Obtaining from her husband Gustave's address, Madame Rameau hastened to
her son's apartment alone through the darkling streets. The house in
which he lodged was in a different quarter from that in which Isaura had
visited him. Then, the street selected was still in the centre of the
_beau monde_--now, it was within the precincts of that section of the
many-faced capital in which the _beau monde_ was held in detestation or
scorn; still the house had certain pretensions, boasting a courtyard and
a porter's lodge. Madame Rameau, instructed to mount _au second_, found
the door ajar, and, entering, perceived on the table of the little salon
the remains of a feast which, however untempting it might have been in
happier times, contrasted strongly with the meagre fare of which
Gustave's parents had deemed themselves fortunate to partake at the board
of his betrothed; remnants of those viands which offered to the
inquisitive epicure an experiment in food much too costly for the popular
stomach--dainty morsels of elephant, hippopotamus, and wolf, interspersed
with half-emptied bottles of varied and high-priced wines. Passing these
evidences of unseasonable extravagance with a mute sentiment of anger and
disgust, Madame Rameau penetrated into a small cabinet, the door of which
was also ajar, and saw her son stretched on his bed half dressed,
breathing heavily in the sleep which follows intoxication. She did not
attempt to disturb him. She placed herself quietly by his side, gazing
mournfully on the face which she had once so proudly contemplated, now
haggard and faded,--still strangely beautiful, though it was the beauty
of ruin.
From time to time he stirred uneasily, and muttered broken words, in
which fragments of his own delicately-worded verse were incoherently
mixed up with ribald slang, addressed to imaginary companions. In his
dreams he was evidently living over again his late revel, with episodical
diversions into the poet-world, of which he was rather a vagrant nomad
than a settled cultivator. Then she would silently bathe his feverish
temples with the perfumed water she found on his dressing-table. And so
she watched till, in the middle of the night, he woke up, and recovered
the possession of his reason with a quickness that surprised Madame
Rameau. He was, indeed, one of those men in whom excess of drink, when
slept off, is succeeded by extreme mildness, the effect of nervous
exhaustion, and by a dejected repentance, which, to his mother, seemed a
propitious lucidity of the moral sense.
Certainly on seeing her he threw himself on her breast, and began to shed
tears. Madame Rameau had not the heart to reproach him sternly. But by
gentle degrees she made him comprehend the pain he had given to his
father, and the destitution in which he had deserted his parents and his
affianced. In his present mood Gustave was deeply affected by these
representations. He excused himself feebly by dwelling on the excitement
of the times, the preoccupation of his mind, the example of his
companions; but with his excuses he mingled passionate expressions of
remorse, and before daybreak mother and son were completely reconciled.
Then he fell into a tranquil sleep; and Madame Rameau, quite worn out,
slept also in the chair beside him, her arm around his neck. He awoke
before she did at a late hour in the morning; and stealing from her arm,
went to his escritoire, and took forth what money he found there, half of
which he poured into her lap, kissing her till she awoke.
"Mother," he said, "henceforth I will work for thee and my father. Take
this trifle now; the rest I reserve for Isaura."
"Joy! I have found my boy again. But Isaura, I fear that she will not
take thy money, and all thought of her must also be abandoned."
Gustave had already turned to his looking-glass, and was arranging with
care his dark ringlets: his personal vanity--his remorse appeased by this
pecuniary oblation--had revived.
"No," he said gaily, "I don't think I shall abandon her; and it is not
likely, when she sees and hears me, that she can wish to abandon me! Now
let us breakfast, and then I will go at once to her."
In the mean while, Isaura, on her return to her apartment at the wintry
nightfall, found a cart stationed at the door, and the Venosta on the
threshold, superintending the removal of various articles of furniture--
indeed, all such articles as were not absolutely required.
"Oh, Piccola!" she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "I did not
expect thee back so soon. Hush! I have made a famous bargain. I have
found a broker to buy these things which we don't want just at present,
and can replace by new and prettier things when the siege is over and we
get our money. The broker pays down on the nail and thou wilt not go to
bed without supper. There are no ills which are not more supportable
after food."
Isaura smiled faintly, kissed the Venosta's cheek, and ascended with
weary steps to the sitting-room. There she seated herself quietly,
looking with abstracted eyes round the bare dismantled space by the light
of the single candle.
When the Venosta re-entered, she was followed by the servants, bringing
in a daintier meal than they had known for days--a genuine rabbit,
potatoes, _marrons glaces_, a bottle of wine, and a pannier of wood. The
fire was soon lighted, the Venosta plying the bellows. It was not till
this banquet, of which Isaura, faint as she was, scarcely partook, had
been remitted to the two Italian women-servants, and another log been
thrown on the hearth, that the Venosta opened the subject which was
pressing on her heart. She did this with a joyous smile, taking both
Isaura's hands in her own, and stroking them fondly.
"My child, I have such good news for thee! Thou hast escaped--thou art
free!" and then she related all that M. Rameau had said, and finished by
producing the copy of Gustave's unhallowed journal.
When she had read the latter, which she did with compressed lips and
varying colour, the girl fell on her knees--not to thank Heaven that she
would now escape a union from which her soul so recoiled--not that she
was indeed free, but to pray, with tears rolling down her cheeks, that
God would yet save to Himself, and to good ends, the soul that she had
failed to bring to Him. All previous irritation against Gustave was
gone: all had melted into an ineffable compassion.