Chapter V: Part 5

"But I do not choose that you shall write," replied Julien with a proud vehemence which did not displease Madame d'Estrelle. "Do you think that I am a child to be afraid of his anger, or a coward to leave you exposed to his importunities? Do you think that my mother would be any more willing than myself to accept favors which would cost you the shadow of a falsehood? Is it for you to deal tenderly with anyone, and suffer for our sake, who would give our lives to spare you the slightest suffering? No, madame, learn to know us better. My mother's sentiments are as lofty as your own; she accepted Monsieur Antoine's benefactions with the very greatest reluctance. To-day she would blush to do it; she will detest the mere thought when she knows what they cost you. And as for me--I am of no consequence in your eyes and shall never be anything in your life; but permit a man, who feels that he is a man of spirit, to tell you that he fears neither poverty, nor vengeance, nor any sort of persecution. I have done my duty and I will continue to do it; I will support my mother until she draws her last breath, and if it is necessary to contend against the whole world, I shall be able to do it for her. Let this reassure you touching the fate of her you love so dearly. If only your friendship were concerned, she would prefer it to all Monsieur Antoine's wealth, and for my own part, though I had but this moment on earth to tell you that I love you, I should esteem myself happy and proud to have been able to say it to you without offence and without presumption; for I speak to your heart, and there is not a shadow of a sentiment in my heart that is unworthy of you. Adieu, madame! live happily and at peace; and if you ever need a man to do something for you that is beyond the power of all other men, remember that such a man exists, poor, humble, hidden in a corner, but capable of moving mountains; for when his mother's welfare is at stake, he is determination and faith personified."

Julien left the room without asking or waiting for another word from Madame d'Estrelle, and in a twinkling he was in the street. Antoine was awaiting him with feverish impatience; he was on the point of bursting into the hôtel like a bomb when Julien reappeared.

"Well, the answer must be at least four pages long!" he cried. "Where is it?"

"Come, monsieur," said Julien, offering him his arm to cross the street. "There is too much noise here for us to hear each other."

They entered into an open field where there was a sign: _For Sale_; and Julien began thus:

"Monsieur my uncle, Madame d'Estrelle read your letter and summoned me to her presence so that I might bring you her verbal response."

"Verbal?"

"Yes, word for word."

"Let us hear it!"

"Madame la comtesse, considering that your mind must have been disturbed when you asked for her hand, was afraid to be alone with you and put an end to the interview by a promise to reflect; but she had already reflected, and this is her decision. She regrets that she will be unable to come to your house to-morrow, and she informs you that from this moment she will no longer be at home."

"She is going away! Where is she going?"

"It is not for me to interpret, but for you to understand."

"I understand! this is my formal dismissal, is it?"

"Everything tends to make me think so."

"And you are the person she employs to tell me so?"

"No! I took it upon myself without asking her consent."

"Why? I insist upon knowing!"

"You do know, monsieur. Didn't you tell me that my mother's fortune and my own depended on Madame d'Estrelle's encouragement of your matrimonial plans? That is why I grasped so eagerly the excuse you gave me to go to her house, hoping that the extraordinary nature of your letter would induce her to receive me. That is something you did not anticipate."

"Yes, I did, _mordieu!_" cried Monsieur Antoine; "I said to myself that that thing would happen if----"

"If what, monsieur?"

"If I had guessed right. I understand."

"But I do not understand."

"That makes no difference to me."

"Excuse me, you want me to guess. You thought that I was foolish enough, impertinent enough, mad enough to aspire to that lady's favor?"

"And now I am sure of it! You told her of your sentiments, and I see your air of triumph. At the same time you are rubbing your hands because you have shown me the door! You will go and tell your dear mother this, of course! You will say to her: 'The rich man gobbled the bait! He thought that by tossing us a crust of bread and taking a young wife, he would make sport of us and disinherit us! Well, he has succeeded simply in covering himself with shame. He will grow old alone, he will die unmarried, and we shall be rich in spite of him.'"

"You are mistaken, monsieur," rejoined Julien with perfect self-possession. "I formed no such contemptible schemes, and I shall never do anything of the kind. You may marry to-morrow, if you choose, and whom you choose, and I shall be overjoyed, provided always that my mother's dignity and mine are not at stake in your undertaking. This is what I desired to say to Madame d'Estrelle, and what I say to you. And now I have only to remember that you are my uncle, and humbly to present you my respects."

Julien was about to go away after bowing low to Monsieur Antoine. But he recalled him in an imperious tone.

"What about my lily? Who will pay me for it?"

"Put a price on it, monsieur."

"Five hundred thousand francs."

"Are you speaking seriously?"

"Am I speaking seriously?"

"I must believe you, knowing that you are incapable of deceiving a person who relies upon you."

"Flattery! fawning!"

The blood rose in the young artist's cheeks; he gazed earnestly at Monsieur Antoine, trying to persuade himself that he was really so irresponsible that his invectives should not affect a self-possessed man. Antoine divined his thought and made an effort to be calmer.

"Well, let us say no more about that!" he said. "I will go and pick up the ruins and the picture; I have lost my outlay of kindness of heart and confidence. It will teach me not to depart from my ideas and principles again! Walk first and don't say another word!"

They returned to the studio. There Monsieur Antoine, silent as hatred, took the flower, the plant, the picture, and refusing to accept anyone's assistance, without looking at Julien, without moving his lips, he left the pavilion and did not appear again.

Marcel soon returned and asked Julien what had taken place. Julien told him frankly and unhesitatingly in Madame Thierry's presence.

"Now," he added, "my inconsiderate conduct alarmed you, I know. You thought that I was as mad as Uncle Antoine, and my mother is terrified by a sentiment which she thinks is likely to be disastrous to me. Undeceive yourself and be calm, my dear mother, and do you, Marcel, give me back the esteem which you should entertain for a man of sense. One may be such a man, even if he has been guilty of an imprudence, and I realize that I was very reckless when I offered our benefactress a thing which did not belong to me. That was an impulse of gratitude, sadly misplaced, it is true, but which did not scandalize her, because she saw in it nothing more than an emotion that was worthy of her and consistent with the respect that is her due. I flatter myself that she is even more convinced of it since she granted me an interview, and I swear to you both, by all I hold most sacred, by filial love and faithful friendship, that there shall be nothing unpleasant to Madame d'Estrelle, nothing distressing to you, nothing unbecoming on my part in my future conduct. Let us not regret the house at Sèvres, my dear mother: we could not obtain it unless Madame d'Estrelle became Madame Antoine Thierry, and you certainly do not think that could ever have come to pass. As for you, my dear Marcel, I bless you for all the trouble you have taken, but surely you are convinced now that it was all thrown away, and that Uncle Antoine gives nothing for nothing. Let us be calm now, let us take up our lives where we dropped them when this evil dream of wealth began. I still have arms to work with and a heart to love you, and indeed, from this day forth, I feel more zealous, braver and surer of the future than I have ever been."

This time Julien was speaking the truth and not simply forcing himself to be brave in order to comfort his mother. He felt, not perfectly tranquil, but strong; his two interviews with Julie in quick succession had given his heart a new direction, a more unerring impulse. He had found in her presence the inspiration which gave full play to the seriousness and the generosity of his passion. He was sure that he had laid bare his heart to her, and that he had neither terrified nor insulted her. Did he believe that she loved him? No, but it may be that he had a vague feeling that she did, and there was a mysterious enjoyment in his reverie. He had attained a perfect understanding of his mission in the life of exalted and unselfish sentiment which was really his normal life. What he had said, he proposed to do, and he had strength to do it. To love in silence, to seek nothing, to obtain nothing by surprise, and to seize nothing except an opportunity to devote himself unreservedly to his mission, such was his plan, his determination, his profession of faith, so to speak.

"And now," he thought, "it may be that I shall suffer terribly despite my determination; but I shall so enjoy suffering nobly and holding my peace for love of her, that I shall triumph over my suffering, and my mother will not again feel its rebound. I must be very strong in the struggle between my instincts and my duties. And why should I not? I have always loved lofty ideas and sentiments which are beyond the reach of the common herd. As I am obliged to be a man, and as I am persuaded that duty is found in family ties, I shall doubtless do some day as Marcel has done: I shall marry a virtuous woman, who will be thereafter my best friend. Until then I propose to remain free and chaste. I propose to love without hope, and if possible, without desire, this nobly born Julie who can never be mine; I will overcome the desire, I will carry fraternal feeling to the point of sublimity, and I will nourish all my faculties with the sublime. I will be to other people only a very patient, very amiable young working man, seeking grace and charm in baskets of roses; but by dint of studying the divine mystery of purity in the hearts of flowers, one may obtain a revelation of sanctity in love. It seems to me a fine thing to say to oneself that one might scheme to surprise the virtue of the woman one loves, and that one loves her too well to attempt it. The life of which I dream is all meditation and sentiment. Very well; I will live it as long as possible. I will live by my thoughts as other people live by their acts, and it may be that I shall be the happiest of men! I shall feel that I am sustained by an enthusiasm which will not be worn to shreds by disappointments. I shall live and breathe alone and every moment in the beautiful, the pure and the great, with even more satisfaction than my poor father, who was conscious of a craving for it, but who thought that he could gratify his craving amid luxurious surroundings or in the society of this or that great personage. I shall need nothing of that sort, and I shall be far, far richer, having no other desire than to be satisfied with myself."

In soaring thus resolutely into the regions of the ideal, Julien was in truth following a secret tendency which had developed in him early in life. He had received an exceedingly good education, and, while studying his art assiduously, had read a great deal; but, being naturally inclined to enthusiasm of an austere sort, he did not indulge his tastes in all directions or plunge into all sorts of pleasure. Of all that his youth had fed upon, he had revelled in the great Corneille with the most satisfaction and benefit. There he had found, in the loftiest form, the strongest and most daring aspirations to heroism. He preferred teaching of that sort put in action, those noble virtues manifesting and giving expression to themselves, to the discussions of contemporary philosophy. This is not equivalent to saying that he despised the spirit of his time, or that he held aloof from the extraordinary upheaval of ideas then in progress. On the contrary he was one of the sturdiest products of that period which is unique in all history in respect to its magnificent illusions pending the formation of awe-inspiring resolutions. Those were the last days of the monarchy, and very few people then thought of overturning it. At all events Julien was not one of those who thought of it; he went very far beyond anticipation of any event whatsoever in politics. He was intoxicated with the discoveries and dreams of science, moral and physical, recently set free, _en masse_ so to speak, from the clouds of the past. Lagrange, Bailly, Lalande, Berthollet, Monge, Condorcet and Lavoisier were already revolutionizing thought. When we reflect upon that rapid succession of fortunate experiments which, in a few years, produced astronomy from astrology, chemistry from alchemy, and replaced blind prejudice by experimental analysis all along the line of human knowledge, we realize that by making war on superstitions, the philosophers of the 18th century freed individual genius from its fetters simultaneously with the religious and social conscience of nations. What presumption then, what excitement, what intoxication in these first reachings out toward the future! The human intellect has hailed the bright sun of progress, and already it thinks to take possession of all its rays. No sooner has the first balloon arisen on its wings of flame, than two men risk the crossing of the Straits of Dover. Instantly mankind cries: "We are masters of the roads through the air, we are the inhabitants of the sky!"

At the period in which the action of our story happens to be laid, this noble beginning of the new ideas had found its formula in the word _perfectibility._ It was Condorcet who eloquently outlined the doctrine, and taking no account of human weakness, predicted for it a boundless destiny. He believed in infinity so absolutely that he hoped to find the secret of the destruction of death, and everybody who used his mind, everybody who read was beginning to believe with him in the indefinite prolongation of physical life. Parmentier believed moreover that he could banish forever the spectre of famine by acclimatizing the potato. Mesmer believed that he had discovered a mysterious agent, the source of all marvels. Saint-Martin proclaimed the rehabilitation of the human soul and illumined the terrors of the old-fashioned dogmas with the dogma of infinite light. Cagliostro pretended to revive ancient magic in a natural and comprehensible way; in a word the vertigo of the future had set every brain in a whirl, from the most prosaic to the most romantic, and, at the height of that intense excitement, the present was a trifling obstacle which no one deigned to notice. The old monarchy, the unbending clergy, were still on their feet, striving to retain their crumbling power; but liberty had been inaugurated in America, and France felt that her day was at hand. She had no thought of bloodshed; pleasant chimeras exclude ideas of revenge; on the eve of the terrible storm men's minds were making holiday, and an indescribable feverish grasping for the ideal paved the way for the magnificent outburst of '89.

Julien was full of that faith and determination which seems to descend to earth providentially at the moment fixed for mighty struggles; but with it all there was a certain calmness due to the direction, the habit and the temperament of his thought. There was a certain philosophical mysticism, not in the stage of discussion but in the stage of instinct, and a sort of craving to love. If he had not loved a woman, he would have loved liberty to fanaticism. Love consecrated him to self-sacrifice. As soon as Julie's image filled his heart, he no longer thought of himself except as a force which might serve to protect Julie. Did he entertain the idea that she could or would be likely to belong to him? Yes, he undoubtedly did, a confused idea, sometimes imperious, but valiantly combated. He had no prejudices; he was not, like his uncle Antoine, dazzled by rank, title and show; he knew that Julie was born in modest station and that her fortune was much impaired. Moreover, he felt that he was her equal, for he was one of those men of the third estate, who, being filled with a legitimate and tenacious pride, were beginning to say to one another: "The third estate is everything," just as they said later: "The people are everything," and just as they will say some day: "Everyone is everything," denying no kind of nobility, whether due to the sword, the toga, the factory or the plough. Thus Julien did not look upon the Comtesse d'Estrelle as a woman placed above him by circumstances, but by personal merit. That merit he exaggerated possibly in his own mind; it is the privilege of love to tend constantly toward the loftier regions of the soul, and to believe that it is summoned to the conquest of divinities. So that in his passion admirable humility was combined with boundless pride.

"I am not worthy of such a woman," he said to himself; "I must become so, and when, by dint of patience, unselfishness, self-denial and respect, I have succeeded--why, then perhaps I shall feel that I have the right to say to her: 'Love me.'"

But he sometimes wondered if that day would come before the unforeseen events of the future had disposed of Julie's fate; then he would say to himself:

"Very well; I shall possess her esteem, perhaps her friendship, and the time I shall have devoted to governing myself with dignity will not be wasted."

Madame Thierry was surprised and overjoyed therefore to find that his cheerfulness and all the symptoms of physical and moral well-being reappeared suddenly, on the very day of this momentous episode.

"My friend," she said to Marcel when they were alone for a moment, "I dare not tell you what is passing through my mind; but he has such a happy look! _Mon Dieu!_ do you believe it is possible?"

"What?" said Marcel. "Oh! yes, you are speaking of his visit to Madame d'Estrelle! Well, such things have been known, my dear aunt; he is good-looking enough and agreeable enough to please a great lady; but she is ruined and can extricate herself only by a wealthy marriage, which it is our duty to desire for her, on the condition that the man is not too old. I do not believe she is as bold and courageous as you were, and, moreover, the plan that succeeded with you is generally ruinous; a great passion is a number that wins only once in a hundred thousand times in the lottery of destiny! Let us not wish that for Julien and for _her!_"

"No, I don't wish it; it is too dangerous, as you say; but if she does take a fancy to him, what will happen?"

"I have no idea; but she is virtuous and he is an honorable man; they will both suffer. It would be better to separate them if possible."

"To be sure! that is what I said to you in the beginning. But what a pity! They are both so handsome, so young and so good! Ah! fate is very unjust sometimes! If my poor husband had left Julien the fortune we once had, he might have been a suitable match for her, as she is poor and without family pride! Alas! may God forgive me! this is the first time I ever blamed my André. Let us say no more about it, Marcel, let us say no more about it!"

"We must think about it, none the less," replied the solicitor, "and not let Julien's heart burn too fiercely. To-day, it is fireworks, because he probably has some hope; but to-morrow it may be a conflagration."

"What shall we do, Marcel?"

"I don't know. I would like to be able to confess Madame d'Estrelle, and Uncle Antoine above all, for I am not deceived by his philosophy, and I am afraid--"

"What are you afraid of?"

"Everything. Should we not be prepared for everything with him?"

Madame d'Estrelle had been almost made ill by all the excitement of the day. Julien's visit had proved to be the finishing touch; but, as soon as he left her, the sort of fever which Monsieur Antoine's performance had caused gave place to a not unpleasant feeling of lassitude.

"I have a friend," she said to herself, "a most agreeable friend, that is certain, though the whole world should make sport of me for trusting so implicitly in the word of a man whom I did not know a few hours ago; but should I accept this zealous friendship? is it not dangerous to him and to me? To be sure, he did not ask me to accept it. He went away like a man who is dependent on nobody and who loves without permission. Since he says that he has no hope, has he not a right to love? And what could I do to prevent him?"

Julie was perfectly well aware, in her inmost conscience, that she should not have received Julien after Madame Thierry's revelation concerning his feeling for her.

"After all," she said, "why did I receive him, when my first impulse was to send him that simple yet conclusive message: 'There is no reply!' That would have rid me of uncle and nephew at one stroke. But did the nephew deserve to be humiliated? Did he not come simply to rescue his honor from a detestable snare laid by his uncle? Had he not the right to say to me thereupon all that he did say to me, and was I offended by what he took the liberty of adding on his own account, although it was perhaps a little too sentimental? ought I to have been offended? It is of no use for me to ask the question, I cannot answer it. He offered himself, he gave himself to me, without asking for anything. He made me a present of his heart and his life, whether I would or not. He did not speak to me like a lover, no, indeed! but like a slave and a master at once. All this is very strange, and my brain is in a whirl. I do not know what it is that I feel for him. The only thing that is certain is that I believe in him."

It seemed to Julie as well as to Madame Thierry and Marcel that the morrow of that strange day would probably be fraught with important events. In vain did they question themselves concerning Monsieur Antoine's wrath: to their great amazement neither the morrow nor the days following brought about any change in their respective situations. The horticulturist went into the country, no one knew where. There was no place for him to go, at least within the knowledge of Marcel, who thought that he knew all his business, but who really knew only a part of it. When he was thoroughly convinced of his uncle's absence, he became anxious about him; but he was shown orders written by his own hand, which his head gardener received each morning, detailing minutely the nature and extent of the care to be bestowed on certain delicate plants. These horticultural bulletins were undated and without stamps. They were brought by the ex-armorer's valet, an old sailor, who was the slave of his orders, obedient as a negro, dumb as an old stump.

"Well!" said Marcel to Madame Thierry, "he is in the sulks, that is certain; or else he is ashamed of his madness and has gone into hiding for a little time. Let us hope that he will return cured of his matrimoniomania, and that he will consider his honor involved in carrying out a certain bargain relative to this pavilion. You need the indemnity, and I do not conceal from you that Madame d'Estrelle is greatly in need of the promised amount. I don't know what vicious insect is pricking her creditors, but suddenly they all begin to display the most extraordinary impatience and anxiety. They go so far as to threaten to transfer their claims to one principal creditor, who would surely speculate on my client's embarrassment, and that is the worst thing that could possibly happen."

"I am not at all easy in my mind," he said two days later to Madame d'Estrelle, who had just been to visit her father-in-law, who was ill; "I am afraid monsieur le marquis may die unexpectedly before he has settled up your affairs."

"I place no reliance on his good-will toward me," replied Julie; "but I cannot believe that he will leave me at the mercy of the count's creditors, when only a few last steps are needed to settle with them. Of course we must expect the childish fear of robbing himself which always haunts selfish old men; but after him----"

"After him?" echoed Marcel. "The devil is after him, I mean at his heels. His wife is a good-for-nothing; I am afraid of her; she doesn't love you, and she is nothing to you, since your husband was not her son."

"_Mon Dieu!_ you look at the dark side of everything, my dear solicitor! The marquis is neither very old nor very ill. He must have made his will. The marchioness is very pious, and what she would not do from affection, she will do as a matter of duty. Do not you discourage me, who have always encouraged me."

"I should not be discouraged myself if I could put my hand on my singular old uncle! Let him buy the pavilion and pay for it, and that gives us two or three months' respite. We shall have time to sell the little farm in the Beauvoisis or make it over to the creditors at an agreed price, otherwise we shall be brutally sold out and lose a hundred per cent. of these poor scraps, which are of some value to-day!"

Julie, who, at other times, had been much distressed concerning her situation, had reached that stage of lassitude which takes the place of courage. Her philosophy surprised and irritated Marcel.

"Deuce take me!" he whispered to Julien's mother, "one would say that she asks nothing better now than to be turned into the street!"

Was that, in truth, Madame d'Estrelle's secret thought? Did she say to herself that, being poor, and abandoned by her husband's family, she no longer owed so much consideration to the name she bore, and that she could disappear from the world's stage to live as she chose and marry according to her inclination?

Yes and no. At times she dreamed again that dream of a happiness hitherto unknown, which had come to her like a fascinating vision in Julien's studio. At other times she became the Comtesse d'Estrelle once more, and asked herself in dismay how she could break with all her surroundings and her habits, and whether she could endure blame and contempt, after having been so loudly praised and so respected up to that day by a limited but select circle of persons highly considered in society.

It is well known that period was marked by a violent and determined reaction in certain aristocratic circles against the invasion of the democracy. Perhaps no other period in history presents such strange contrasts. On the one hand public opinion, queen of the new world, proclaimed the doctrines of equality, contempt for social distinctions, the philosophy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Voltaire and Diderot; on the other, the ruling powers, terrified by a progress which they dared not oppose, attempted a tardy resistance which was destined to hurl them into the abyss; but to one whose horizon was narrow, to whom the morrow was not revealed, that resistance assumed formidable proportions, and a weak and gentle woman like Madame d'Estrelle was certain to be alarmed by it. Like all of her caste she fancied that she could read the destiny of France in the conduct of the court; and there were times when the king, in dire dismay, tried to resuscitate the monarchy of Louis XIV.; distressing and vain efforts, which, however, when looked at from a certain point of view, seemed serious enough to irritate the people and to increase the arrogance of the privileged classes. The court and city had acclaimed Voltaire's triumph; on the morrow of that triumph the clergy refused him a tomb. Mirabeau had written a masterpiece against the arbitrary use of _lettres de cachet._ The king had said of Beaumarchais: "If his play--_the Marriage of Figaro_--is acted, we may as well destroy the Bastille!" The third estate grew in enlightenment, in ambition, in real worth; the court reëstablished privileges in the army as well as among the clergy, and decided--which Cardinal de Richelieu would not have dared to do--that, in order to be a military officer or a prelate, an applicant must prove four generations of noble blood. The American Constitution had just proclaimed the principles of Jean-Jacques's _Social Contract_; Washington and Lafayette were dreaming of the enfranchisement of the slaves; the French ministry granted additional facilities to the slave trade; the lower clergy became more democratic from day to day; the Sorbonne tried to pick a quarrel with Buffon, and the upper clergy demanded a new law to _repress the art of writing_; public opinion was aroused against capital punishment, the _preliminary torture_ was still in use. The queen had protected Beaumarchais; Raynal was forced to go into exile.

These attempts at reaction in the midst of the onward rush of the age found an echo in the religious coteries; and the greater nobility, generally speaking, upbraided those of its members who had allowed themselves to be fascinated by the seductions of the new philosophy. In the conservative salons, the king and queen were overwhelmed with maledictions and sarcasm when they seemed inclined to abandon the theory of the royal _good pleasure._ The aristocrats clung to that theory, they believed that everything was safe when they added a stone to the powerless dam erected to stem the revolutionary spirit, and yet no one suspected the swift motion of the flood nor the imminence of the inundation. Everything was translated into bitter satire, ballads and caricatures. They pretended to despise the danger to the point of laughing pityingly at it.

Those persons who were of Julie's immediate circle were of the same mild and timid disposition to which her own mild timidity naturally inclined her; but outside of that little circle, where extravagance in any form was frowned upon, she felt the pressure of a large and more formidable circle, that of the Comte d'Estrelle's family, an arrogant family, irritated by her dumb resistance to absolute opinions; and again, outside of that dreaded circle, which she carefully avoided, there was a still more powerful and threatening one, that of the Marquis d'Estrelle's second wife. That circle, composed exclusively of bigots, opposed to all progress, bitterly contemptuous of philosophers, openly hostile to the omnipotent Voltaire himself, permeated with all the prejudices of birth, fiercely tenacious of its alleged right, was to Julie a subject of terror, puerile perhaps but profound and increasing. The marchioness was well-known to be a covetous, evil-minded, dishonorable woman, and we have seen that the Baronne d'Ancourt, despite her own retrograde ideas, spoke of her, as well as of her environment, with great aversion. Julie was very slightly acquainted with her, and strove to believe that she was sincere in her piety; but she was afraid of her, and, when she questioned herself concerning the state of dread and depression in which she was living, she saw before her the disgusting spectre of that gaunt person, with the greenish eye and pitiless tongue. At such times, from very excess of terror, she tried to apologize for her when she spoke of her, or to impose silence on those of her friends who ventured to call her a harpy or a bird of evil omen.

Naturally poor Julie abhorred the opinions of the marchioness and her circle; but she had not had enough experience, she did not sufficiently appreciate the general tendency of her time to realize the utter puerility of the persecutions she would have had to undergo if she had resolved to live in accordance with the dictates of her heart and her conscience. In that cage of prejudice she was like a bird which thinks that the world has formed itself into a cage about him, and which no longer understands the breath of the wind among the leaves and the flight of other birds through space.

"There may be happy people," she said to herself, "but how far away they are. And how can I join them?"

In like manner, on the eve of a terrible revolution, the prisoners of the past wept over their chains and believed that they were riveted upon them for all eternity. Nevertheless Julie, the greater part of the time, forgot this whole matter of external facts to lose herself in vague contemplations and in secret preoccupations of a new sort. We shall soon see what the subject of them was, and how great difficulty that generous but timid heart had in coming to terms with itself.

A fortnight had passed since the disaster to the _Antonia_, and Madame d'Estrelle had neither seen nor heard of Julien. She might have believed that he had never existed and that their two interviews were a dream. Madame Thierry had not set foot in the garden, and when Julie, surprised at her continued absence, sent to inquire for her, the answer was that she was a little indisposed--nothing alarming--but forced to keep her room.

Marcel, when she questioned him, evaded her questions, confirmed the statement as to his aunt's slight indisposition, but went into no details. Julie dared not insist; she divined that her neighbor was determined to break off every sort of relation, every pretext for communication, even indirect, between her and Julien.

At last, one morning, Madame Thierry reappeared, when Julie least expected her. In reply to Julie's reserved and timid questions, she said effusively:

"My dear countess, you must forgive me for a bad dream I had, which has vanished now. I judged too hastily, I was foolishly alarmed, and I frightened you with my chimeras. I thought that my son had the presumption to love you, I was so sure of it that it has taken this past fortnight to disabuse me of the idea. So forget what I said to you and give back to my poor child the esteem which he has never ceased to deserve. He does not raise his eyes or his thoughts to you. He venerates you as he ought, and if you should need someone to die for you, he would grasp the opportunity; but there is no romantic passion in his devotion, simply fervent and heartfelt gratitude. He has sworn to me that it is so. I doubted his word at first, but I was wrong. I have watched him; I have done better than that, I have played the spy for a fortnight, and now I am reassured. He eats, he sleeps, he talks, he goes in and out, and works cheerily; in a word, he is not in love: he does not try to see you, he speaks of you with tranquil admiration, he does not seem to desire an opportunity to attract your eyes, nor will he ever seek it. Forgive my folly, and love me as before."

Julie accepted this perfectly sincere declaration of Madame Thierry with gracious satisfaction. They talked of something else and remained together an hour; then they parted, congratulating each other on having no further subject of discomfort, and on being able to renew their relations without agitation or danger to anyone.

How did it happen that when she was alone once more, Julie was overwhelmed by an inexplicable depression? She sought the cause to no purpose, and vented her spleen on the next visitors who came. Her old friend Madame Desmorges seemed intolerably loquacious; the old Duc de Quesnoy as dull and tiresome as a blacksmith's hammer; her cousin, Madame la Présidente Boursault, prudish and hypocritical; the abbé--there was always an abbe in every private circle in those days--conceited and insipid. And, when Camille came to dress her hair at the usual hour, she pettishly dismissed her, saying:

"What is the use?"

Then she recalled her, and, impelled by a sudden caprice, asked her if the usual period for semi-mourning had not expired within three days.

"Why, yes, madame," said Camille, "it is all over! and madame la comtesse does very wrong not to stop wearing it. If she continues to wear it, it will have a very bad effect."

"How so, Camille?"

"People will say that madame is prolonging her grief for economy, to wear out her gray gowns."

"That is most excellent reasoning, my dear, and I bow to it. Bring me a pink dress at once."

"Pink? No, madame, it is too soon for that. People would say that madame wore mourning reluctantly, and that she changed her mind with her dress. Madame should wear a pretty dress of royal blue with white flowers."

"Very good! But haven't all my dresses gone out of style in the two years I have been in mourning?"

"No, madame, for I have looked after them! I have cut the sleeves over and changed the trimming on the waist. With bows of white satin and a lace head-dress, madame will be as stylish as possible."

"But why make me beautiful, Camille, when I do not expect anybody?"

"Has madame said that she was not at home?"

"No; but you remind me that I do not wish to receive any visitors."

Camille looked at her mistress in surprise. She did not understand, she thought it was an attack of the vapors, and began to _arrange_ her, as the phrase went in those days, afraid to break the silence. Julie, depressed and distraught, allowed herself to be dressed. And when her maid had retired, carrying away the gray dresses which became her property, she looked at herself from head to foot in a long mirror. She was fascinatingly dressed, and as lovely as an angel. That is why, as her heart continued to ask: _What is the use?_ she hid her face in her hands and began to cry like a child.

V

If Julien had been a libertine, he could have adopted no better plan to arouse Madame d'Estrelle's passion. The days succeeded one another, and no chance brought them face to face for an instant. And yet Julie, whether from excess of confidence or from heedlessness, lived much more in her garden than in her salon, and preferred a solitary stroll among the shrubbery to the conversation of her intimate friends. There were evenings when she denied herself to callers on the pretext of indisposition or weariness, but on those evenings she dressed none the less carefully, as if she expected some unusual visit; then she would go to the further end of the garden, hurry back in alarm at the faintest sound, then return to see what had frightened her, and fall into a sort of panic-stricken revery when she found that everything was quiet and that she was really alone.

One day she received a declaration of love, in well-turned language, without a signature and without a private seal. She was deeply offended at it, thinking that Julien had broken all his promises to her, and saying to herself that it deserved no other treatment than cold disdain. On the following day she discovered that this effusion came from the brother of one of her friends, and her first impulse was one of joy. No, of course Julien would not have written in such terms; Julien would not have written at all! The letter, which, in the confusion of uncertainty, had seemed to her not lacking in delicacy, now seemed to be in the worst possible taste; she tossed it scornfully into the fire. But what if Julien had written! Doubtless he knew how to write as well as talk. And why did he not write?

Julie had no sooner given way to this inward weakness than she was bitterly ashamed of it.

"Of what use are my strength and my common sense," she said, "when my heart rushes outside of me thus, to grasp an affection which eludes me? Upon my word, it is only the indifference with which I am regarded which preserves me, and yet the shame of that thought does not cure me. Am I guided by a spirit of contradiction? It seemed to me at first that any advance on that young man's part would have disgusted me and that I should have repelled him proudly; and lo and behold! his resignation irritates me, his silence distresses me, and I am angry with him for thinking no more of me! Evidently my mind is badly diseased."

One day when she was at her perfumer's, she met Julien going out. He had no right to bow to her in public, and he pretended not to see her. She found on the counter a very pretty fan which he had painted for his mother, and had just brought to the shop to be made up. She imagined that it was intended for her, and made up her mind to refuse it; however, she awaited the little gift with intense impatience.

"He will send it to me mysteriously," she thought; "it will be an anonymous offering, and in that case----"

But the gift did not arrive; so it was not for her after all. What folly to think that he intended it for her! Julien was in love with some other woman--some petty bourgeoise or some society woman of easy morals--perhaps an actress! She did not sleep for two nights; then she happened to see the fan in Madame Thierry's hand, and she breathed again.

In spite of her determination, she could not avoid speaking of Julien to his mother, and she resorted to every sort of detour to bring him into the conversation. She wished to know about the sort of life led by a young painter, of which she had no idea; and, although she dreaded to learn some unpleasant or painful details, she continued to ask questions, at first concerning the tastes and habits of artists, in general; then of a sudden she asked:

"Your son, for example; did he not lead a brilliant, dissipated, or at least an enjoyable life before the death of his father and your subsequent troubles?"

"My son has always been of a serious turn of mind," replied Madame André, "and I must say that the young men of all ranks seem to me very different to-day from those whom I used to see in my youth. My dear husband was a type of those men with fertile, ingenious and easily impressed imaginations, whose lives were filled with unexpected pleasures, and whose aim seemed to be the enjoyment of everything that was agreeable, rather than the ambitious pursuit of renown. He painted _chefs-d'œuvre_ for amusement, and no anxieties ever disturbed his mind. To-day the modern artists are tearing themselves to pieces to do better than their predecessors. Criticism has been invented. Monsieur Diderot, whom my husband used to see very often, taught him to have a higher opinion of himself than he would have thought of doing, and my little Julien would listen to that great intellect, devouring him with his searching, inquisitive great eyes. Then Monsieur Diderot would say: 'There's a child who has the sacred fire!' But my husband didn't want to have too many ideas put into his head. He thought that the beautiful should be keenly _felt_ and not studied overmuch. Was he right? He sought to embellish the imagination, not to overburden it. Julien was gentle and placid; he read and mused a great deal. His painting is more highly esteemed than his father's by genuine connoisseurs, and when he is talking of art you can see that he understands everything; but his work isn't so universally liked, and he doesn't care at all for society. His mind is full of all kinds of subjects of meditation, and when I say to him: 'You don't laugh, you are not in good spirits, you haven't the enthusiasm of your years,' he answers: 'I am happy as I am. I never feel the need of excitement. There are so many things to think about!'"

These outpourings of Madame Thierry's heart gradually revealed Julien to Madame d'Estrelle, and the sort of instinctive respect which had taken her by surprise when she first saw him, became a sort of awe which made her love him all the more. It was no longer possible for her to look upon him as an inferior, and yet the young artist was one of the class whom her associates referred to as _those people!_ She made an effort sometimes, when she was talking with her friends, to plead for the strong and the intelligent in whatever class they might be found. Her friends were sufficiently far advanced to reply to her: "You are a thousand times right, birth is nothing, merit alone is of consequence;" but those were simply maxims for the benefit of enlightened persons, and nothing more. The actual practice of equality had in no wise been incorporated in the national morals, and the same persons were not at all backward, a moment later, in blaming the Duke of So-and-So for fertilizing his estates with a plebeian dowry, or Princess Blank for falling in love with a wretched adventurer to the point of wanting to marry him, to the great scandal of _virtuous folk._ A young woman, unmarried or widowed, might fall in love with a man of noble birth, even though he were poor; but, if he _had no birth_, it was a disgraceful infatuation, an indecent attachment; she sacrificed her principles to her passions; marriage failed to justify her and she became an object of public contempt. Julie, who had lived in the esteem and regard of her friends, her only compensation for her unhappy youth, had ice-cold shivers when she heard that sort of talk; and if the object of her secret passion had chanced at such a moment to enter her little circle, apparently so tolerant and good-humored, she would have been compelled to rise and say to him: "Why have you come here, monsieur?"

But the little party separated at nine, and ten minutes later Julie was in the garden; she gazed at the light in the pavilion, twinkling like a green star through the foliage, and she fancied that, if Julien should appear at a bend in the path, she should not be able to fly.

Throughout all this period of agitation on poor Julie's part, Julien was almost calm; his purpose was so upright, so sincere, that his mind had recovered its health sufficiently to deceive itself.

"No," he thought, "I did not lie to my mother. What Madame d'Estrelle inspires in me is a very strong, lofty, exquisitely delicate friendship; but it is not, as I thought at first, a frantic and disastrous passion; or, if I had an attack of that fever at the beginning, it disappeared on the day when I saw that simple, kindly, trustful woman close at hand, when I heard her sweet, chaste voice, when I realized that she was an angel and that my aspirations were not worthy of her. No, no, I am not in love, according to the common understanding of the term; I love with a full heart, that is all, and I will not allow my imagination to torment me. The earth has hardly closed over my poor father; I have not an hour to waste if I wish to save my mother. No, no, I have no right, I have no time to give way to passion."

Marcel noticed Julien's tranquillity and was unable to understand the mental perturbation which made itself manifest in Madame d'Estrelle's behavior. He found her one day just returned from a visit to her father-in-law the marquis. His life was thought to be no longer in danger, and Marcel might hope to talk with him again before long concerning his client's pecuniary embarrassments.

"Oh! _mon Dieu_, you put yourself to very great trouble for me," said Julie; "but is it worth while? I give you my word that I am quite willing to be poor; I should probably be no more bored than I am now."

"And yet you are beautifully arrayed and intending to pass the evening in company."

"No, I am going to change my dress; I don't expect to go out. With whom should I go out, pray? I am at odds with Madame d'Ancourt, the only person to whose house I might venture to go alone in the evening, as she was my schoolmate at the convent. I am not intimate enough with any of the others to appear at their houses without a chaperone; Madame Desmorges, who might act in that capacity for me, is indolent beyond words; my cousin the _présidente_ is not received in aristocratic society, and the Marquise d'Orbe is in the country. Really I am terribly bored, Monsieur Thierry, I am too much alone, and there are days when I can do nothing, having no heart for anything."

It was the first time that Julie had complained of her situation. Marcel looked at her attentively and reflected.

"You must divert your mind a little; why don't you go to the play sometimes?"

"But I haven't a box anywhere now; you know very well that I can no longer afford it."

"An additional reason for going wherever you please. A box by the year is downright slavery; it puts you on exhibition and makes a chaperone a necessity. There are some small pleasures which the bourgeois indulge in at small expense and without inconvenient display. To-day, for instance, I am to take my wife to the Comédie-Française. We have hired a closed box on the ground floor."

"Ah! what a pleasure it must be to go there! You are not seen at all, are you? You enjoy the play, you can laugh or cry without being hooted by the gallery. Have you a place for me, Monsieur Thierry?"

"I have two; I intended to offer one to my aunt."

"And the other to her son? In that case----"

"That makes no difference; he can go some other day; but what will people think to meet you on your solicitor's arm in the foyer? Or if some one should recognize you sitting beside Madame Marcel Thierry, what would they say?"

"They may say what they please, and they will be very absurd if they find anything reprehensible in it."

"That is my opinion; but people are absurd, and they will say that you keep beggarly company; I soften the word out of respect for my wife, for they will say low company."

"The folly of society is shameful! Your wife is very attractive, I am told, and highly esteemed. I will go to see her to-morrow, for I know that to go to occupy a seat in her box unceremoniously, before asking her permission, would not be proper. Yes, yes, I will call to make her acquaintance, and we will go to the theatre together another day."

Marcel smiled, for he thoroughly understood the cowardice which had taken possession of his noble client at the idea of being accused of mixing with low company. She considered it cruel, unfair, insulting, absurd; but she was afraid none the less: fear does not reason.