In vain persons, be they male or female, there is a complacent self-
satisfaction in any momentary personal success, however little that
success may conduce to--nay, however much it may militate against--the
objects to which their vanity itself devotes its more permanent desires.
A vain woman may be very anxious to win A------, the magnificent, as a
partner for life; and yet feel a certain triumph when a glance of her eye
has made an evening's conquest of the pitiful B-------, although by that
achievement she incurs the imminent hazard of losing A------ altogether.
So, when Gustave Rameau quitted Isaura, his first feeling was that of
triumph. His eloquence had subdued her will; she had not finally
discarded him. But as he wandered abstractedly in the biting air, his
self-complacency was succeeded by mortification and discontent. He felt
that he had committed himself to promises which he was by no means
prepared to keep. True, the promises were vague in words; but in
substance they were perfectly clear--"to spare, nay, to aid all that
Isaura esteemed and reverenced." How was this possible to him? How
could he suddenly change the whole character of his writings?--how become
the defender of marriage and property, of church and religion?--how
proclaim himself so utter an apostate? If he did, how become a leader
of the fresh revolution? how escape being its victim? Cease to write
altogether?
But then how live? His pen was his sole subsistence, save 30 sous a-day
as a National Guard--30 sous a day to him, who, in order to be Sybarite
in tastes, was Spartan in doctrine. Nothing better just at that moment
than Spartan doctrine, "Live on black broth and fight the enemy." And
the journalists in vogue so thrived upon that patriotic sentiment, that
they were the last persons compelled to drink the black broth or to fight
the enemy.
"Those women are such idiots when they meddle in politics," grumbled
between his teeth the enthusiastic advocate of Woman's Rights on all
matters of love. "And," he continued, soliloquising, "it is not as if
the girl had any large or decent dot; it is not as if she said, 'In
return for the sacrifice of your popularity, your prospects, your
opinions, I give you not only a devoted heart, but an excellent table and
a capital fire and plenty of pocket-money.' _Sacre bleu_! when I think of
that frozen salon, and possibly the leg of a mouse for dinner, and a
virtuous homily by way of grace, the prospect is not alluring; and the
girl herself is not so pretty as she was--grown very thin. _Sur mon ame_,
I think she asks too much--far more than she is worth. No, No; I had
better have accepted her dismissal. _Elle n'est pas digne de moi_."
Just as he arrived at that conclusion, Gustave Rameau felt the touch of a
light, a soft, a warm, yet a firm hand, on his aria. He turned, and
beheld the face of the woman whom, through so many dreary weeks, he had
sought to shun--the face of Julie Caumartin. Julie was not, as Savarin
had seen her, looking pinched and wan, with faded robes, nor, as when met
in the cafe by Lemercier, in the faded robes of a theatre. Julie never
looked more beautiful, more radiant, than she did now; and there was a
wonderful heartfelt fondness in her voice when she cried, "_Mon homme!
mon homme! seul homme au monde a mon coeur, Gustave, cheri adore_! I
have found thee-at last--at last!" Gustave gazed upon her, stupefied.
Involuntarily his eye glanced from the freshness of bloom in her face
which the intense cold of the atmosphere only seemed to heighten into
purer health, to her dress, which was new and handsome--black--he did
not know that it was mourning--the cloak trimmed with costly sables.
Certainly it was no mendicant for alms who thus reminded the shivering
Adonis of the claims of a pristine Venus. He stammered out her naive,
"Julie!"--and then he stopped.
"_Oui, ta Julie! Petit ingrat_! how I have sought for thee! how I have
hungered for the sight of thee! That monster Savarin! he would not give
me any news of thee. That is ages ago. But at least Frederic Lemercier,
whom I saw since, promised to remind thee that I lived still. He did not
do so, or I should have seen thee--n'est ce, pas?"
"Certainly, certainly--only--_chere amie_--you know that--that--as I
before announced to thee, I--I--was engaged in marriage--and--and--"
"But are you married?"
"No, no. Hark! Take care--is not that the hiss of an obus?"
"What then? Let it come! Would it might slay us both while my hand is
in thine!"
"Ah!" muttered Gustave, inwardly, "what a difference! This is love! No
preaching here! _Elle est plus digne de moi que d'autre_."
"No," he said, aloud, "I am not married. Marriage is at best a pitiful
ceremony. But if you wished for news of me, surely you must have heard
of my effect as an orator not despised in the Salle Favre. Since, I have
withdrawn from that arena. But as a journalist I flatter myself that I
have had a _beau succes_."
"Doubtless, doubtless, my Gustave, my Poet! Wherever thou art, thou must
be first among men. But, alas it is my fault--my misfortune. I have not
been in the midst of a world that perhaps rings of thy name."
"Not my name. Prudence compelled me to conceal that. Still, Genius
pierces under any name. You might have discovered me under my nom de
plume."
"Pardon me--I was always _bete_. But, oh! for so many weeks I was so
poor--so destitute. I could go nowhere, except--don't be ashamed of me--
except--"
"Yes? Go on."
"Except where I could get some money. At first to dance--you remember my
bolero. Then I got a better engagement. Do you not remember that you
taught me to recite verses? Had it been for myself alone, I might have
been contented to starve. Without thee, what was life? But thou wilt
recollect Madeleine, the old _bonne_ who lived with me. Well, she had
attended and cherished me since I was so high-lived with my mother.
Mother! no; it seems that Madame Surville was not my mother after all.
But, of course, I could not let my old Madeleine starve; and therefore,
with a heart as heavy as lead, I danced and declaimed. My heart was not
so heavy when I recited thy songs."
"My songs! _Pauvre ange_!" exclaimed the Poet.
"And then, too, I thought, 'Ah, this dreadful siege! He, too, may be
poor--he may know want and hunger;' and so all I could save from
Madeleine I put into a box for thee, in case thou shouldst come back to
me some day. _Mon homme_, how could I go to the Salle Favre? How could
I read journals, Gustave? But thou art not married, Gustave? _Parole
d'honneur_?"
"_Parole d'honneur_! What does that matter?"
"Everything! Ah! I am not so _mechante_, so _mauvaise tete_ as I was
some months ago. If thou went married, I should say, 'Blessed and sacred
be thy wife! Forget me.' But as it is, one word more. Dost thou love
the young lady, whoever she be? or does she love thee so well that it
would be sin in thee to talk trifles to Julie? Speak as honestly as if
thou wert not a poet."
"Honestly, she never said she loved me. I never thought she did. But,
you see, I was very ill, and my parents and friends and my physician said
that it was right for me to arrange my life, and marry, and so forth.
And the girl had money, and was a good match. In short, the thing was
settled. But oh, Julie, she never learned my songs by heart! She did
not love as thou mayst, and still dost. And--ah! well--now that we meet
again--now that I look in thy face--now that I hear thy voice--No, I do
not love her as I loved, and might yet love thee. But--but--"
"Well, but? oh, I guess. Thou seest me well dressed, no longer dancing
and declaiming at cafes: and thou thinkest that Julie has disgraced
herself? she is unfaithful?"
Gustave had not anticipated that frankness, nor was the idea which it
expressed uppermost in his mind when he said, "but, but--" There were
many buts all very confused, struggling through his mind as he spoke.
However, he answered as a Parisian sceptic, not ill-bred, naturally would
answer:
"My dear friend, my dear child" (the Parisian is very fond of the word
child or enfant in addressing a woman), "I have never seen thee so
beautiful as thou art now; and when thou tellest me that thou are no
longer poor, and the proof of what thou sayest is visible in the furs,
which, alas'. I cannot give thee, what am I to think?"
"Oh, _mon homme, mon homme_! thou art very _spirituel_, and that is why I
loved thee. I am very _bete_, and that is excuse enough for thee if thou
couldst not love me. But canst thou look me in the face and not know
that my eyes could not meet thine as they do, if I had been faithless to
thee even in a thought, when I so boldly touched thine arm? _Viens chez
moi_, come and let me explain all. Only--only let me repeat, if another
has rights over thee which forbid thee to come, say so kindly, and I will
never trouble thee again."
Gustave had been hitherto walking slowly by the side of Julie, amidst the
distant boom of the besiegers' cannon, while the short day began to
close; and along the dreary boulevards sauntered idlers turning to look
at the young, beautiful, well-dressed woman who seemed in such contrast
to the capital whose former luxuries the "Ondine" of imperial Paris
represented. He now offered his arm to Julie; and, quickening his pace,
said, "There is no reason why I should refuse to attend thee home, and
listen to the explanations thou dost generously condescend to volunteer."