Isaura was seated in her pretty salon, with the Venosta, M. Savarin, the Morleys, and the financier Louvier, when Rameau was announced.

“Ha!” cried Savarin, “we were just discussing a matter which nearly concerns you, cher poete. I have not seen you since the announcement that Pierre Firmin is no other than Victor de Mauleon. Ma foi, that worthy seems likely to be as dangerous with his pen as he was once with his sword. The article in which he revealed himself makes a sharp lunge on the Government. ‘Take care of yourself. When hawks and nightingales fly together the hawk may escape, and the nightingale complain of the barbarity of kings, in a cage: ‘flebiliter gemens infelix avis.‘’”

“He is not fit to conduct a journal,” replied Rameau, magniloquently, “who will not brave a danger for his body in defence of the right to infinity for his thought.”

“Bravo!” said Mrs. Morley, clapping her pretty hands. “That speech reminds me of home. The French are very much like the Americans in their style of oratory.”

“So,” said Louvier, “my old friend the Vicomte has come out as a writer, a politician, a philosopher; I feel hurt that he kept this secret from me despite our intimacy. I suppose you knew it from the first, M. Rameau?”

“No, I was as much taken by surprise as the rest of the world. You have long known M. de Mauleon?”

“Yes, I may say we began life together—that is, much at the same time.”

“What is he like in appearance?” asked Mrs. Morley. “The ladies thought him very handsome when he was young,” replied Louvier. “He is still a fine-looking man, about my height.”

“I should like to know him!” cried Mrs. Morley, “if only to tease that husband of mine. He refuses me the dearest of woman’s rights.—I can’t make him jealous.”

“You may have the opportunity of knowing this ci-devant Lovelace very soon,” said Rameau, “for he has begged me to present him to Mademoiselle Cicogna, and I will ask her permission to do so, on Thursday evening when she receives.”

Isaura, who had hitherto attended very listlessly to the conversation, bowed assent. “Any friend of yours will be welcome. But I own the articles signed in the name of Pierre Firmin do not prepossess me in favour of their author.”

“Why so?” asked Louvier; “surely you are not an Imperialist?”

“Nay, I do not pretend to be a politician at all, but there is something in the writing of Pierre Firmin that pains and chills me.”

“Yet the secret of its popularity,” said Savarin, “is that it says what every one says—only better.”

“I see now that it is exactly that which displeases me; it is the Paris talk condensed into epigram: the graver it is the less it elevates—the lighter it is, the more it saddens.”

“That is meant to hit me,” said Savarin, with his sunny laugh—“me whom you call cynical.”

“No, dear M. Savarin; for above all your cynicism is genuine gaiety, and below it solid kindness. You have that which I do not find in M. de Mauleon’s writing, nor often in the talk of the salon—you have youthfulness.”

“Youthfulness at sixty—flatterer!”

“Genius does not count its years by the almanac,” said Mrs. Morley. “I know what Isaura means—she is quite right; there is a breath of winter in M. de Mauleon’s style, and an odour of fallen leaves. Not that his diction wants vigour; on the contrary, it is crisp with hoar-frost. But the sentiments conveyed by the diction are those of a nature sear and withered. And it is in this combination of brisk words and decayed feelings that his writing represents the talk and mind of Paris. He and Paris are always fault-finding: fault-finding is the attribute of old age.”

Colonel Morley looked round with pride, as much as to say, “Clever talker my wife.”

Savarin understood that look, and replied to it courteously. “Madame has a gift of expression which Emile de Girardin can scarcely surpass. But when she blames us for fault-finding, can she expect the friends of liberty to praise the present style of things?”

“I should be obliged to the friends of liberty,” said the Colonel, drily, “to tell me how that state of things is to be mended. I find no enthusiasm for the Orleanists, none for a Republic; people sneer at religion; no belief in a cause, no adherence to an opinion. But the worst of it is that, like all people who are blases, the Parisians are eager for strange excitement, and ready to listen to any oracle who promises a relief from indifferentism. This it is which makes the Press more dangerous in France than it is in any other country. Elsewhere the Press sometimes leads, sometimes follows, public opinion. Here there is no public opinion to consult, and instead of opinion the Press represents passion.”

“My dear Colonel Morley,” said Savarin, “I hear you very often say that a Frenchman cannot understand America. Permit me to observe that an American cannot understand France—or at least Paris. Apropos of Paris that is a large speculation of yours, Louvier, in the new suburb.”

“And a very sound one; I advise you to invest in it. I can secure you at present 5 per cent. on the rental; that is nothing—the houses will be worth double when the Rue de Louvier is completed.”

“Alas! I have no money; my new journal absorbs all my capital.”

“Shall I transfer the money I hold for you, Signorina, and add to them whatever you may have made by your delightful roman, as yet lying idle, to this investment? I cannot say more in its favour than this: I have embarked a very large portion of my capital in the Rue de Louvier, and I flatter myself that I am not one of those men who persuade their friends to do a foolish thing by setting them the example.”

“Whatever you advise on such a subject,” said Isaura, graciously, “is sure to be as wise as it is kind!”

“You consent, then?”

“Certainly.”

Here the Venosta, who had been listening with great attention to Louvier’s commendation of this investment, drew him aside, and whispered in his ear: “I suppose, M. Louvier, that one can’t put a little money-a very little money—poco-poco pocolino, into your street.”

“Into my street! Ah, I understand—into the speculation of the Rue de Louvier! Certainly you can. Arrangements are made on purpose to suit the convenience of the smallest capitalists—from 500 francs upwards.”

“And you feel quite sure that we shall double our money when the street is completed—I should not like to have my brains in my heels.”

“More than double it, I hope, long before the street is completed.”

“I have saved a little money—very little. I have no relations, and I mean to leave it all to the Signorina; and if it could be doubled, why, there would be twice as much to leave her.”

“So there would,” said Louvier. “You can’t do better than put it all into the Rue de Louvier. I will send you the necessary papers to-morrow, when I send hers to the Signorina.”

Louvier here turned to address himself to Colonel Morley, but finding that degenerate son of America indisposed to get cent. per cent. for his money when offered by a Parisian, he very soon took his leave. The other visitors followed his example, except Rameau, who was left alone with the Venosta and Isaura. The former had no liking for Rameau, who showed her none of the attentions her innocent vanity demanded, and she soon took herself off to her own room to calculate the amount of her savings, and dream of the Rue de Louvier and “golden joys.”

Rameau approaching his chair to Isaura’s then commenced conversation, drily enough, upon pecuniary matters; acquitting himself of the mission with which De Mauleon had charged him, the request for a new work from her pen for the Sens Commun, and the terms that ought to be asked for compliance. The young lady-author shrank from this talk. Her private income, though modest, sufficed for her wants, and she felt a sensitive shame in the sale of her thoughts and fancies.

Putting hurriedly aside the mercantile aspect of the question, she said that she had no other work in her mind at present—that, whatever her vein of invention might be, it flowed at its own will, and could not be commanded.

“Nay,” said Rameau, “this is not true. We fancy, in our hours of indolence, that we must wait for inspiration; but once force ourselves to work, and ideas spring forth at the wave of the pen. You may believe me here, I speak from experience: I, compelled to work, and in modes not to my taste—I do my task I know not how. I rub the lamp, ‘the genius comes.’”

“I have read in some English author that motive power is necessary to continued labour: you have motive power, I have none.”

“I do not quite understand you.”

“I mean that a strong ruling motive is required to persist in any regular course of action that needs effort: the motive with the majority of men is the need of subsistence; with a large number (as in trades or professions), not actually want, but a desire of gain, and perhaps of distinction, in their calling: the desire of professional distinction expands into the longings for more comprehensive fame, more exalted honours, with the few who become great writers, soldiers, statesmen, orators.”

“And do you mean to say you have no such motive?”

“None in the sting of want, none in the desire of gain.”

“But fame?”

“Alas! I thought so once. I know not now—I begin to doubt if fame should be sought by women.” This was said very dejectedly.

“Tut, dearest Signorina! what gadfly has stung you? Your doubt is a weakness unworthy of your intellect; and even were it not, genius is destiny and will be obeyed: you must write, despite yourself—and your writing must bring fame, whether you wish it or not.”

Isaura was silent, her head drooped on her breast—there were tears in her downcast eyes.

Rameau took her hand, which she yielded to him passively, and clasping it in both his own, he rushed on impulsively—

“Oh, I know what these misgivings are when we feel ourselves solitary, unloved: how often have they been mine! But how different would labour be if shared and sympathised with by a congenial mind, by a heart that beats in unison with one’s own!”

Isaura’s breast heaved beneath her robe, she sighed softly.

“And then how sweet the fame of which the one we love is proud! how trifling becomes the pang of some malignant depreciation, which a word from the beloved one can soothe! O Signorina! O Isaura! are we not made for each other? Kindred pursuits, hopes, and fears in common; the same race to run, the same goal to win! I need a motive stronger than I have yet known for the persevering energy that insures success: supply to me that motive. Let me think that whatever I win in the strife of the world is a tribute to Isaura. No, do not seek to withdraw this hand, let me claim it as mine for life. I love you as man never loved before—do not reject my love.”

They say the woman who hesitates is lost. Isaura hesitated, but was not yet lost. The words she listened to moved her deeply. Offers of marriage she had already received: one from a rich middle-aged noble, a devoted musical virtuoso; one from a young avocat fresh from the provinces, and somewhat calculating on her dot; one from a timid but enthusiastic admirer of her genius and her beauty, himself rich, handsome, of good birth, but with shy manners and faltering tongue.

But these had made their proposals with the formal respect habitual to French decorum in matrimonial proposals. Words so eloquently impassioned as Gustave Rameau’s had never before thrilled her ears; Yes, she was deeply moved; and yet, by that very emotion she knew that it was not to the love of this wooer that her heart responded.

There is a circumstance in the history of courtship familiar to the experience of many women, that while the suitor is pleading his cause, his language may touch every fibre in the heart of his listener, yet substitute, as it were, another presence for his own. She may be saying to herself, “Oh that another had said those words!” and be dreaming of the other, while she hears the one. Thus it was with Isaura, and not till Rameau’s voice had ceased did that dream pass away, and with a slight shiver she turned her face towards the wooer sadly and pityingly. “It cannot be,” she said, in a low whisper; “I were not worthy of your love could I accept it. Forget that you have so spoken; let me still be a friend admiring your genius, interested in your career. I cannot be more. Forgive me if I unconsciously led you to think I could, I am so grieved to pain you.”

“Am I to understand,” said Rameau, coldly, for his amour propre was resentful, “that the proposals of another have been more fortunate than mine?” And he named the youngest and comeliest of those whom she had rejected. “Certainly not,” said Isaura.

Rameau rose and went to the window, turning his face from her. In reality he was striving to collect his thoughts and decide on the course it were most prudent for him now to pursue. The fumes of the absinthe which had, despite his previous forebodings, emboldened him to hazard his avowal, had now subsided into the languid reaction which is generally consequent on that treacherous stimulus, a reaction not unfavourable to passionless reflection. He knew that if he said he could not conquer his love, he would still cling to hope, and trust to perseverance and time, he should compel Isaura to forbid his visits and break off their familiar intercourse. This would be fatal to the chance of yet winning her, and would also be of serious disadvantage to his more worldly interests. Her literary aid might become essential to the journal on which his fortunes depended; and at all events, in her conversation, in her encouragement, in her sympathy with the pains and joys of his career, he felt a support, a comfort, nay, an inspiration. For the spontaneous gush of her fresh thoughts and fancies served to recruit his own jaded ideas, and enlarge his own stinted range of invention. No, he could not commit himself to the risk of banishment from Isaura.

And mingled with meaner motives for discretion, there was one of which he was but vaguely conscious, purer and nobler. In the society of this girl, in whom whatever was strong and high in mental organisation became so sweetened into feminine grace by gentleness of temper and kindliness of disposition, Rameau felt himself a better man. The virgin-like dignity with which she moved, so untainted by a breath of scandal, amid salons in which the envy of virtues doubted sought to bring innocence itself into doubt, warmed into a genuine reverence the cynicism of his professed creed.

While with her, while under her chastening influence, he was sensible of a poetry infused within him far more true to the Camoenae than all he had elaborated into verse. In these moments he was ashamed of the vices he had courted as distractions. He imagined that with her all his own, it would be easy to reform.

No; to withdraw wholly from Isaura was to renounce his sole chance of redemption.

While these thoughts, which it takes so long to detail, passed rapidly through his brain, he felt a soft touch on his arm, and, turning his face slowly, encountered the tender, compassionate eyes of Isaura.

“Be consoled, dear friend,” she said, with a smile, half cheering, half mournful. “Perhaps for all true artists the solitary lot is the best.”

“I will try to think so,” answered Rameau; “and meanwhile I thank you with a full heart for the sweetness with which you have checked my presumption—the presumption shall not be repeated. Gratefully I accept the friendship you deign to tender me. You bid me forget the words I uttered. Promise in turn that you will forget them—or at least consider them withdrawn. You will receive me still as friend?”

“As friend, surely: yes. Do we not both need friends?” She held out her hand as she spoke; he bent over it, kissed it with respect, and the interview thus closed.