“Ah, indeed! what a difference! what a difference!” said Gustave to himself when he entered Julie’s apartment. In her palmier days, when he had first made her acquaintance, the apartment no doubt had been infinitely more splendid, more abundant in silks and fringes and flowers and nicknacks; but never had it seemed so cheery and comfortable and home-like as now. What a contrast to Isaura’s dismantled chilly salon! She drew him towards the hearth, on which, blazing though it was, she piled fresh billets, seated him in the easiest of easy-chairs, knelt beside him, and chafed his numbed hands in hers; and as her bright eyes fixed tenderly on his, she looked so young and so innocent! You would not then have called her the “Ondine of Paris.”

But when, a little while after, revived by the genial warmth and moved by the charm of her beauty, Gustave passed his arm round her neck and sought to draw her on his lap, she slid from his embrace, shaking her head gently, and seated herself, with a pretty air of ceremonious decorum, at a little distance.

Gustave looked at her amazed.

“Causons,” said she, gravely, “thou wouldst know why I am so well dressed, so comfortably lodged, and I am longing to explain to thee all. Some days ago I had just finished my performance at the cafe—, and was putting on my shawl, when a tall Monsieur, fort bel homme, with the air of a grand seigneur, entered the cafe, and approaching me politely, said, ‘I think I have the honour to address Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin?’ ‘That is my name,’ I said, surprised; and, looking at him more intently, I recognised his face. He had come into the cafe a few days before with thine old acquaintance Frederic Lemercier, and stood by when I asked Frederic to give me news of thee. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he continued, with a serious melancholy smile, ‘I shall startle you when I say that I am appointed to act as your guardian by the last request of your mother.’ ‘Of Madame Surville?’ ‘Madame Surville adopted you, but was not your mother. We cannot talk at ease here. Allow me to request that you will accompany me to Monsieur ——-, the avoue. It is not very far from this—and by the way—I will tell you some news that may sadden, and some news that may rejoice.’

“There was an earnestness in the voice and look of this Monsieur that impressed me. He did not offer me his arm; but I walked by his side in the direction he chose. As we walked he told me in very few words that my mother had been separated from her husband, and for certain family reasons had found it so difficult to rear and provide for me herself, that she had accepted the offer of Madame Surville to adopt me as her own child. While he spoke, there came dimly back to me the remembrance of a lady who had taken me from my first home, when I had been, as I understood, at nurse, and left me with poor dear Madame Surville, saying, ‘This is henceforth your mamma.’

“I never again saw that lady. It seems that many years afterwards my true mother desired to regain me. Madame Surville was then dead. She failed to trace me out, owing, alas! to my own faults and change of name. She then entered a nunnery, but, before doing so, assigned a sum of 100,000 francs to this gentleman, who was distantly connected with her, with full power to him to take it to himself, or give it to my use should he discover me, at his discretion. ‘I ask you,’ continued the Monsieur, ‘to go with me to Mons. N———‘s, because the sum is still in his hands. He will confirm my statement. All that I have now to say is this, If you accept my guardianship, if you obey implicitly my advice, I shall consider the interest of this sum which has accumulated since deposited with M. ——- due to you; and the capital will be your dot on marriage, if the marriage be with my consent.’”

Gustave had listened very attentively, and without interruption, until now; when he looked up, and said with his customary sneer, “Did your Monsieur, fort bel homme, you say, inform you of the value of the advice, rather of the commands, you were implicitly to obey?”

“Yes,” answered Julie, “not then, but later. Let me go on. We arrived at M. N——-’s, an elderly grave man. He said that all he knew was that he held the money in trust for the Monsieur with me, to be given to him, with the accumulations of interest, on the death of the lady who had deposited it. If that Monsieur had instructions how to dispose of the money, they were not known to him. All he had to do was to transfer it absolutely to him on the proper certificate of the lady’s death. So you see, Gustave, that the Monsieur could have kept all from me if he had liked.”

“Your Monsieur is very generous. Perhaps you will now tell me his name.”

“No; he forbids me to do it yet.”

“And he took this apartment for you, and gave you money to buy that smart dress and these furs. Bah! mon enfant, why try to deceive me? Do I not know my Paris? A fort bel homme does not make himself guardian to a fort belle fine so young and fair as Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin without certain considerations which shall be nameless, like himself.”

Julie’s eyes flashed. “Ah, Gustave! ah, Monsieur!” she said, half angrily, half plaintively, “I see that my guardian knew you better than I did. Never mind; I will not reproach. Thou halt the right to despise me.”

“Pardon! I did not mean to offend thee,” said Gustave, somewhat disconcerted. “But own that thy story is strange; and this guardian, who knows me better than thou—does he know me at all? Didst thou speak to him of me?”

“How could I help it? He says that this terrible war, in which he takes an active part, makes his life uncertain from day to day. He wished to complete the trust bequeathed to him by seeing me safe in the love of some worthy man who”—she paused for a moment with an expression of compressed anguish, and then hurried on—“who would recognise what was good in me,—would never reproach me for—for—the past. I then said that my heart was thine: I could never marry any one but thee.”

“Marry me,” faltered Gustave—“marry!”

“And,” continued the girl, not heeding his interruption, “he said thou wert not the husband he would choose for me: that thou wert not—no, I cannot wound thee by repeating what he said unkindly, unjustly. He bade me think of thee no more. I said again, that is impossible.”

“But,” resumed Rameau, with an affected laugh, “why think of anything so formidable as marriage? Thou lovest me, and—” He approached again, seeking to embrace her. She recoiled. “No, Gustave, no. I have sworn solemnly by the memory of my lost mother—O—that I will never sin again. I will never be to thee other than thy friend—or thy wife.”

Before Gustave could reply to these words, which took him wholly by surprise, there was a ring at the outer door, and the old bonne ushered in Victor de Mauleon. He halted at the threshold, and his brow contracted.

“So you have already broken faith with me, Mademoiselle?”

“No, Monsieur, I have not broken faith,” cried Julie; passionately. “I told you that I would not seek to find out Monsieur Rameau. I did not seek, but I met him unexpectedly. I owed to him an explanation. I invited him here to give that explanation. Without it, what would he have thought of me? Now he may go, and I will never admit him again without your sanction.”

The Vicomte turned his stern look upon Gustave, who though, as we know, not wanting in personal courage, felt cowed by his false position; and his eye fell, quailed before De Mauleon’s gaze.

“Leave us for a few minutes alone, Mademoiselle,” said the Vicomte. “Nay, Julie,” he added, in softened tones, “fear nothing. I, too, owe explanation—friendly explanation—to M. Rameau.”

With his habitual courtesy towards women, he extended his hand to Julie, and led her from the room. Then, closing the door, he seated himself, and made a sign to Gustave to do the same.

“Monsieur,” said De Mauleon, “excuse me if I detain you. A very few words will suffice for our present interview. I take it for granted that Mademoiselle has told you that she is no child of Madame Surville’s: that her own mother bequeathed her to my protection and guardianship with a modest fortune which is at my disposal to give or withhold. The little I have seen already of Mademoiselle impresses me with sincere interest in her fate. I look with compassion on what she may have been in the past; I anticipate with hope what she may be in the future. I do not ask you to see her in either with my eyes. I say frankly that it is my intention, and I may add, my resolve, that the ward thus left to my charge shall be henceforth safe from the temptations that have seduced her poverty, her inexperience, her vanity, if you will, but have not yet corrupted her heart. Bref, I must request you to give me your word of honour that you will hold no further communication with her. I can allow no sinister influence to stand between her fate and honour.”

“You speak well and nobly, M. le Vicomte,” said Rameau, “and I give the promise you exact.” He added, feelingly: “It is true her heart has never been corrupted that is good, affectionate, unselfish as a child’s. J’ai l’honneur de vous saluer, M. le Vicomte.”

He bowed with a dignity unusual to him, and tears were in his eyes as he passed by De Mauleon and gained the anteroom. There a side-door suddenly opened, and Julie’s face, anxious, eager, looked forth.

Gustave paused: “Adieu, Mademoiselle! Adieu, though we may never meet again,—though our fates divide us,—believe me that I shall ever cherish your memory—and—”

The girl interrupted him, impulsively seizing his arm, and looking him in the face with a wild fixed stare. “Hush! dost thou mean to say that we are parted,—parted forever?”

“Alas!” said Gustave, “what option is before us? Your guardian rightly forbids my visits; and even were I free to offer you my hand, you yourself say that I am not a suitor he would approve.”

Julie turned her eyes towards De Mauleon, who, following Gustave into the ante-room, stood silent and impassive, leaning against the wall.

He now understood and replied to the pathetic appeal in the girl’s eyes.

“My young ward,” he said, “M. Rameau expresses himself with propriety and truth. Suffer him to depart. He belongs to the former life; reconcile yourself to the new.”

He advanced to take her hand, making a sign to Gustave to depart. But as he approached Julie, she uttered a weak piteous wail, and fell at his feet senseless. De Mauleon raised and carried her into her room, where he left her to the care of the old bonne. On re-entering the anteroom, he found Gustave still lingering by the outer door. “You will pardon me, Monsieur,” he said to the Vicomte, “but in fact I feel so uneasy, so unhappy. Has she—? You see, you see that there is danger to her health, perhaps to her reason, in so abrupt a separation, so cruel a rupture between us. Let me call again, or I may not have strength to keep my promise.”

De Mauleon remained a few minutes musing. Then he said in a whisper, “Come back into the salon. Let us talk frankly.”