrument more or less. Marcel having taught her her lesson,

Camille deceived her mistress as to what had happened at the hôtel

D'Estrelle, and as to the means at her disposal. She made her believe

that everything was extremely cheap at Nanterre, and that she could

afford to live comfortably without exceeding the limits of her small

income. Julie wished to be poor and to owe nothing to Monsieur Antoine.

That was the only point on which Marcel had found her resistance

invincible. He had been forced to lie, and to let her believe that

Monsieur Antoine had taken possession of her house, her diamonds and

everything that belonged to her.

The diamonds were in Marcel's custody, the house was kept in excellent

condition. The horses were in the stable, well cared for, and the

carriages in the carriage-house. The servants had been paid off and

discharged, under orders to return, upon advantageous terms, as soon as

Madame d'Estrelle should return. The concierge took care of the house,

groomed and exercised the horses. His wife dusted the rooms, opened and

closed the windows. Monsieur Antoine's head gardener attended to the

flowers and lawns. Monsieur Antoine himself visited the place every

morning. The pavilion, after Madame Thierry had gone away, was closed

and silent. But nothing was changed in Julie's abode. Every piece of

furniture was in its place, and the sun shone through the windows of her

empty salon.

Two months had passed since the day that Julie left the hôtel. Uncle

Antoine was simply the caretaker and painstaking administrator of the

property. He had retained his privilege of being admitted there, pending

the time when it should please Julie to resume possession. He desired to

return it to her intact, and to reëmploy such of her servants as she

might wish to have about her. The concierge was ordered to inform

visitors that madame continued to own her house for the present, and

that she had gone to inspect her estate in the Beauvoisis and to make

some definite plans for the future; that is to say, Monsieur Antoine, in

concert with Marcel, having in view the _what will people say?_

represented Madame d'Estrelle's situation as the continuation of an

armistice with her creditors; and as she had been in that situation for

more than two years already, that was really the most plausible

explanation. They would see about inventing a perfectly convincing one

when Julie should consent to return.

It is true none the less that Julie's friends, the old Duc de Quesnoy,

madame la présidente, Madame Desmorges, Abbé de Nivières and the

rest, began to be much surprised that they did not hear from her. Her

sudden departure had been accepted with reasonably good grace, thanks to

the hints adroitly strewn about by the solicitor; but why did she not

write? She must be very lazy; or perhaps she was ill? Was she really in

the Beauvoisis?--But the old duke had to go to take the waters of Vichy;

madame la présidente was engrossed by the marriage of her daughter; the

abbé was like the household cat--he forgot everything when the fire on

the hearth died out. Madame Desmorges was indolence personified. The

Marquise d'Estrelle alone would have been likely to investigate the

subject seriously, but her malice was suddenly paralyzed by a sharp

threat from Monsieur Antoine to disclose her conduct and demand his

money, if she ventured to make the slightest investigation or the

faintest derogatory remark concerning Julie.

As will be seen, Monsieur Antoine behaved with extraordinary fairness,

prudence and loyalty, in everything that concerned the reputation, the

comfort and the pecuniary interests of his victim. He listened to

Marcel's advice, discussed it with him as if the question at issue were

what it was best to do for his own daughter, and followed it exactly.

Touching the fundamental question as to which Marcel did his utmost to

bend him, the union of the two lovers, he was inflexible; and as he lost

his temper when Marcel pressed him too hard on that subject, sulked and

shut the door in his face, Marcel was compelled, in his client's

interest, to submit to delays of which he could see no end.

Madame Thierry and Julien were luxuriously established in their pretty

cottage, for the best part of the furniture had been left there, as well

as divers artistic objects of considerable value which Uncle Antoine had

disdained to notice because he had no idea of their value. Julien had no

confidence in this unexpected generosity, for which he had been warned

not to thank Monsieur Antoine, and which was surrounded with

inexplicable circumstances. He was so disturbed about it that, except

for the duty of sacrificing his own pride to his mother's repose, he

would have refused everything. Their position was excellent from a

material standpoint. The income of five thousand francs enabled them to

live modestly without awaiting anxiously the avails of Julien's feverish

labor at the end of each week. Madame Thierry could not help feeling the

most heartfelt delight in being restored to her house, her most

cherished memories, her former habits and connections. The latter were

less numerous than in the days when her table was always laid, but they

were more reliable. Her only true friends came forward once more.

Knowing that she had no more than was absolutely necessary, they exerted

themselves to provide an advantageous market for Julien's pictures. Not

until one has ceased to suffer from poverty can one make the most of his

talent. Julien no longer needed to hurry; his customers came

unsolicited, through the intervention of enlightened and kindly friends.

He consoled his mother for the secret dissatisfaction she still felt in

being Monsieur Antoine's debtor, by saying to her:

"Never fear, I will pay your debt to him, against his will, if need be;

it is simply a question of time. Be happy; you see that I am not

disturbed by Julie's silence, but that I am waiting confidently and

calmly."

Julien had changed neither in bearing, nor manner, nor feature, since

the fatal day of Julie's disappearance. At first he had believed what

Marcel said; but, as no letter arrived from his mistress, and as he knew

beyond doubt, as the result of inquiries he had made secretly, that she

was not in the Beauvoisis, he had gradually detected a part of the

horrible truth. Julie was free, for Marcel had sworn it on his honor,

again and again; but as to certain other points he did not swear. He

asserted nothing; he simply left them to their presumptions. He refused

with shrewd persistence to listen to any confidential communication,

which made it easier for him to evade many questions. Monsieur Antoine's

machiavelian plan was too eccentric to be fathomed by Julien's

straightforward mind. He did not suppose that jealousy was possible

without love, and he would have considered that he insulted Julie's

image by admitting that the old man was in love with her. The old man

was not in love, that is certain; but he was as jealous as a tiger of

Julien, and jealousy without love is the most implacable form of

jealousy. Julien believed that he was mad. Can anyone divine the schemes

of a madman?

But might not those schemes, whatever they were, affect Julie's

determination?

"No!" said Julien to himself, "pecuniary consideration cannot have

influenced that noble heart. Julie wishes to break with me; she chooses

to bring about the rupture in silence. It is painful to her, but she

considers it necessary. She trembled for her reputation; the marchioness

threatened to ruin her, and her friends must have succeeded in

convincing her that she could never rehabilitate herself after marrying

a plebeian. Such is the opinion of society. Julie fancied for a moment

that she was superior to such prejudices; her love for me led her to

presume too far on her strength. She has a noble nature, but her mind is

a little weak perhaps, and now the force of her character is being

exerted to bring about the triumph of the prejudice which kills love.

Poor dear Julie! She must suffer, because she is kind-hearted--because

she understands my suffering. So far as she is concerned, I feel certain

that she desires to forget me."

Marcel had stronger hopes of Julien's mental cure than of Julie's. He

saw him as infrequently and for as short a time as possible. One day,

when he was obliged to go to report to his aunt concerning a small

matter which she had placed in his hands, he found her alone.

"Where is Julien?" he asked; "in his studio?"

"No, he is turning his attention to gardening. Since he has had this

little plot of land to dig and plant, he is more easily consoled for

everything. He has had a great sorrow, Marcel! a sorrow of which you

know nothing. He loved Madame d'Estrelle; I was not mistaken; and, more

than that----"

"Yes, yes!" said Marcel, who desired to avoid any sentimental scene;

"that has gone by, hasn't it? that is all over?"

"Yes," replied the widow, "I think so. If he were deceiving me--But no!

after the hopes he has had it is not possible, is it, my boy? You can't

cheat the eyes of a mother who adores you?"

"No, of course not. Sleep in peace, dear aunt! I will go to bid Julien

good-day.--If he is really deceiving his mother after the failure of his

hopes," he thought as he looked for Julien among the shrubbery, "he must

be a devilishly strong fellow!"

Julien was digging a little hole in which to transplant a tree. He wore

a linen blouse and his head was bare. Standing in the loose earth, with

his hands resting on the handle of his spade, like a laborer taking

breath, he was musing so deeply that he did not hear his cousin's step,

and Marcel, who saw his profile only, was profoundly impressed by the

expression of his face. That manly countenance did not as yet bear the

marks of sorrow which were already impairing Julie's beauty; but it had

the tense, drawn look of despair which Marcel had had an opportunity to

study on her face.

Julien spied his cousin, did not start at sight of him, and greeted him

with a smile. It was precisely the same smile of lifeless affability

with which Julie greeted him, a sweet but terrible smile, like that

which we sometimes see playing about the lips of a dying man.

"This looks bad!" thought Marcel. "He is devilishly strong, no doubt,

but he is probably the sicker of the two."

Marcel in his distress had not the strength to conceal his emotion. He

loved Julien dearly; his prudence deserted him.

"Tell me," he said, "is anything the matter, are you unhappy?"

"Yes, my friend, you know very well that I am unhappy," replied the

artist, dropping his spade and walking with his cousin under the trees.

"How could it possibly be otherwise? You are well aware that I loved a

certain woman, for my mother told you so. That woman has gone away.

Don't tell me that she will return; I know perfectly well that she must

return; but I know too that it is my duty never to seek her presence

again, and to say to myself that she is dead to me."

"And--have you the courage to accept that conclusion?" said Marcel.

"Yes, if it is my duty! You understand, my friend, that a man must

always accept his duty."

"Men submit to it with different degrees of courage: a man----"

"Yes, a man is a man. I am terribly unhappy, Marcel! I propose to endure

it. I could endure it alone, you may be sure of that, but you can help

me a little. Why do you refuse? What you have been doing the last two

months is very cruel."

"How can I help you?" said Marcel, suspecting some stratagem devised by

passion to discover Julie's retreat.

"_Mon Dieu!_" replied Julien, reading his friend's thoughts, "it's a

very simple matter; you can tell me that she is happier than I am, that

is all."

"How can I know?"

"You see her two or three times a week! Come, you have done your duty,

my friend! You have endured my anxiety with wonderful courage. You have

shown very great devotion to her and to me too, perhaps; but I have

discovered several things; I know where she is: I learned yesterday from

your son."

"Juliot doesn't know what he is saying; Juliot doesn't know her!"

"Juliot saw her one day at the play; he hasn't forgotten her. He doesn't

know her name, so he calls her the country client. He has often spoken

to me about her: her sweetness and fascination impressed him."

"Well, what then?"

"What then? Why, last Sunday the child went to the festival at Nanterre

with a comrade of his own age, to whose parents you had entrusted him

for that purpose."

"True!"

"The two boys eluded the watchfulness of the parents for a few moments,

and ran about the village. A tree heavily laden with fruit, hanging over

a low wall, tempted their mischievous instincts. Juliot climbed on his

comrade's shoulders and attacked the tree; and while he was filling his

pockets, he saw a woman whom he recognized pass at his feet. I know the

street, I made him describe the woman. I have been to Nanterre and made

inquiries in the neighborhood: I have learned that a Madame

d'Erlange--that is Julie under an assumed name--lived there with her

maid, that she never went out, that no one was watching her, and that

she lived alone _from inclination_; that she was not supposed to be ill,

although your son thought she had changed. In a word, I know that she is

a prisoner on parole, or that she is afraid of my importunities. Tell me

the real reason, Marcel. If it is the latter, tell her to come back, to

return to her house; tell her to have no fear; tell her that I swear by

all that I hold most sacred that she shall never see me again. Do you

understand, Marcel? Answer me and relieve me of the torture of

uncertainty."

"Well, it is all true," said Marcel after a moment's hesitation. "Madame

d'Estrelle is a prisoner on parole; but it is a parole which she herself

gave, and which no one compels her to observe. She is at liberty to

return; but she cannot see you any more."

"She _cannot_, or she _does not wish to?_"

"She neither can nor wishes to."

"Very good, Marcel, that is enough. Carry her my oath of submission and

bring her back to her own house. She is in dismal quarters now, and that

solitude must be ghastly. Let her come back to her friends, her

comforts, her liberty. Go instantly, go, I say! I don't wish her to

suffer another moment for me."

"All right, all right, I will go," said Marcel. "I am going; but what

about you?"

"As if it made any difference about me!" cried Julien. "What! haven't

you gone?"

And he took Marcel by the shoulders, embraced him and pushed him out of

the gate.

As soon as he had lost sight of him, he returned to his mother.

"Well," he said, with a smiling face, "everything is going better than I

hoped: Madame d'Estrelle is not a prisoner! She will soon return."

He watched his mother closely as he spoke. She uttered a joyful

exclamation, but a cloud passed over her brow at the same time. Julien

sat down beside her and took both her hands.

"Tell me the truth," he said; "the marriage project worries you a

little, doesn't it?"

"How can you think that I do not long most earnestly for anything that

will make you happy? But I thought, that you no longer hoped."

"I was entirely resigned, and you said as I did: 'Let us not be

discouraged, let us wait. Let us not think too much; perhaps she will

forget, and in that case perhaps you would do well to forget also.'"

"And you answered: 'I will forget if necessary.' And now I see that you

rely upon her more than ever."

"But don't you think that I have reason to rejoice. Tell me frankly if I

am under an illusion, for you must try to preserve me from it."

"Ah! my child, what shall I say to you? She is an adorable creature, and

I will adore her with you; but will she be happy with us?"

"You know that Monsieur Antoine proposes to deal almost as generously

with her as with us, that he will leave her a competence. So that

poverty, which terrified you so, is no longer to be dreaded. What is

tormenting you now?"

"Nothing, if she loves you."

"You sigh when you say that. Do you doubt it, pray?"

"I have doubted it hitherto, my child. What can you expect? if I am

unjust to her, it is the fault of you both. You had no confidence in me,

I did not see clearly the birth of your love, I did not follow its

different stages, and when you said to me one morning: 'We love each

other to distraction,' it seemed to me too sudden to be very serious. It

seemed to me that you hardly knew each other!--When I told your father

that I loved him, he had been at work three years decorating our house,

and I used to see him every day. Several good _partis_ had been proposed

to me, but I was very sure that I loved nobody but him. Julie stood in a

different position with respect to you. No marriage appropriate to her

condition and her ideas about love had ever been within her reach. She

was consumed with a craving for love, and was mortally bored without

admitting it. She saw you and esteemed you; you deserved it. You

attracted her, as it was natural that you should. Peculiar circumstances

brought you together, she thought that she loved you passionately. Has

she made a mistake? The future will tell us; but she fled just at the

moment when she said that she proposed to declare herself, she left you

to wait and suffer without sending you a word of consolation. If I have

doubted her, you must agree that appearances are against her!"

"Then you think that prejudice has more power over her than love? you

think that she lied when she talked to me enthusiastically of the modest

life she proposed to adopt, and told me how little she cared for honors

and titles?"

"I do not say that, I say that she may have made a mistake concerning

the strength of her attachment to you, and the reality of her distaste

for society."

"So that if somebody should tell you that you had guessed right, you

would not be surprised?"

"Not very much!"

"And not greatly grieved either?"

"If your regret for her should be very great, my grief would be equally

great, my poor child. If on the other hand you should bravely make the

best of it, I should say that it was better so, and that you can surely

find a more prudent and stronger-willed woman to love."

"Poor Julie!" said Julien to himself, "so her love for me was a mistake

and a weakness even in my mother's eyes!--Well, set your mind at rest,"

he said aloud. "She renounces the dream we dreamed together; she no

longer believes in it, she is afraid that I will remind her of it. All

that you foresaw has proved to be true; Marcel has just told me so. I

have given him my word that I will never see her again."

"Great Heaven!" exclaimed Madame Thierry in dismay, "how calmly you say

that! Is it true that you are really so tranquil in your mind as this?"

"As you see. I was overwhelmed the first few days, and I did not conceal

it from you to any great extent; but as time passed, I understood Madame

d'Estrelle's silence. The tranquillity that you observe to-day is the

result of two months of reflection. So don't be surprised at it, and

believe that I am proud enough and sensible enough to overcome the pain

I may have felt."

Julien's resolution was not feigned, he was perfectly honest in it. But

he suffered too keenly to half confess his suffering. The better way was

to refrain from any confession whatsoever.

In the evening, as it was very warm, Julien went out to take a bath in

the river. Ordinarily he joined a number of young artists employed in

the porcelain factory, whom he advised and instructed. But on this

evening, feeling that he must be alone, he avoided them and went to a

deserted spot on the outskirts of a piece of woodland. It was dull,

lowering weather; Julien jumped into the water mechanically, and

suddenly this thought came to his mind as he was swimming about:

"This is a terrible blow, from which I feel that I can never recover. If

I should stop paddling here for a few moments, the water would swallow

up my grief and keep the secret of my discouragement."

As he reflected thus, Julien ceased to swim and sank rapidly. He thought

of his mother's despair, and when he touched bottom, he pushed himself

up with his foot and returned to the surface. He was a good swimmer and

could play with death thus without any risk; but the temptation was

strong, and the thought of suicide produces a terrible vertigo. Three

times he abandoned himself to the temptation, with increasing

excitement, and three times he recovered himself, with decreasing

resolution. As a fourth paroxysm, more violent than the others, was

impending, Julien rushed ashore, afraid of himself, and threw himself on

the sand, crying:

"Forgive me, mother!"

And he wept bitterly for the first time since his father's death.

Tears did not relieve him. The tears of strong men are horrible cries

and stifling sobs. He blushed to feel that he was so weak, and had to

confess that he would be like that for a long while, perhaps forever. He

returned home, dissatisfied with himself, and almost cursing the days of

happiness he had enjoyed. He raged in his heart, and, wandering alone

through the garden, while his mother slept, and the lightning constantly

set the horizon on fire, he reproached his mother for loving him too

well, and depriving him of liberty to dispose of himself.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "to live always for some other than oneself is

downright slavery! I have no right to die! Why have I a mother? They who

belong to no one are the happiest; they can, if they still love a broken

life, hurl themselves into the dissipation which distracts the mind,

into the debauchery which intoxicates. But I have not even that right!

Nor have I the right to be depressed and ill. I must burn at a slow

fire, smiling all the while; a tear is a crime. I cannot breathe

heavily, dream, utter an exclamation in the night without my mother

rushing to my side, terrified and ill herself. I cannot depart from my

habits, go on a journey, seek oblivion and diversion in motion and

fatigue; anything of that sort would worry her. To live without me would

kill her. I must be a hero or a saint so that my mother may live! Happy

are the orphans and abandoned children! they are not doomed to bear a

burden beyond their strength!"

Julien had no sooner given vent to this revolt against destiny than

other blasphemies entered his mind. Why had Julie disturbed his dream of

self-sacrifice and virtue? Had he not accepted all the duties of his

position? had he not performed those duties faithfully? By what right

did that woman, because she was tired of solitude, take possession of

his solitude? Was it not cowardly and blameworthy of her to give him a

glimpse of the joys of heaven, although he neither hoped nor asked for

anything, and then leave him to the humiliation of having believed in

her?

"You have made me a miserable wretch!" he cried in the depths of his

wrathful heart; "you are the cause that I no longer esteem myself, that

I no longer love my art, that I curse my mother's love, that I no longer

believe in my strength of will, and that I have felt the shameful and

idiotic thirst for suicide. You deserve that I should revenge myself on

you, that I should go to you among your friends and reproach you with

the destruction of my beliefs, my peace of mind and my dignity. I will

do it, I will say it to you, I will trample you under my feet!"

Then he thought of the future which Julie apparently had in mind for

herself, and all the horrors of jealousy rose before him. He saw her in

the arms of another, and he dreamed of the murder of his rival in every

possible form.

He went out into the country and walked at random. He found himself once

more on the shore of the stream. The storm broke and the lightning

struck a tall tree not far from him. He darted in that direction, hoping

that another bolt would strike him. He roamed about in torrents of rain,

unheeding, and did not return until daybreak, ashamed to be seen in that

state of insanity. He slept two hours and woke completely crushed,

horribly frightened by what had taken place within him, and resolved not

to allow himself to be taken by storm again by a violent passion of

which he had not hitherto realized the extreme danger. He had much

difficulty in rising; he breakfasted with his mother.

"I have always believed," he said to her, "that love, being the supreme

blessing, should exalt us and sanctify us. I see now that love is the

very acme of selfishness, and that it may make us bloodthirsty or

idiotic. Love must be conquered; but love cannot be broken like a chain;

it must be allowed to die out little by little."

Julien had a violent attack of fever and delirium; his mother divined

his suffering, and she too cursed poor Julie in her heart.

Meanwhile Marcel had gone to see Julie.

"Madame," he said, "you must return to your own house."

"Never, my friend," she replied, with her heartrending sweetness; "I am

very comfortable here, I live on my little income, I lack nothing, I am

not unhappy, and unless you want to occupy this house----"

"This house is not mine; I deceived you about it; but you are at liberty

to remain here, unless, out of regard for Julien, you will consent to

what I ask."

"For Julien, you say? What do you mean?"

"Julien knows where you are. He knows that you do not propose to see him

again. He swears that he will not try to disobey you. He submits

absolutely to a decision, of the reason for which he is ignorant. You

have, therefore, no further cause for remaining in concealment."

"Ah! very well," said Julie, with a bewildered air; "but in that

case--where shall I go?"

"To your house in Paris."

"I no longer have a house."

"Possibly; but you are supposed to own your hôtel temporarily. People

suppose that you are engaged in arranging a settlement with Monsieur

Antoine. You must show yourself, so that a mysteriously prolonged

absence may not furnish food for slanderous suspicions."

"What do you expect people will say?"

"All that they can say of a woman who has something to conceal."

"What does it matter to me?"

"For Julien's sake you ought to be most careful of your reputation,

which we have succeeded thus far in preserving intact."

"Julien knows perfectly well that I have nothing with which to reproach

myself."

"It is because he knows it that he will fly at the throat of the first

man who presumes to say a word against you."

"Let us go, then," said Julie, ringing for Camille. "I will do whatever

you choose, my friend, provided that I need never see Monsieur Antoine

again!"

"Do not say that, madame; I have a single remaining hope."

"Ah! you still have hope, have you?" said Julie with her heartrending

smile.

"I should lie if I said that it was very well founded," replied Marcel,

sadly; "but I cannot abandon it until the last extremity. Do not deprive

me of the means of breaking down Monsieur Antoine's obstinacy."

"What is the use?" queried Julie. "Didn't you tell me that the marriage

of a titled woman to a plebeian meant unhappiness, persecution and a

horrible struggle for the plebeian?"

"Ah! madame, if the plebeian were very rich, most people would forgive

you."

"Then you would have me ask your uncle to enrich the man I love? I must

dishonor myself in my own eyes--in Julien's too, perhaps--to earn the

forgiveness of a society without honor and without heart? You ask too

much of me, Marcel; you abuse my utter prostration. May God give me

strength to do but one thing,--resist you; for, after that disgrace, I

should feel that I had delayed too long to die."

Poor Marcel was overdone with fatigue and disappointment. He wore

himself out in words and efforts of every sort, and he succeeded only in

rescuing all his friends from poverty and saving the material comforts

of life for them. He could do nothing for their mental condition, and he

said to his wife every night:

"My dear love, there is nothing falser than reality! I am moving heaven

and earth to provide them with the means of living, and I succeed only

in killing them by inches."

VIII

Julie returned to Paris. She found there her luxurious surroundings, her

carriages, her jewels and her servants. Monsieur Antoine had looked

after everything; nothing about her was changed. She paid no heed to

anything. In vain did Marcel hope that she would experience a sort of

satisfaction, even if it were only a matter of instinct, in returning to

her ordinary surroundings. He was alarmed and almost vexed by that

immovable indifference. He had notified those of her friends whom he was

able to reach, in order to force her to be on her guard before them. She

greeted them without warmth, and when they expressed concern at her

pallor and her air of depression, she attributed everything to a cold

she had taken on the journey, which had detained her in the country an

unconscionably long time. It was nothing, she said. She had been much

worse; she was better now. She had preferred not to write in order not

to make her friends anxious. She promised to see her physician and to

get well.

Two days later the Baronne d'Ancourt appeared.

"I did you an ill turn," she said; "I am sorry, and I have come to ask

you to forgive me."

"I bore you no grudge," Madame d'Estrelle replied.

"Yes, I know that you are either a great philosopher or a great saint;

but you are a woman all the same, my friend; you have been persecuted

and you are suffering!"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh! _mon Dieu!_ I know that the persecution by your creditors has

lasted long enough for you to have become used to it, but it seems that

the time came when you were within an ace of losing everything. They say

that you obtained another respite, but with much difficulty, and with

the certainty that it was merely falling back so as to jump higher. You

told Madame Desmorges that, didn't you?"

"Yes, it is true. I am only here now pending a final settlement."

"But you will save something?"

"I have no desire to save anything that came from Monsieur d'Estrelle.

It is my duty and my purpose to give up everything."

"Oh! in that case I see why you are so pale and so changed! I had

understood that you displayed wonderful resignation, but that you were

sick with anxiety. Now, my dear, you make a mistake in rejecting the

consolations of your friends. It is a noble rôle that you are playing,

but it will kill you! If I were in your place I would shriek and

complain! That would not remedy anything, but it would relieve me. And

then people would talk about it; society would be interested in me. It

is always a comfort to attract attention; whereas you allow yourself to

be buried alive without saying a word, and society, which is supremely

selfish, forgets you. They were talking about you last night at the

Duchesse de B----'s. 'That poor Madame d'Estrelle,' they said, 'you know

she is really ruined? She won't have enough to hire a cab in which to

pay her visits.'--'What!' said the Marquis de S----, 'we shall see such

a pretty woman as she is splashed with mud like a spaniel! Impossible!

it's sickening. Is she very miserable over it?'--'Why, no,' Madame

Desmorges replied. 'She says that she will get along. She is an

astonishing creature.' Thereupon they began to talk about something

else. The moment that you show that you are brave, no one thinks of

pitying you, especially as it's so convenient to think of no one but

oneself."

Julie contented herself with a smile.

"You have a smile that frightens me!" continued the baroness. "Do you

know, my dear, I believe you are very ill? Oh! I don't believe in

sparing people. If you do that, a person may neglect herself and die, or

else drag along in misery and become ugly; and that is even worse than

dying. Take care of yourself, Julie, don't abuse your health as you are

doing. Your great courage won't carry you as far as you think, I tell

you! Everyone knows that it is not possible to lose everything without a

regret. Look you, I propose to tell you again, even though I make you

angry, that you did very wrong not to marry that rich old fellow, and

perhaps it is not too late to change your mind. No one would blame you

now; when a woman no longer has anything----"

"Are you entrusted with new proposals from him?" queried Julie, with

some bitterness.

"No, I haven't seen him since the day you and I fell out because of him.

He has made several attempts to surprise me, but I had barricaded myself

against his visits. But I don't say this to turn you against him. If he

comes again, don't turn him away, and, if he marries you, be very sure

that I will take it on myself to receive him on your account."

"You are too kind!" said Julie.

"Come, come! you are still distant and haughty with me. And yet I am

your friend; I have proved it. I broke a lance for you not long ago.

Some cowardly wretch of the Marquise d'Estrelle's set ventured to cast

a slur on you because of a little painter; you know, the son of the

famous Thierry, who lived at the end of your garden, by the way. I

imposed silence on him; I said that a woman like you did not dishonor

herself by being of a sociable disposition; and then, all of a sudden, I

was seconded by Abbé de Nivières, who said: 'That young man doesn't

even know her; he has gone to Sèvres to live with his mother. He is an

excellent young man; he says that he never saw Madame d'Estrelle in all

the time that he lived near her, and it is the truth.'--By the way, you

are interested in those people, aren't you, the mother especially? Do

you ever see her now?"

"She no longer needs me, I have no reason to see her."

"Then I see that everything is all right, except your health, which

disturbs me. Will you come to Chantilly with me? I am going to pass a

month there; we shall see plenty of society, and perhaps it will set you

up; then, if you recover your lovely coloring, perhaps we shall find a

husband for you."

Madame d'Ancourt departed at last, chattering volubly, offering her

services, and sympathizing with her friend to the very step of her

carriage, abusing egotists, and in reality caring for nothing on earth

but herself.

"She is too proud and too suspicious, that Julie," she said to herself.

"Faith, I'll not go to see her again very soon! She is distressing. If

she needs me, she will know where to find me."

It was almost the same story with all Madame d'Estrelle's acquaintances.

She had never understood so well the abandonment which befalls all those

who abandon themselves, and she abandoned herself the more completely in

that she felt that her heart was becoming withered.

When she had passed several days without apparently giving any thought

to the subject of her future action, she roused herself one morning to

say to Marcel:

"I have done what you wished me to do; I have shown myself and explained

my absence; I have said that I am to go away before long. It is time to

have done with it and to turn over the house to Monsieur Antoine. It is

my purpose to go to live in the provinces, in some lonely place where I

shall be entirely forgotten. I shall take nobody but Camille. Do me the

favor to advise me in the selection of an out-of-the-way place and a

very modest dwelling."

"There is one great difficulty," said Marcel, "and that is that Monsieur

Antoine will not assent to any settlement, that his receipt in full is

in my wallet, and that he has not yet any idea that it has not been

accepted."

"You took that receipt from him!" exclaimed Julie indignantly. "He

believes that I will accept it! You had not the courage to tear it up

and throw the pieces in his face! Oh! I beg your pardon, Marcel, I

forget that he is your kinsman, that for your own sake you must treat

him gently. Very well, give me the receipt, and bring Monsieur Antoine

to me. This must be settled to-day; I will undertake to settle it."

"Take care, madame," said Marcel, in whose breast a faint hope revived,

as he discovered the vulnerable point in Madame d'Estrelle, at which

lightning-flashes of energy could still be produced. "Monsieur Antoine

is very irritable too, his self-esteem is bent upon having you for his

debtor. Do not so act with him that he will detest Julien."

"Is not Julien's future assured?"

"Yes, if all the conditions of the arrangement are observed; and I

should lie if I told you that Monsieur Antoine is aware of your refusal

to observe that one in which you are concerned."

"Oh! _mon Dieu!_ what a position you have put me in, Marcel! With your

blind devotion to practical affairs, with your obstinate determination

to save me from poverty, you have degraded me! That man believes that I

have sold my heart, that he has bought it with his money, and Julien

also believes that I have betrayed love for wealth! Ah! you would have

done better to kill me! To-day I feel that I cannot bear it all, and

that I must die!"

Julie sobbed as if her heart would break; it was a long time since she

had wept. Marcel preferred to see her so, rather than changed into a

statue; he hoped for some favorable result from a violent paroxysm. He

tried deliberately to cause it.

"Scold me, curse me," he said to her; "I did it all for Julien."

"That is true of course," replied Julie; "I do wrong to blame you for

it. Forgive me, my friend. Are you perfectly sure that if I offend

Monsieur Antoine by my refusal, everything that he has done for Julien

will be in danger of being undone?"

"Indubitably, and Monsieur Antoine will be justified on equitable

grounds. He is waiting, with an impatience which begins to alarm me, for

you to proclaim his merits and cease to be ashamed of his benefactions.

You must drink this cup, you must drink it for love of Julien, if, as I

suppose, that love is not dead!"

"Let us not talk about that; I will drink the cup to the dregs. But how

shall we explain to the world the generosity which I am forced to

accept? What reason can we give for it? The world will suppose that I

have fawned upon that old man, that I have bewitched him by degrading

coquetries; perhaps they will say something worse."

"Yes, madame," said Marcel, determined to venture upon one supreme test

to make sure of Julie's sentiments, "the evil-minded will say all that,

and I do not as yet see any way to prevent their saying it. We will try

to find a way; but if we cannot, will your devotion to Julien go so far

as the sacrifice I ask?"

"Yes," said Madame d'Estrelle, "I will go on to the end! Tell me, is

there not something to sign?"

And she thought:

"I will kill myself afterward!"

"You have to enter into no new engagements," replied Marcel; "but you

must consent to receive Monsieur Antoine and thank him. I am certain now

that he would really make Julien a rich man if you would agree to a sort

of reconciliation."

"Bring Monsieur Antoine here," said Julie.--"I will kill myself

to-night," she said to herself when Marcel had gone.

Julie's love had made such progress in her despair that she was no

longer capable of sound reasoning. Her love had become an accepted

martyrdom; she lived wholly on the excitement of that martyrdom.

She wrote to Julien:

"Here is the key to the pavilion. Come at midnight; you will find me

there. I am going on a long journey. I want to say adieu to you

forever."

She put the key in the letter, sealed it, ordered the most reliable of

her servants to mount and ride at full speed to Sèvres, and bring her a

reply. It was five o'clock in the afternoon.

She went out into the garden to await Monsieur Antoine and stopped on

the edge of the pond. The water was not very deep; but by lying down at

full length!--One who wants to die can always find a way. The variety of

suicide which had so tempted Julien a few days before, suggested itself

to her with ghastly tranquillity.

"Nobody else on earth cares for me," she thought. "As I cannot be his, I

will not be any man's. An infernal hatred has seized me by the throat

and strangled me in the midst of my life and my happiness. They are not

satisfied to deprive me of love and liberty, they seek to deprive me of

honor too. Marcel himself said that I must consent to be reputed that

old man's mistress. Ah! if Julien knew that, how he would abhor the

comfort in which his mother is living! And if she should suspect

it!--They shall both remain in ignorance of it, I am determined; my

death will be the result of an accident. It will be impossible to

retract the bargain we are about to make. Julien will be rich and

honored. No one will ever guess at what price."

Once more the thought passed through Julie's mind that it was in her

power and Julien's to shake off all these chains and to be united in

spite of poverty.

"He would be happier so," she thought, "and perhaps I am sacrificing

myself to his undoing! But who knows where Monsieur Antoine's hatred

would stop? A raving maniac is capable of anything; perhaps he would

have him murdered. Has he not secret agents, spies, cutthroats, in his

service?"

Her brain was in a whirl, she walked round and round the basin as if she

were impatiently awaiting the fatal hour. And then, when she thought

that she was about to see Julien again, her heart returned to life with

a mighty throb, and beat as if it would burst. She had no feeling of

remorse, no scruple about breaking oaths extorted from her by the most

revolting moral constraint.

"When one is at the point of death," she said to herself, "one has the

right to protest before God against the iniquity of his executioners."

At that moment there was an extraordinary power of reaction in that

woman, naturally so gentle and submissive. It was like the sudden

boiling of a placid lake, caused by a volcanic disturbance, or like the

blazing up of a flame just on the point of dying. She was feverish, she

was no longer herself.

She saw Monsieur Antoine approaching with Marcel, and she mechanically

seated herself, to receive him, on the bench where, three months

earlier, the old man had made the strange and absurd proposition, her

rejection of which had cost her so dear. As on that day, she heard the

foliage rustle and saw the sparrow Julien had tamed flapping his wings

and apparently hesitating whether he should light on her shoulder. The

little creature had taken a liking to freedom. Julien, being unable to

find him as they were going away, had left him behind, hoping that

Julie, whose long absence he did not foresee, would be very glad to find

him there. Since her return, Julie had seen him several times not far

away, friendly but suspicious. She had tried in vain to induce him to

come nearer. But this time he allowed himself to be caught. She was

holding him in her hands when Monsieur Antoine accosted her.

She smiled and saluted him with a bewildered air; he spoke to her,

unconscious of what he was saying, for his long exercise of absolutely

despotic power had failed to overcome his timidity at the beginning of

an interview. After his inevitable moment of stammering, he could

succeed in saying nothing more than this:

"Ah! so you still have your sparrow?"

"It is Julien's sparrow and I love it," replied Julie. "Here, do you

want to kill it? Here it is!"

Her manner of speaking, her livid pallor, and the savagely indifferent

air with which she offered him the poor little bird, all warm with her

kisses, made a profound impression on Monsieur Antoine. He looked at

Marcel as if to say: "Is she mad, I wonder?" and instead of twisting the

sparrow's neck as he would have done three months earlier, he pushed it

away, saying stupidly:

"Psha! psha! keep the thing! There's no great harm in it!"

"You are so kind!" rejoined Julie, with the same feverish bitterness.

"You have come to receive my thanks, haven't you? You know that I accept

everything, that I am happy now, that I no longer love anything or

anybody, that you have done me the very greatest service, and that you

can say to God every night: 'I have been good and great like unto

Thee!'"

Monsieur Antoine stood with his mouth open, uncertain whether Madame

d'Estrelle said these things to make sport of him or to thank him; too

cunning to trust, too dull to understand.

"She is going to fly in my face," he whispered to Marcel. "You deceived

me, you rascal!"

"No, uncle," Marcel replied aloud. "Madame la comtesse is thanking you.

She is very ill, as you see; do not ask her to make long speeches."

Marcel had relied on the impression that the alteration in Julie's

features would probably produce on Monsieur Antoine. That impression was

in truth profound. He stared at her with a dazed, cruel, yet terrified

expression, and said to himself with a joy not unmingled with terror:

"That is my work!"

"Madame," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "I said that I would be

revenged on you, that I would force you to ask my pardon for your

insults. Do you want to get through with it and admit that you were in

the wrong? I ask nothing but that."

"What is my offence?" said Julie. "Explain it so that I may know what it

is."

Antoine was sorely embarrassed to reply, and his anger, which had almost

disappeared, reawoke, as always happened when he had no charge to make

which would bear the test of common sense.

"Ah! so you don't think you have insulted me?" he said. "Very good,

_mordi!_ you shall ask my pardon in so many words if you don't want

Julien to have to pay for you."

"Must I ask your pardon on my knees?" queried Julie, with a heartrending

attempt at arrogance.

"Suppose that I should demand that?" retorted the old man, dizzy with

anger when he felt that he was defied.

"Here I am!" said Madame d'Estrelle, kneeling before him.

That was for her the last station on the road of martyrdom, the apology

which the innocent victim was compelled to make, with the rope about the

neck and the torch in the hand, before ascending the scaffold. At that

moment of sublime self-immolation, her angered heart suddenly

overflowed, her face became transfigured, she smiled the ecstatic smile

of the saints, and the ineffable beauty of heaven revealed was reflected

in her eyes.

Antoine did not understand, but he was dazzled. His anger subsided, not

under the influence of emotion, but before a sort of superstitious

terror.

"That is all right," he said. "I am satisfied and I forgive Julien.

Adieu!"

He turned his back and fled.

Marcel said to Julie a few encouraging words, which she did not hear or

did not try to understand; then he ran after Monsieur Antoine.

"Now, my excellent uncle," he said in the boldest and most stinging tone

he had yet adopted with him, "you should be satisfied, indeed; you have

killed Madame d'Estrelle!"

"Killed her?" said his uncle, turning abruptly upon him. "What infernal

nonsense is that?"

"The nonsense would consist in taking her joy and her gratitude

seriously, and you surely are not capable of that. That woman is in

despair, she is dying of grief."

"You lie, you are dodging the question! She is still a little angry, she

is sick on account of the way I have thwarted her lately; but in reality

she is making the best of it, and while she may be chafing at her bit,

she sees well enough that I am saving her in spite of her."

"You save her from the chances of the future, it is true, and you take

the surest means to do it, by depriving her of life."

"Well, well, there's another dodge! She caught cold passing the nights

in the garden with her lover! And then she was bored to death in that

convent at Chaillot, and even more in that barrack at Nanterre, where

she was absolutely alone! You see that it was no use for her to hide, I

know every place she has been to. I never lost track of her. You can't

fool me! I saw the convent doctor: he told me that she had a streak of

melancholy in her disposition, but that she had no serious disease. I

have seen her Paris doctor too; he says that he knows nothing about her

sickness. If it was anything serious he'd know what it was, deuce take

it! _I_ know; she's angry; people don't die of that, and now she'll get

better, I give you my word."

"And I," said Marcel, "give you my word that, with another week of the

despair in which you are plunging her deeper and deeper, she will be

lost beyond recall."

"Oho! so she loves that young dauber of canvas very dearly, does she?

How about him, does he still think of her?"

"Julien's as badly off as she is, and in quite as alarming a frame of

mind. I determined to make sure of it; I forced a confession from him

with much difficulty, for he is not a man to complain. As for her, two

whole months have passed and I haven't succeeded in extorting a word

from her. To-day, I determined to force her to the wall; I succeeded,

and now my mind is made up."

"To what? what do you propose to do?"

"I propose to destroy the two papers I have in my pocket; your receipt,

which I have taken back from Madame d'Estrelle, and her promise never to

see Julien again, which I have not yet delivered to you. You entrusted

both of them to me, telling me to exchange your reciprocal pledges. I

place you on your original footing by destroying them both. We must

start afresh, and as I know your intentions and hers, I tell you now

that Madame d'Estrelle will accept nothing from you, and that you can

take possession of everything that belongs to her. Thus far she has

followed my advice blindly; I have changed my views, and, as I have no

desire to see her die, I advise her to retract her consent to

everything."

"Why, you're a miserable knave!" said Monsieur Antoine, stopping short

in the middle of the street and shouting at the top of his voice. "I

don't know what keeps me from breaking my cane over your shoulders!"

"Knave indeed! when I give you back all your money and recover nothing

for my client but the right to live in poverty! Nonsense! Just sue her

and have the case aired in court, if you want to cover yourself with

ridicule and shame!"

"But Julien! Julien, whom I have made rich, you scoundrel! This is what

I foresaw! You have cheated me----

"Not at all, uncle! Julien has been seriously ill of late, he is still,

and his mother said to me: 'Do whatever you choose. Let us return

everything to Monsieur Antoine, and let Julie be restored to us!' So

there you are, uncle. You don't lose an obolus, you recover principal

and interest, and you leave us at liberty to live as we please, with no

risk of losing our liberty by reason of any stipulation imposed by law

or by private agreement."

"Why, you miserable villain, how you recant! I took you for a sensible

man, you agreed with me entirely, you disapproved of their marriage, you

worked with me to provide for their happiness----"

"True, until the day when I saw that happiness was taking them

straight to the tomb."

"They are mad!"

"Yes, uncle, they are mad; love is a form of madness; but when it is

incurable we must yield to it, and I yield."

"Very good!" retorted Monsieur Antoine, flattening his hat over his eyes

with a vicious blow. "Go and tell that lady to get out of her house,

that is to say my house, instantly. I will go to Sèvres and pack off

the others. If the whole lot of them are not on the street in two hours,

I'll send bailiffs, police agents--I'll set the houses on fire,

I'll----"

His frantic threats became inaudible as he rushed madly away. He left

Marcel in the street and returned home, unconsciously parodying Orestes

pursued by the Furies. Marcel, undismayed, quietly followed him, and

disregarded the orders already given to admit no one; he was determined

to come to blows with the servants if necessary.

"You mean to go to Sèvres, do you?" he said. "I will go with you."

"That's as you choose," said Uncle Antoine, with lowering brow. "Have

you notified Madame Julie to clear out of my house?"

"Yes, that is done," replied Marcel, for he saw that the old man had

lost his head completely, and that he did not know how few were the

minutes passed since their altercation in the street.

"Is she packing up? Is she taking away----"

"She takes nothing," said Marcel; "she leaves everything for you. Are we

going to Sèvres? Have you ordered the cab?"

"My chaise and farm horse will go faster. They are being harnessed."

He sat down on the edge of a table and seemed absorbed by his

reflections. Marcel sat down opposite him, determined not to lose sight

of him, at times fearing for his reason, at times dreading some

diabolical suggestion of his wrath. When they entered the carriage, it

was seven o'clock at night; Marcel broke the silence.

"What are we going to do at Sèvres?" he inquired.

"You will see!" Monsieur Antoine replied.

After about fifteen minutes Marcel spoke again.

"There is no need of your going there," he said. "The documents are in

my office; it is simply a matter of tearing them up, and I will not

allow you to make an absurd scene at my aunt's, I warn you. She is

exceedingly anxious, for Julien is very ill, as I told you."

"And you lied like a dog!" retorted Monsieur Antoine.

As he spoke he pointed to a hired cabriolet which was just passing them.

Julien, pale and downcast, with contracted brow and preoccupied,

determined air, was in the vehicle, and passed close to them without

seeing them. He had received Julie's note; he had forced himself to

rise, and, as he wished to ask Marcel some questions before keeping the

appointment, he was driving in season to Paris.

"If he is the one you want to speak to," said Marcel, "let us turn back;

I will wager that he is going to see me!"

"He is not the one I want to speak to," rejoined Monsieur Antoine,

satirically, "since he is dying."

"Did you think he looked well?" demanded Marcel.

The uncle relapsed into his sullen silence. They went on toward Sèvres.

Did he himself know what he was going to do there? Let us confess the

truth--he had absolutely no idea. He was conscious that his mind was in

great confusion, and his meditation was simply a sort of painful

uneasiness concerning the discomfort he felt.

"With all this," he thought, "I shall be the sickest of the three if I

don't look out. Anger is an excellent thing; it keeps one alive, it

helps out old age, and it is all up with an old man who allows himself

to be led by the nose; but we shouldn't take too big a dose of it at

once, and it would be well for me to cool off a little."

Thereupon, with a strength of will which would have made him a

remarkable man if he had had better instincts or better guidance, he

determined to take a nap, and slept quietly until the carriage entered

the streets of Sèvres.

Marcel was strongly tempted to order the coachman to return to Paris

without his uncle's knowledge; but would the man have obeyed? Moreover,

as Julien was out of the way, would it not be well to find out how

Monsieur Antoine proposed to act with regard to Madame Thierry? He stood

greatly in awe of her. Would he dare to tell her to her face that he

proposed to take back his gifts?

Sleep restored Monsieur Antoine to himself--that is to say to his

chronic state of deliberate aversion, jealous self-love, and brooding

resentment. They found Madame Thierry in front of a fine portrait of her

husband, at which she was gazing earnestly as if seeking in the cheering

serenity of that refined face the confidence in the future which had

always sustained that fascinating man's happy temperament. Marcel had

just time to hurry into the room first and say to her hastily:

"Monsieur Antoine is at my heels; he is in a rage. You can save

everything by much patience and firmness."

"_Mon Dieu!_ what shall I say to him?"

"That you give back what he has given you, but that you thank him for

it. Julie adores Julien. Everything depends on uncle. Here he is!"

"Will you leave me alone with him?"

"Yes, he insists upon it; but I will be close at hand, ready to

interfere if necessary."

Marcel walked quickly into an adjoining cabinet, threw himself into a

chair and waited. Monsieur Antoine entered Madame Thierry's salon by the

other door. He was less timid when he did not feel Marcel's searching

eye fixed upon him.

"Your servant, Madame André," he said on entering. "Are you alone?"

Madame Thierry rose, answered affirmatively, and courteously waved him

to a chair.

Her face, too, was greatly changed. She had passed several nights by her

son's bedside, and, when he insisted upon getting up and going away

despite her entreaties, she realized that the momentous crisis of the

drama of his life was at hand.

"Your son is sick?" Monsieur Antoine began.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Seriously?"

"God grant that he is not!"

"Does he keep his bed?"

"He got up a short time ago."

"Can I see him?"

"He has gone out, monsieur."

"Then he isn't so very sick?"

"He was very sick until last night, when he seemed a little better."

"What was the matter with him?"

"Fever and delirium."

"Sunstroke?"

"No, monsieur."

"Unhappiness, perhaps?"

"Yes, monsieur, great unhappiness."

"Because he's in love?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"But it's a stupid thing to be in love when one might be rich."

"It is of no use arguing about it, monsieur."

"Do you know what proposition I have come to make to you?"

"No, monsieur."

"If you will send your son to America, I will place a considerable sum

of money in his hands, I will direct his operations, and in ten years he

will return with thirty thousand francs a year."

"On what conditions, monsieur?"

"On condition that he says good-bye to a certain lady of our

acquaintance, that's all."

"And if he refuses?"

"If he refuses--and that is what I expect, I have been warned--a certain

agreement between him and me with regard to that lady is null and void."

"Very good, monsieur, I understand! You have a right to do it, and we

submit."

"But you can resist; you weren't consulted about accepting my presents,

you didn't know the conditions agreed upon between Madame d'Estrelle and

me. There is ground for a lawsuit, and I might lose it by means of a

little bad faith on the part of my opponents."

"If you regard my son and myself as your opponents, you may rest easy,

monsieur; we renounce your benefactions, without a shadow of

hesitation."

"Ah! yes, my benefactions! they are a burden to you, they make you

blush!"

"As we did not know that they put fetters on a person who is dear to us,

they did not make us blush; indeed--I may say, monsieur," added Madame

Thierry, with a mighty effort due to her devotion to her son, "your name

would have been blessed in this house, if we had been certain that we

owed that generosity to your solicitude for our welfare. Whatever its

cause, and brief as its duration has been, we have been happy, amid all

our troubles and anxieties, to live in this house once more and to enjoy

to the full our most cherished memories. You bid us leave them, and we

obey; but it remains for me to thank you----"

"You, madame?" said Antoine, gazing fixedly at her.

"Yes, for me to thank you for the two months you have allowed me to pass

here. The idea of never seeing the house again was very painful to me;

it will be less so henceforth, and I shall look back to this brief stay

here as to a last pleasant dream which will count for much in my life

and for which I shall be indebted to you."

Madame Thierry spoke in a sweet voice and with a refined accent which

had always made her very fascinating. In his moments of spleen Monsieur

Antoine sourly called her the _fine talker._ He felt none the less the

ascendancy of that still fresh voice, which caressed his ear with mild

and almost respectful words. He had but little comprehension of

sentimental refinement, but it seemed to him that he had found the

submissive instinct of which he was so greedy.

"Come, Madame André," he said, with the surly manner he always assumed

when his ill humor was beginning to retreat, "you know how to say all

you want to say; but, in reality, you can't endure me, you may as well

admit it!"

"I do not hate any one, monsieur; but you force me to confess that I am

afraid of you."

Nothing could have been more adroit than that reply. To inspire fear was

in Monsieur Antoine's opinion the noblest attribute of power. He

softened as if by a miracle, and said in an almost good-humored tone:

"Why in the devil are you afraid of me?"

Madame André had the penetration of women who have lived much in

society, and the shrewdness of a mother pleading her child's cause. She

saw what a long step forward she had taken; she forgot, and this time

most opportunely, that she was sixty years old, and boldly decided to

play the coquette, although it cost her more dearly to employ that ruse

with Monsieur Antoine than with any other man.

"Brother," she said, "it rested entirely with you to retain my

confidence. I do not reproach you for betraying it; your intentions were

kind, but I misunderstood you. I was very young then, and in a plight

where everything made me suspicious. I had had no experience of life. I

thought that you were advising me to abandon André, whereas----"

"Whereas I said to you in so many words: 'Save him!'"

"Yes, that is true; your action was dictated by affection for him. Well,

you see, I was blind, obstinate, whatever you choose to call it; but

confess that you ought to have forgiven me for that, have treated me

like the child I was, and become my brother once more as in the past."

"You want me to admit that? Why, you always showed me the cold shoulder

after that."

"It was your place to laugh at my coldness, and to take my hand and say:

'Sister, you're a little fool; let us embrace and forget the past.'"

"Ah! you think that I should have----"

"The more entirely one is in the right, the more generous he should be!"

"You talk that way now."

"It is never too late to see what is right and to arrange things that

are out of place."

"So--now you are sorry that you wounded me?"

"I am sorry for it; but, if I ask your pardon, will you grant it?"

"Ah! the deuce! it's not the same thing now, my fine lady! You need me

now!"

"Yes, Monsieur Antoine, I do need you. My son is mad with grief; marry

him to the woman he loves."

"Ah! there we are!" cried Monsieur Antoine, flying into a rage again.

"We have been there all the time," replied Madame Thierry; "I have asked

you for nothing since you have been here except liberty of action for

Madame d'Estrelle."

"Yes, with plenty of money for everybody?"

"No, no money, nothing! the sacrifice is made. Let us remain here as

tenants, we will gladly pay for the privilege. And, if you are not

willing--why, your will shall be done; but turn us away without hatred

and forgive us for being happy, for we shall be, even in poverty, if our

hearts are content with one another, if we can say to one another that

our happiness is no longer a source of affliction to you."

Monsieur Antoine felt that he was beaten; he was ashamed of it and clung

to the last straw.

"That is your pride," he said; "it's always the same thing however you

change it! The rich man's money is the object of your scorn! You snap

your fingers at it!--'Take it all back, we want nothing, we haven't any

needs! we live on air! What is this money? No better than pebbles to

sensible minds!' And yet, my fine lady, money honestly earned by a man

who had nothing on his side but his natural genius, ought to count for

something! It's the working-bee's honey, it's the tropical flower which

is made to bloom in an _artificial_ climate by the patience and skill of

a master gardener. Ah! that is nothing, you think? With all his wit, my

poor brother only succeeded in using up the money he earned by working

like a hod-carrier. But I know how to make a different use of money; I

save it, I add to it every day, and I make people happy when I choose!"

"What are you driving at, Monsieur Antoine?" said Madame Thierry, as she

saw Marcel making unintelligible signs to her through the door behind

Monsieur Antoine.

"I am driving at this, that you are not so good a mother as you think.

You are willing to sacrifice everything to your son except your contempt

for the money that comes from me. In heaven's name, do you think I stole

it, does my gold stink?"

"But why, in heaven's name, do you say such things to me? why do you

suppose that I refuse you the esteem you deserve?"

"Because, if you were a good mother, instead of talking this sort of

nonsense to me, you would say: 'Brother, we are unfortunate and you are

rich; you can save us. We are a little out of our heads, we want to pay

court to Madame d'Estrelle, but that is no reason for leaving us without

bread. Come, forgive us for everything at once! indulge us with love and

with bread to eat; it is humiliating to us, but no matter! We know that

you are a noble-hearted and generous man; you will have pity on us and

grant us all we ask!'--Yes, Madame André, that is what you would say,

what you would ask on your knees, if, instead of being a great lady, you

were really a good mother!"

Madame Thierry was speechless with surprise. She looked at Marcel, who,

unseen by Monsieur Antoine, urged her by most energetic pantomime to

yield to the old fellow's whim. The poor woman had a sinking at the

heart, but she did not hesitate; she slipped from the chair to her

hassock, on which she knelt, and said, taking both Monsieur Antoine's

hands:

"You are right, brother, you teach me my duty. I surrender. Be the

noblest of men, forgive everything and grant everything."

"At last! Good!" cried Monsieur Antoine, rising; "and when people are

reconciled, they embrace, don't they?"

Madame Thierry embraced him, and Marcel entered to congratulate them.

"Well," said the horticulturist, "you're a great fool, aren't you,

master pettifogger? It was very pretty, your scheme of rebellion! to

smash and break everything! What! reduce your client and your family to

want, all rather than give way to the rich man, the powerful man, the

natural enemy of those who have nothing and don't know how to earn

anything! A fine solicitor, on my word, who can't obtain anything for

his clients but love and rye bread! Luckily women are brighter than

that! Here are two who sent me to the devil, and both of them have bent

the knee to me to-night. Well, it is done, madame my sister! I shall

never remind you of this, for I am generous, and when people do what I

want I know how to reward them. Your son shall marry the fair countess,

whom I must turn out of her house because of what the world may say; but

the hôtel D'Estrelle with twenty-five thousand francs a year, shall be

Julien's marriage portion. That's the way I do things, and I know that

you will thank me for it to-morrow in earnest; for I am not deceived by

the politics of the present day; but you have done what I wanted, you

have submitted, I asked nothing but that."

"You shall have more than that," said Madame Thierry, "you shall have

the affection of warm and sincere hearts, and you shall know such

happiness as you might have known long ago; but we will do all we can to

make up for lost time."

"That is mere talk," said Monsieur Antoine. "Happiness is being one's

own master, and I don't need anybody to be mine. I don't like brats and

mawkish sentiment; I wasn't made to be the father of a family, but I

could have governed a country very well, if I had been born a king. It

has always been my whim to command, and I reign over whatever is within

my reach much better than many monarchs who don't know what they are

doing!"

Despite the anxiety which Julien's absence caused her, and her longing

to send Marcel after him, Madame Thierry felt called upon to invite

Monsieur Antoine to supper.

"Oh!" said he, "I sup on a hard crust of bread and a glass of cheap

wine. That is my habit: I have never cared much about eating."

She gave him what he asked for, and Marcel hastened their departure.

"I am sure that Julien is at my house waiting for me," he said to his

aunt. "He must be impatient because I do not return; but my wife is

there, and she will keep him quiet; Juliot will chatter to him, and if

he should be sicker, you may be sure that he is well taken care of."

Julien was frantically impatient in very truth, despite the attentions

which Madame Marcel lavished upon him. He had felt exceedingly weak when

he arrived. He had tried to eat a little and to divert his thoughts with

his godson's pretty prattle; but, as Marcel did not appear, when he

heard the clock strike eleven, he could stand it no longer. He declared

that his mother would be anxious if he had not returned at midnight; he

promised to take a cab to return to Sèvres, and started for Rue de

Babylone on foot, with many detours and precautions, to avoid being

watched and followed, as formerly, by some agent of Monsieur Antoine. He

arrived unmolested. His actions were no longer watched. Monsieur Antoine

had been spying upon Julie too long not to be sure that she no longer

had any relations with Julien.

At midnight, Julien, who had been at the door fifteen minutes, entered

and found Julie, who also had been waiting fifteen minutes in the

pavilion. At the same moment Marcel, Monsieur Antoine, and Madame

Thierry entered Paris by the Barrière de Sèvres. Monsieur Antoine's

frugal supper and slow conversation had lasted a little too long to suit

the widow. Being anxious about her son, she had asked for a seat in the

chaise, that she might join Julien at Marcel's.

As the moment for his meeting with Julie drew near, Julien had summoned

all his courage. He anticipated a painful explanation, he had taken an

inward oath that he would be neither angry nor reproachful nor weak, and

yet, when he opened the door, his hand trembled, a giddiness born of

frenzy and despair made him hesitate and recoil; but, the instant that

she saw him, Julie uttered a joyful cry, threw her arms about his neck,

and strained him passionately to her heart. They were in the dark, they

could not see how changed they both were. They felt that their kisses

were burning, and it did not occur to either of them that it might be

with fever. At that moment the only fever was that fever of love which

gives life. They had forgotten that which causes death.

But that moment of intoxication did not long endure in Julien's case.

More alarmed than exhilarated by Julie's caresses, he hastily pushed her

away.

"Why do you still love me," he said, "if you still intend to leave me?"

"Oh! perhaps it won't be for long!" she replied.

"You wrote me that this was an eternal farewell."

"I don't know what I wrote, I was mad; but there can be no eternal

farewell, it is not possible when two people love as we do."

"Then you are going away, but you will return?"

"If I can, yes! Let us not talk about that. This night is ours, let us

love!"

Amid the transports of love, Julien was again seized with terror. Julie

unguardedly uttered excited words in which there was an indefinably

ominous implication which made his blood run cold.

"Ah!" he exclaimed abruptly, "you are deceiving me! You are going away

forever, or else you think that you are going to die! You are ill, I

know; given up by the doctors it may be?"

"No, I give you my word that the doctors promise to cure me."

"I want to see your face; I can't see you here, let us go out. I am

afraid! It seems to me at times that I am dreaming, and that it is your

ghost that I hold in my arms."

He led her into the garden where it was almost as dark as in the

pavilion.

"I can't see you, _mon Dieu!_ I can't see your face," said Julien,

anxiously. "I can feel that your arms are thinner, that your waist is

smaller. You seem to have become so light that your feet do not touch

the gravel. Tell me, are you a dream? Am I here, by your side, in this

garden where we have been so happy? I am afraid I am mad!"

They drew near to the basin: there, as the moonless sky was without a

cloud and was reflected in the water with all its stars, Julien saw that

Madame d'Estrelle was pale, and the whiteness of the water, reflected on

her face, made her appear even more ghastly than she was. He could tell

that her face had grown thin by the increased size of her eyes, which

shone brightly in the darkness.

"I was sure of it!" he cried; "you are dying, and that is why you sent

for me. Very good; Julie, I will not leave you again; if I am to lose

you, I propose to receive your last breath and then die myself."

"No, Julien, you cannot die! think of your mother!"

"Why, my mother will die with us; what do you expect me to say to you?

She would have liked to die on the day she lost my father; she said so

unconsciously in her first frenzy; and since then, I have fully realized

that she has lived only for me. We will all three go together, since we

have but one soul between us, and we will go to a world where the purest

love will not be a crime. There must be such a world for those who have

never been able to understand the wicked prejudices of this one. Let us

die, Julie, without remorse or vain regret. Give me your breath, give me

your fever, give me your sickness; I swear that I will not survive you!"

"Alas!" said Julie, unable to restrain that outcry of nature; "I might

have been cured!"

"What do you mean?" cried Julien, beside himself. "Have you taken

poison? Answer, tell me! I insist upon knowing!"

"No, no, I have not!" she replied, dragging him away with a sudden,

desperate movement which made a profound impression on him.

She had been leaning over the water, she had seen therein the reflection

of her face and her white dress; she had remembered that, an hour later,

she must be lying there motionless, dead; she had sworn it. That was the

price of her broken oath, that was the price of Julien's happiness; a

ghastly fear of death had made her shudder and start back.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked her; "what did you see in the water?

what were you thinking about? what made you fly? Ah! I can guess, you

intend to die soon, immediately, as soon as I have gone! But I say that

it shall not be; you are my wife. Since you still love me, you belong to

me; I don't know what oath you have taken, I don't know what constraint

has been put upon you; but I, your lover, your husband, your master,

release you from everything! I will carry you off by force; no, I will

take you with me, that is my right. I do not propose that you shall die,

and I propose that my mother shall live to bless you. I have strength

for us both; I don't know what sort of a battle I shall have to fight,

but I will fight it. Come, let us go! If you haven't strength to walk, I

have strength to carry you. Come, I insist! the time has come for you to

acknowledge no other power over your life than mine."

As, while leading her back to the pavilion, he led her in the direction

of the basin, the combat between remorse and love in her heart became so

violent that she uttered a cry of horror, and, clinging to him with all

her strength, she said:

"I pledged my word of honor to leave you, and I am breaking my pledge

and reducing your mother to want! Can you relieve me from that burden?"

"You are mad!" said Julien; "was my mother so very poor when you first

knew her? will my right arm be cut off to keep me from working? Very

well, then I will work with my left arm! Ah! I understand everything

now. This is the revenge threatened by Monsieur Antoine; I ought to have

guessed sooner why our father's house was given back to us. Poor Julie!

you were sacrificing yourself for us; but that is all null and void; I

have not consented; I have accepted nothing. I submitted, knowing

nothing about it. Come, do not tremble any more, I release you from your

promise, and woe to the man who dares to remind you of it! If you

hesitate, if you shrink from anything, I shall believe that wealth is

what you regret, and that you have less courage and love than I!"

"Ah! that is the suspicion I dreaded so!" said Julie. "Let us go, let us

go!--but where shall we go? How shall I dare appear before your mother

and say: 'I bring you sorrow and ruin?'"

"Julie, you doubt my mother, you no longer love us!"

"Let us go!" she repeated, "let us go to her, and let her decide my

fate. Take me, take me away from here!"

Julie was completely crushed by such a multitude of emotions; her

strength failed her, and Julien, as he caught her in his arms, saw that

she had fainted. It was impossible to do anything for her in the

pavilion, so he carried her to her apartment, the garden door being

open, and the room lighted. He deposited Julie on a sofa, and she

speedily recovered consciousness; but when she attempted to rise, she

fell back.

"Ah! my dear," she said, "I cannot stand. Am I going to die here? Is it

too late for you to save me? Hark: someone is knocking on the street

door, I think."

"No," said Julien, who had heard nothing.

But, as he strove to restore her confidence while his own was beginning

to disappear, they were startled by a loud peal of the bell.

"They are coming after me, to carry me away, perhaps!" cried Julie,

wildly, "to put me in a convent!--The marchioness, Monsieur Antoine, I

don't know who!--And I cannot fly! Take me away, hide me, Julien!"

"Wait, wait," said Julien, who had opened an inner door and was

listening; "it is Marcel, calling Camille. Yes, it is some urgent

matter. Admit him yourself!"

"I cannot!" said Julie in despair, after one last effort.

"Very well, I will go," said Julien, resolutely. "He must see me here in

any event, as I do not propose to leave this house without you."

He hurried to the door of the vestibule, where Marcel was ringing as if

he would pull the house down; and before any servant had time to rise

and find out what the matter was, Julien opened the door to Marcel and

Madame Thierry. He admitted them and locked the doors behind them.

"Ah! my child," cried Madame Thierry, "I was very sure that I should

find you here! Victory, Julien, my poor Julien! Ah! I don't know what I

am saying; you will be cured at once, we bring you happiness!"

When Julie learned what had happened at Sèvres, life returned to her as

it returns to a half-dead plant when the rain falls upon it. Her tense

nerves were relaxed by tears of joy. As for Julien, who was almost

dangerously ill the day before, he was cured like those paralytics whom

a beneficent thunderclap causes to walk and leap about.

After an hour passed in an outpouring of emotion which seemed

inexhaustible, Marcel took Madame Thierry home with him to obtain a

little rest, and entrusted Julie to the care of Camille, who undertook

to keep the servants quiet concerning that nocturnal visit. Julien had

already made his escape through the pavilion. Julie slept as she had not

slept for a long while.

Luckily, as we have said, Monsieur Antoine no longer kept spies about

the hôtel D'Estrelle, and, luckily too, the servants were discreet and

devoted to their mistress; for if the rich man had learned of that

interview, he might have been made dangerously angry and have changed

his mind. He had expressed a desire to inform Madame d'Estrelle of her

pardon with his own lips; but he too was tired, relaxed, satisfied,

proud of himself; he slept soundly and rose a quarter of an hour later

than usual. He was no sooner on his feet than he redoubled his ordinary

activity and put his whole household in deadly fear; for he was sharp to

command, quick to threaten, and even quicker to raise his hand, armed

with a cane, against the sluggish. The old hôtel De Melcy was thrown

open, swept and put in order in the twinkling of an eye. Messengers were

despatched in all directions, and at noon a sumptuous dinner was served.

The guests, assembled in the large gilded salon, anticipated some

mysterious event. Marcel brought Madame Thierry and Madame d'Estrelle,

whom he had invited in the master's behalf. Julien too had been

notified, and arrived in due season. Julie was received by Madame

d'Ancourt, Madame Desmorges, her daughter, and her son-in-law. The Duc

de Quesnoy had not returned; but Abbé de Nivières was there,

determined to eat for two. Madame la présidente did not keep them

waiting, and Marcel was commissioned to present to the ladies a

collection of botanists, learned professors and collectors, whom

Monsieur Antoine was wont to convoke on great occasions.

"It is enough to make one die laughing," said the baroness to Julie,

leading her unto a window recess. "The goodman sent a messenger to me at

six o'clock this morning, to invite me to witness the christening of a

rare plant which is to bear his name! You can imagine what a pleasant

awakening it was! I was furious! but I discovered in a postscript that

you were to attend the ceremony, and I decided that I would come. So you

are reconciled to your old neighbor, are you, my dear? Well, so much the

better; you have followed my advice and you will come to it at last, I

tell you! The gardener isn't attractive; but five millions! remember

that!"

Julie's other friends thought differently. They supposed that Antoine

had made an amicable arrangement with her which was satisfactory to them

both, and that they ought to accept his invitation, in order to do their

friend a service. They questioned Julie with that theory in mind, and

Julie did not undeceive them.

As for the professors, the ostentatious christening of a new plant did

not seem particularly absurd to them. Monsieur Thierry had enriched

horticulture with several interesting specimens. He had fostered the

acclimatization of useful trees, and his name well deserved to figure in

the annals of science. A good dinner on such an occasion does no harm,

and the presence of a number of attractive women is not absolutely

inconsistent with the solemn preoccupations of botany.

When everybody had arrived, Monsieur Antoine assumed a modest and

good-humored air, a rare but certain symptom of inward triumph unmingled

with suspicion. He placed everybody round a large table, in the centre

of which an object of considerable height was concealed under a great

bell of white paper. Then he took from his pocket a treatise in

manuscript, luckily very short, but which it was difficult to listen to

without laughing, for in it French and Latin were murdered with the

utmost coolness. That manuscript of his own composition, which began

with _messieurs et mesdames_, and which treated of the importation and

cultivation of the most beautiful lilies known, concluded thus: "Having

had what I consider the advantage of buying, raising and bringing to

perfect bloom the only specimens in France of a lily which exceeds in

size, in fragrance and in splendor all varieties above-mentioned, I call

the attention of the honorable company to my _individual_, and invite

them to give it a name."

Having concluded the reading of his speech, Monsieur Antoine deftly

raised, with the end of a reed, the white paper covering, and Julien

uttered a cry of surprise when he saw the _Antonia Thierrii_ perfectly

fresh and blooming in all its glory. He believed at first that there had

been some trickery--that it was a perfect artificial imitation; but the

plant, when the covering was removed, gave forth a perfume which

recalled to his mind, and Julie's as well, the first day of their

passion; and when the clamor due to sincere or courteous admiration had

made the circuit of the table, Monsieur Antoine added:

"Messieurs les savants, you must know that this plant put forth two

shoots, the first one late in May, a very pretty specimen, accidentally

broken, and preserved in a herbarium close by; the second in August,

twice as large and full as the other. It blossomed, as you see, the

tenth day of said month."

"Christen, christen!" cried Madame d'Ancourt. "I would like to stand

godmother to that lovely lily, but I fancy that another----"

She glanced at Julie with a mixture of irony and goodwill. The

professors paid no heed, but unanimously proclaimed the name of _Antonia

Thierrii._

"You are very kind, messieurs," said Monsieur Antoine, flushing with

pleasure and stammering with emotion, "but I have a slight modification

to suggest to you. It is no more than fair that this plant should bear

my name, but I should like to prefix the name of a person who--of a lady

who--in short, I ask to have it called the _Julia-Antonia Thierrii._"

"That's a little long," said Marcel; "but then the plant is so tall!"

[Illustration 06: _THE CHRISTENING OF THE LILY_

"Julia-Antonia Thierrii _it is," replied the professors

artlessly._]

"_Julia-Antonia Thierrii_ it is," replied the professors artlessly.

"Ah! at last! bravo! so it's decided!" cried the Baronne d'Ancourt,

pointing to Julie, and making the sign indicating union with her plump

white hands.

Every eye was turned upon Julie, who blushed, and thereby recovered all

the splendor of her beauty.

"Excuse me, madame la baronne," said Uncle Antoine, with a sly

expression. "I tricked you by going to your house to beg you to make an

offer of marriage to Madame d'Estrelle in my behalf. I wanted to see

what you would say, and you didn't say no; on the contrary, you advised

that young lady to accept me. That was what led me to propose to her the

man I had in view for her, for I said to myself: 'If an old fellow like

me is eligible because of his money, my nephew, who is young and will

have a good share of my money, may be accepted.'--That is how it

happens, mesdames and messieurs, that, with the consent of Madame

d'Estrelle, I concluded to-day the business troubles we have had by a

marriage between her and my nephew Julien Thierry, whom I do myself the

honor to present to you."

"Psha! the young painter?" cried Madame d'Ancourt, irritated, she knew

not why, by Julien's beauty and impassioned manner.

"A painter?" said the bewildered Madame Desmorges. "Ah! my dear, so it

was true after all, was it?"

"Yes, my friends, it was true," replied Julie, boldly; "we loved each

other before we knew that Monsieur Antoine would rescue us from the

poverty that threatened us both."

"I declare that Monsieur Antoine is a great man and a true philosopher!"

cried Abbé de Nivières. "Suppose we adjourn to the table?"

"Let us go to dinner, mesdames and messieurs," said Monsieur Antoine,

offering Julie his hand. "You will say it is a misalliance, but three

millions for each of my nephews, that helps to rub the dirt off a

family, and my grandnephews will have money to purchase titles with."

This last argument changed the blame of Julie's friends into somewhat

reluctant congratulations. She had to resign herself to the necessity of

appearing to sacrifice vainglory to wealth; but what did it matter to

her after all? Julien knew what to think.

Julie, who was still in mourning for her father-in-law, went to Sèvres

to pass the rest of the summer. Sèvres is a Norman oasis within two

leagues of Paris. The apple-trees give it a rural savor, and the hills,

covered with lovely rustic gardens, were at that time quite as charming

and more unconventional than to-day. I must not, however, speak

slightingly of the lovely villas of Sèvres as it now is, with their

magnificent shade trees and the picturesque inequalities of the region

through which the river boldly cuts its way. The railroad has not

altogether dispelled the poesy of that wooded spot, and it is not

unpleasant to be able to reach, in a quarter of an hour, the grass-grown

paths and fields sloping to the water's edge. From the top of the hill

one can distinguish Paris, an imposing silhouette against the blue sky,

through the clumps of trees in the foreground; three steps away, in the

bottom of the ravine, one can lose sight of the great city, turn away

from the too white villas, and lose oneself in the genuine country,

still unspoiled, although a bit _rococo_, and always lovely with

flowers.

There Julie recovered her health, which was seriously impaired for some

time, and before as after their marriage, Julien was all in all to her,

as she was all in all to him. What society said and thought of their

union, they did not care to know. Their real friends sufficed for them,

and Madame Thierry was the happiest of mothers. Their happiness was

disturbed, it is true, by the political tempests, the approach of which

Julien had watched with no idea that they would be so swift and so

radical. Having a clear conscience and a generous heart, he made himself

very useful in his neighborhood by the pains which he took to relieve

want, and to prevent it, so far as he could, from urging its victims on

to deplorable acts of violence. For a long time he exerted great

influence over the workmen in the factory at Sèvres, and in the

faubourg which surrounded the hôtel D'Estrelle. On some days he was

well-nigh overwhelmed; but nothing could induce him to do anything which

his conscience disapproved, and he was threatened in his turn and was

very near being suspected. The firmness with which he faced suspicion,

the generous personal sacrifices he had made, the confidence he

displayed in the midst of danger, saved him. Julie was as brave as he.

The timid woman was transformed; she felt that her soul had developed

and been tempered anew in its fusion, brought about by love, with a

fearless and upright soul. Her heart was torn, doubtless, when several

of her old friends were struck down by the Revolution, despite all

Julien's efforts to rescue them. She succeeded in saving some of them by

judicious advice and prudent measures. She concealed two in her own

house; but she was unable to save the Baronne d'Ancourt, who ruined

herself by her excessive fright and underwent a most rigorous captivity.

The unfortunate Marquise d'Estrelle could not restrain her rage when the

forced loans encroached on her savings. She died on the scaffold. The

Duc de Quesnoy emigrated. Abbé de Nivières prudently turned Jacobin.

After the Terror, the suppression of the privilege attached to the royal

establishments having enabled Julien to gratify a wish he had often

formed, he labored to disseminate the industrial and artistic

improvements which he had had leisure to study and to experiment upon at

Sèvres. He earned no money by it; that was not his object; in fact he

lost something; but he found therein the means of ameliorating the lives

of many unfortunates. He was not rich, and his wife was overjoyed to see

him continue his artistic work and devote himself lovingly to the

education of his children.

Marcel purchased a cottage near theirs at Sèvres, and the two families

passed together all the holidays and days of rest which the worthy

solicitor was able to steal from his business. He made a little fortune

by honorable methods, and Julien was able to manage his own competence

with the prudence his father had lacked. Well for him that it was so,

for the Revolutionary government confiscated Monsieur Antoine's

property. The old man had continued to live alone, feeling no desire for

family life, as gracious as it was in his power to be to the debtors

whose gratitude flattered his pride, but unwilling to enter into any

social relations which would have upset his habits. He had promised

Marcel to think no more about marriage, and he kept his word; but he was

attacked by another mania. He became, in politics, a reviler of all the

events of the Revolution, whatever they might be. Everybody was mad,

blundering, stupid. The king was too weak, the people too gentle, the

guillotine too lazy and too greedy by turns. And then as that succession

of tragedies disturbed his brain, which was more mad than cruel, he

changed his opinions and passed from the most unbridled sansculottism to

the most laughable dandyism. All this was quite harmless, for he did not

intrigue for place, but contented himself with breaking out in words in

his rare incursions into society; but he was denounced by workmen whom

he had maltreated, and came near paying with his head for his riotous

indulgence in obscure eloquence.

Julien and Marcel, by tireless persistence, succeeded in inducing him to

leave the hôtel De Melcy, where he defied the storm every day. They

kept him out of sight at Sèvres, where he made them very unhappy by his

evil humor, and compromised them more than once by his imprudent acts.

His property was under sequestration, and he recovered only a few

shreds. He endured that terrible blow with much philosophy. He was one

of those pilots who curse during the tempest, but keep cool when it is a

question of salvage. He refused to take back any part of what Julien had

received from him. As his garden had not been injured and he recovered

it almost intact, he resumed his former habits and recovered comparative

good humor. He lived there until 1802, still active and robust. One day

they found him sitting perfectly still on a bench in the sunshine, his

watering pot half full beside him, and on his knees an undecipherable

manuscript, the last lucubration of his wornout brain. He had died

without warning. The night before he had said to Marcel:

"Never fear, you shall have the millions you expected to inherit from

me! Let me live only about ten years, and I shall make a larger fortune

than I ever had. I have a scheme for a constitution which will save

France from ruin; after that I will think a little of myself and go back

to my exporting business."