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.”