Chapter VI: Part 6

"Very well, very well," Marcel replied; "I recognize your delicacy of feeling and your kind heart. My wife will be grateful to you for the intention, and she will be flattered to offer you her box this very evening; but take my advice, madame la comtesse, and do not go outside of your own circle to-night, nor to-morrow, nor ever, unless for some well-matured and well-digested reason. We must eat when we are hungry, but not force ourselves when we have only a suspicion of an appetite. The society to which you belong wants no mixture, and you must not defy it except for some great personal advantage or to do some very good deed. No one will understand that you do something outside of the conventional solely for the pleasure of doing it. They will be surprised first of all, and then they will look for motives, concealed or serious."

"And what will they find?" said Julie, uneasily.

"Nothing," replied Marcel; "but they will invent, and what people invent is always malicious."

"The result being that I am condemned to solitude?"

"You have accepted it courageously thus far, and you know well that it will cease when you choose."

"Yes, by marriage; but where am I to find a husband to fill the conditions demanded by the world and by me? Consider: he must be wealthy, so you yourself say, noble, according to my friends, and I myself insist that he must be agreeable and a man made to be loved! I shall not find him, you know, and I shall do better----"

Julie dared not finish her thought. Marcel thought that he ought not to question her. There was a pause, embarrassing to them both, then Julie exclaimed abruptly:

"Ah! _mon Dieu_, do not think that I am tempted to be false to my duty and to enter into a frivolous liaison!--I was thinking--I must tell you--I was thinking that I should do better to desire an obscure marriage in which I might find happiness."

"Obscure?" said Marcel. "That depends on what you mean by the word. You must insist upon wealth in any event; for, I warn you that if you hold your rank cheap, the Estrelle family will abandon you to your destruction."

"Well, what then?"

"What then? Why, if the husband of your choice is poor and you bring him debts----"

"Ah! yes, you are right; I increase his poverty with all my wretchedness and all the dangers that are hanging over me. I did not think of that. You see what a weak head mine is! Look you, Monsieur Thierry, there are days when I would like to be dead, and you do wrong not to take me to the play. I feel very depressed this evening, and I would like to be able to forget that I exist."

"Is it as bad as that?" rejoined Marcel hastily, terrified by her distressed expression. "In that case put on a very thick black veil and a very full black cape; I have a cab below; we will call for my wife, to whom I will explain your whim in two words, and we will go to hear _Polyeucte_, which will change the current of your thoughts. Hurry! for if anyone comes you won't be able to go out."

Julie jumped for joy like a child. She quickly transformed herself into a nun, dismissed her servants for the evening, and went with Marcel, half pleased, half frightened, and as excited as if this escapade with a solicitor and his wife were an adventure big with fate.

"And Madame Thierry?" she said when they were in the cab.

"Madame Thierry--we will leave her where she is," said Marcel. "Nothing has been said to her about going, and she would delay us while dressing. Besides, I should prefer--if you are to be recognized in spite of all our precautions--that you should not be seen with a woman who has a grown-up son--of whom, I may say parenthetically, Uncle Antoine has been exceedingly jealous. Mine is only a little law-student in embryo, barely twelve years old; we will take him, and that will make our bourgeois and--patriarchal party complete."

They arrived at Marcel's house. He ran upstairs, leaving Julie alone in the tightly closed cab. He soon came down again with his wife and son. Madame Marcel Thierry was very much frightened; but, like a sensible woman, she made no apologies and in a very few moments felt entirely at ease with the amiable Julie, who, on her side, found her a pleasant and sensible companion. They left the cab just before they reached the line of people waiting to purchase tickets, walked to the theatre, and passed in without meeting any spying or inquisitive persons. They were ushered into a very dark box, where Madame Marcel and her little boy took their places in front to conceal Madame d'Estrelle and the solicitor. They enjoyed the tragedy extremely. Julie had never taken so much pleasure in a performance. She had a feeling of greater mental freedom, and that middle-class family interested her deeply. She watched them curiously as types entirely unfamiliar to her, and, although they were a little self-conscious in her presence, she surprised divers little loving tokens between the husband and wife and child, which went to her heart. At the interesting passages in the play, Madame Marcel would turn to her husband and say in an undertone:

"Can you see, my dear? my bonnet isn't in your way?"

"No, no, my girl; don't worry about me. Enjoy yourself all you can."

And the child applauded when he saw the pit applaud. He would clap his little hands with an air of importance, then suddenly throw himself on his mother and kiss her, which meant that he was enjoying himself immensely and that he thanked her for bringing him there.

All those simple ways of middle-class life, the familiar form of address, the endearing epithets, vulgar if you please, but sacred, aroused in Julie sometimes an inclination to laugh, sometimes a wave of emotion which brought tears to her eyes. Of course it would all be considered execrable form in her circle; it was the way that inferior people talked and acted. Marcel, when in Madame Estrelle's salon, readily adopted the manners and language of a man who is able to conform to what is considered proper in all ranks of society. In his own family he laid aside that conventional manner, and, without ever being vulgar, he resumed the familiar tone of happy domesticity. Thus Julie surprised him oblivious of his ceremonious manner and living for his own enjoyment a sweet, trustful, unconstrained life. She was distressed and delighted at the same time, and little by little she reached the point where she said to herself that those people were in the right, and that all husbands and wives ought to call each other _thou_, all children to throw their arms about their mothers' necks, and all spectators to be interested in the performance. In the circle in which she lived people always addressed one another as you, they had no simple phrases that came from the heart, they emasculated every noble sentiment. Refinement was the most essential point in speech, and dignity in endearments. The heart entered into them only in a subordinate capacity, and its effusions must be concealed beneath a certain frigid or absurdly symbolical gloss. Admiration for genius must never become enthusiasm. They enjoyed, or appreciated, their words were carefully confined within certain bounds. In short they made it a point not to display emotion on any subject, and with the perpetual little smile of the grace that accompanies noble birth, they became so charming that they ceased to be human.

Madame d'Estrelle realized all these things for the first time, and was deeply impressed by them. Little _Juliot_, who was so called to distinguish him from Master Julien, whose godson he was, had an interesting face. He was a funny little rascal, with a shrewd face, turned-up nose, keen eye and sly mouth, and had the artless and cunning self-possession of a schoolboy in vacation. Had he been disguised as a great nobleman, he would never have been confounded with the too pretty and too polished little men who are all covered with the same aristocratic varnish. Juliot had his coating of caste, to be sure, but of that peculiar shading which the bourgeoise mind does not seek to efface, because in that social stratum every one has to exist by his own exertions, and to make a place for himself with the aid of the means which are at his command. Thus the child had the biting wit, combined with a certain innocent curiosity, which denoted the freshly ground Parisian, inquisitive and loquacious, credulous and shrewd all at once. In order not to expose Madame d'Estrelle's name to the possible consequences of his chatter in the office, he had been told that she was a client from the country newly arrived in Paris, who had never been to the theatre before; and, as Julie enjoyed questioning him, he did the honors of the capital city and the stage, between the acts. He pointed out the king's box to her, and the pit and the chandelier; he even explained the play and the relative importance of all the characters.

"You are going to see a beautiful play," he informed her before the curtain rose. "Perhaps you won't understand it very well, because it's in poetry. I have read it with my godfather Julien, and he explained it all to me just as if it was in prose. When you don't understand, mademoiselle, you must ask me."

"You chatter like a magpie," said his mother. "Don't you suppose madame knows Corneille better than you do?"

"Oh! perhaps she does; but I don't believe she knows as much as my godfather!"

"Much madame cares about your godfather's knowledge! You fancy that the whole world knows him!"

"Oh well! if you don't know him," said Juliot to Madame d'Estrelle, "I'll show him to you. He isn't far away, you know!"

"What!" said Marcel, much annoyed, "is he here? do you see him?"

"Yes, I've seen him quite awhile. He likes _Polyeucte_ so much! He has seen it more than ten times, I am sure! See, look in the pit, the third row. His back is turned to us; but I recognize him, _pardi!_ He has on his black coat and his _chapeau à gances._"

Madame d'Estrelle's heart beat very fast. She looked at the bench which the child indicated, and recognized no one there. Marcel scrutinized it closely. Juliot had made a mistake. The person he had taken for Julien turned his face toward them. It was not he; he was not there. As a matter of fact, he was in one of the upper galleries, just over the box in which Julie was hiding, and he was a hundred leagues from suspecting that by going down to the ground floor, he might at least have made an attempt to see her. Indeed, if he had known it, he would have kept his place. He was fully determined not to seek any more furtive opportunities to meet her. As an artist he was entitled to admission at the Français. He listened to _Polyeucte_ meditatively, as a pious person listens to the sermon, and he went out before the end, fearing that his mother would sit up for him. As he passed through the vestibule, he was very much astonished to find himself face to face with Uncle Antoine. It was Uncle Antoine's invariable rule to go to bed at eight o'clock, and it was probable that he had never set foot in a theatre. Julien accosted him frankly; that was the better way, even though he were to be ill received.

"So you are found at last?" he said. "We were anxious about you."

"Who are _we?_" rejoined the uncle in a surly tone.

"Marcel and I."

"You are very good! Did you think I had gone to the Indies, pray, that you are so surprised to see me?"

"I confess that I hardly expected to see you here."

"And I, on the contrary, was sure of meeting you here!"

And without explaining that reply, which to Julien was absolutely enigmatical, he turned his back on him.

"Well, well! his mind is really unhinged," thought Julien.

And he passed on, but not without turning two or three times to see if the amateur in gardens went in or out, and if it were not the case that he had come there unconsciously; but every time that he looked he saw Monsieur Antoine standing motionless at the foot of the staircase, and looking after him with a mocking expression, in which however there was no sign of mental derangement.

Uncle Antoine disappeared in the crowd, which invaded the peristyle a few moments later. One of the first groups that he saw consisted of the solicitor's family, with a stranger taller than Madame Marcel, and completely concealed by her black silk headgear. He stole down to the street and took the number of the cab which that group entered, then despatched in pursuit of that cab the same shrewd and nimble-footed spy who had notified him that Madame d'Estrelle had gone out with her attorney, and who had been keeping watch outside the D'Estrelle mansion, and inside it at times, for a month past, under disguises of all sorts and on all sorts of pretexts.

In those days the play came to an end early enough to allow people to sup. Julie had returned home by ten o'clock, after dropping Madame Marcel on Rue des Petits-Augustins. Marcel, who had escorted Julie to her door, was about to go away without entering, when she called him back. Her concierge had just told her some very serious news. The old marquis, her father-in-law, had died at eight o'clock that evening, just when they believed that he was cured. Julie had been sent for, so that she might be present at the administration of the sacrament. Her absence, which was very hard to explain by reason of the situation which she herself had explained to Marcel, might have disastrous consequences.

"Ah! you see how it is!" said Marcel, sorrowfully, in a low tone (they were on the stoop); "I told you how it would be. I foresaw some trouble; but there is no time to be wasted in lamentation. The most disturbing thing of all is the old man's too sudden end. Come, madame, you must show yourself at that death-bed. You must take a cab once more. I will escort you to your mother-in-law's house. I shall not appear there, for it would not be proper for you to be seen to arrive under the escort of your solicitor. To-morrow I will take the field in your interest, and we will find out the contents of the will, if there is a will, which God grant!"

Julie, sorely disturbed, reëntered the cab.

"Stay," said Marcel, "I can't wait for you at the dowager's door; her servants would see me, and I have an idea that they report everything to her. I will alight before you drive into the courtyard, and as I should not enjoy the idea of your returning alone in this vehicle, you must order your people to harness at once and send your carriage to the house."

"You think of everything for me," said Julie; "I don't know what would become of me without you."

She gave her orders and they started.

"Think of this also," said Marcel. "You will not find the widow in tears, but at prayer. Do not allow that appearance of sanctity to encourage you as to her frame of mind. Be sure that she has noticed your absence and that she will arrange to make you undergo an examination in the very midst of her devotions. Do not forget that she hates you, and that, in order to justify herself in robbing you all that she possibly can, she will think of nothing but finding you at fault."

Julie tried to think how she could best explain the innocent escapade of the evening.

"You can find nothing better than the truth," replied Marcel. "Say that you have been at my house----"

"At your house, very good; but what about the play? Going to the play is a horrible sin in my step-mother's eyes, with or without you."

"Then--say that my wife was sick, that you are interested in my wife--because--because she has done you a service at some time--because she is charitable, and assists you in charitable work! Throw a slight varnish of piety over it; then what can she say to you?"

They reached their destination. Marcel ordered the cabman to stop; then he alighted, and Julie entered the courtyard of the hôtel D'Ormonde, on Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, in a cab! That mansion belonged to the dowager D'Ormonde, who had married for her second husband the Marquis d'Estrelle, who had thereafter occupied her first husband's house with her.

The dowager was very rich; her establishment had a grand air of ceremonious inhospitality: few servants, small outlay, a frigid, deathlike splendor. The house consisted of several wings, and the mistress's apartments were located on a rear courtyard planted with trees and secured from intrusion by a wicket at which Julie had to ring and wait; but, being certain that she would be admitted, and knowing that Marcel would have to return on foot unless she sent the cab after him at once, she dismissed the cabman when she saw that the wicket was about to be opened.

Instead of opening it, the porter entered into a strange parley with her. Monsieur le marquis could not receive visitors because he was dead. The priests had come to administer the sacrament and to keep watch through the night; madame la marquise was closeted with them and the dead man. She gave _audience_ to nobody at such times. Julie insisted to no purpose, on the ground that she was a very near relation. The porter, leaving her outside, purposely or through inadvertence, went to make inquiries, and returned to say that no member of the household was allowed access to madame.

As these negotiations had lasted a considerable time the Comtesse d'Estrelle understood perfectly well that some one had gained access to the marchioness, and that she refused to see her. Her duty was done, so she insisted no longer. She judged that her carriage, travelling much more rapidly than the cab, must have arrived: so she retraced her steps, crossed the outer courtyard and passed through the street gate, which was kept by the porter's wife and was closed behind her instantly, with indecent precipitation. A carriage was there; but Julie, notwithstanding her defective sight, saw at once that it was only a cab.

Thinking that it was the one that had brought her, and that the driver had misunderstood her orders, or that Marcel had sent it back for her by way of precaution, she called the driver, who was sound asleep on his box. It was impossible to wake him except by pulling the skirt of his coat. They who remember what cab-drivers were forty years ago, can judge what they were forty years earlier than that. This one was so dirty that Julie hesitated to touch him with her gloved hand. She carefully gathered up her ample silk skirt to avoid brushing the dirty wheels. Never before had she been in such an embarrassing plight; she was afraid, too, to be alone in the street near midnight. The occasional passers-by stopped to stare at her, and she trembled lest, from good nature or malice, they should attempt to interfere in her affairs.

The driver woke at last and answered that he did not know her, that he had brought two priests of the parish to attend the dying man, and that his orders were to wait for them. He would not stir at any price. Julie glanced anxiously about her. Her carriage did not appear. She raised the heavy knocker on the gate, intending to return to the courtyard of the hôtel. The gate did not open, whether because special orders had been given with respect to her, or because the general orders were inflexible.

Extreme terror took possession of her; the idea of returning alone, on foot, could not be entertained; nor was it possible to remain standing in front of that gate. There was not a single shop on the street, and she must wait for her carriage somewhere, no matter where, provided it was not in the street. The outbuildings of the hôtel D'Ormonde were some distance away, at the right and left. In one direction was an abbey, in the other the Convent of the Visitation, where she might seek shelter; but it was at least ten minutes' walk, and there again she would have to parley before obtaining admission. She noticed on the opposite side of the street a high gate at the end of a passage between the hôtel De Puisieux and the hôtel D'Estrées. She thought that if she gave a louis to the gate-keeper, he would allow her to wait in his lodge. She crossed the street, but, when she attempted to ring, she found that there was neither keeper nor bell. It was simply a servants' gate for both houses. Julie was rapidly losing heart, when she suddenly saw close beside her, as if he had risen from the ground, a man who terrified her so that she almost fainted; but he instantly named himself, and she uttered a joyful exclamation: it was Julien. She explained her misadventure in a few somewhat incoherent words. Julien understood because he was already half informed, and he was not there by chance.

"It is useless for you to wait here for your carriage," he said; "it probably will not arrive for some time."

"How do you know?"

"I was at the Comédie-Française this evening."

"Did you see me there?"

"Were you there, madame? I did not know it."

"In that case----"

"In that case I can understand my meeting with Monsieur Antoine Thierry and his words. He must have known that you were to be there. He was on the watch; he made an ironical remark which I did not understand, but which gave me something to think about. As I returned to the pavilion, I stopped, being somewhat uneasy, in front of your hôtel. Your servants were in great commotion. It seems that your coachman could not be found. I accosted the concierge, who knows my face, and, seeing that he was greatly disturbed, I asked him if any accident had happened to you. He told me of the Marquis d'Estrelle's death, and that you had driven here with my cousin Marcel. Your coachman appeared at last, dead drunk and unable to understand any of the orders you had left for him. The concierge left me, saying that when Bastien was once on his box, he would go all right. That did not seem very reassuring to me. I am not so phlegmatic as your concierge, and I came here as fast as I could. I hoped to find Marcel still here and to tell him not to trust you unattended to the care of a drunken coachman; but I arrived a few moments too late. You are alone and you have been frightened."

"It is all over," said Julie, "and I am calm again; take me home on foot. You are my Providence!"

"On foot, it is too far," replied Julien, "and you are not properly shod for walking. This cab here will take us, willingly or by force, I give you my word, and I will get up behind and accompany you."

Julien returned with Madame d'Estrelle to the cab. He put her in and ordered the driver to start. The driver refused. Julien jumped up beside him and seized the reins, swearing that he would throw him into the gutter if he resisted. The young man's manly bearing and determined air awed the cab-driver, who submitted; but he had not driven a hundred yards when he stopped, yelling _thief_ and _murder._ A party of men had just come out of a house, and the poor devil hoped to find some aid against the violence he was undergoing.

As luck would have it these men were young dandies fresh from a sumptuous supper, and a little the worse for wine. The adventure presented itself at that moment of excitement when one gladly constitutes himself a redresser of wrongs, especially when the odds are four to one in his favor. They abruptly stopped the horses, and one of them opened the door, for the cabman was yelling at the top of his voice:

"Help! here's a villain carrying off a nun!"

"Let us see if she's worth the trouble!" replied the party with one voice.

Before the door was open Julien was on his feet and vigorously repelled the most zealous of the intruders. The young man thus roughly treated drew his sword, calling him a clown, and his companions followed his example. Julien did not take the time to draw his. He defended himself with his cane, and used it with such self-possession, skill and strength, that one of the assailants fell and the others retreated. Julien, who had not left the step, took advantage of this respite to enter the cab and take Julie out by the opposite door. He took her in his arms and carried her some distance. Then he turned to await his adversaries; but, whether because some one of them had received a serious wound, or because the approach of the watch sobered them, they made off as rapidly as possible in the opposite direction.

"Let us walk, madame," said Julien. "Let us avoid the curiosity of the police."

Julie walked rapidly and well. If fear had paralyzed her for an instant, the sight of the danger to which her protector was exposed had restored her energy. After taking a somewhat roundabout course to throw the watch off the scent, they arrived safely on the _Nouveau Cours_, now Boulevard des Invalides. It was completely deserted and dimly lighted by lanterns. Julie did not notice a stain on her glove, but she felt the moisture of blood on her wrist, and stopped abruptly, exclaiming:

"Oh! _Mon Dieu!_ you are wounded!"

Julien felt nothing, he was very sure that nothing serious had happened to him; he wrapped his bruised hand in his handkerchief and offered Julie his other arm.

"I swear to you that I am not wounded," he said; "and suppose I were! Unfortunately those fellows were not very formidable, and I deserve little credit for ridding you of them. Coxcombs, dandies! And they bear titles of nobility in all likelihood!"

"Do you detest the nobility so very bitterly?"

"I, detest them? No! but I abhor impertinence, and as such fellows are not always willing to fight a duel with plebeians, I am very glad to have beaten them as a bargeman might have done."

"Alas!" said Julie, thinking aloud, "nevertheless they are at liberty to insult and trample on the weak!"

"The weak! Who are the weak, pray?" rejoined Julien, mistaking the meaning of her words. "People without a name? Undeceive yourself, madame; they are the ones to whom the future belongs, because they have the right, true justice on their side, and, withal, the determination to put an end to the abuses of the past."

Julie did not understand, but she trembled anew; this time, however, she was not afraid of disagreeable encounters, but of an indefinable mysterious force which seemed to emanate from Julien. She glanced furtively at him; she fancied that she could see his face glow in the darkness, and that her feeble hand was resting on the arm of a giant.

But Julien was a simple-hearted youth, an artist without ambition in the practical affairs of life on his own account. He did not feel called upon to play a conspicuous part in the revolutionary tempests; he looked forward to no other labor for himself than that of studying the charms of nature all his life. That awe-inspiring power with which he was endowed in Julie's eyes was simply the reflection of the divine power on the mind of the new class. He was one of the hundred thousand among the millions of disappointed and soured men who were about to say on the first opportunity: "The cup is full, the past has had its day." The brief allusion he had just made to this general frame of mind among men of his class--a subject which was in every mouth at that time--seemed to Madame d'Estrelle a most impressive prophecy from the lips of an exceptional man. It was the first time that she had ever heard anyone speak defiantly and contemptuously of what she had always considered invincible. The species of superstitious terror which she felt was blended with fervent trust, with a longing to lean the more heavily on that sturdy arm which, under the impulsion of a noble heart, had fought alone, in her cause, against four swords.

"So you think," she said, still walking rapidly, "that one can shake off the yoke of this unjust world which oppresses men's consciences, and condemns true principles? I would like to agree with you that is likely to happen!"

"You believe it already, since you desire to believe it."

"Possibly; but when will it happen?"

"No one can say when or by what means; what is just and right cannot fail to happen; but what does it matter to you, madame, whether all this lasts fifty or a hundred years longer? Are you not one of those who profit innocently by the misfortunes of others?"

"Oh! I profit by nothing. I have nothing of my own, and I am nobody in society."

"But you are of society, you belong to it, it owes you protection, and it will never wound you in your own person."

"Who knows?" said Julie.

Then, fearing that she had said too much, she changed the subject by recurring to the scene which had just taken place.

"When I think," she said, "that a great disaster might have happened to you just now! Ah! your poor mother--how she would have cursed me if I had been the cause--"

"No, madame, that could not have happened," replied Julien; "I had right on my side."

"And you believe that Providence interposes in such cases?"

"Yes, since Providence is with us. It gives us strength and presence of mind. A man who defends a woman's honor against scoundrels has all the chances on his side. Courage comes very easy to him; he feels that he cannot succumb."

"What faith you have!" exclaimed Julie, deeply touched. "Yes, I remember you said at my house _the other day_ that faith would move mountains, and that you were faith personified."

"_The other day!_" Julien repeated ingenuously. "That was more than a month ago."

Julie dared not pretend not to know how many days and nights had passed since that brief interview. So she said nothing. Julien carried his respect for her so far as not to continue the conversation himself, and the longer the silence endured the less able was Julie to summon the presence of mind to break it without betraying the emotion she felt. At last they reached the pavilion.

"Do you not think," he said, "that you should take your arm from mine now, so that your people may not see me? then I will follow you at a little distance until I have seen your door close behind you."

"Yes," she replied; "but what will my people think to see me returning alone and on foot at such an hour? The best way is for me to go through the pavilion and through my garden; then they will think that Monsieur Marcel brought me back that way."

That seemed in truth the best plan. Julien had his key in his pocket.

"I will go and wake my mother," he said, "and tell her to get up; for I told her, as I passed, not to sit up for me. She thinks that I have been to take supper with Marcel."

"Don't wake her, I forbid it. To tell her all our adventures would take too long now. She would be distressed, perhaps, being half asleep. To-morrow you can tell her everything. Open the garden door for me, and I will run home without making any noise. Thanks, and adieu!"

To pass through the narrow passage way leading from the street door to the garden door, inside the pavilion, they had to walk several seconds in absolute darkness. In that straitened household no lamps were kept burning needlessly, and Babet came for the day only and did not sleep in the house. Julien went first, opened the garden, bowed low to Madame d'Estrelle and immediately closed the door, to prove to her that he never used it and that he should not presume to follow her, even with his eyes, along the paths through which she glided like a ghost.

Such perfect discretion, such unswerving respect, such delicate, thoughtful, untiring, really serviceable devotion touched Madame d'Estrelle profoundly. It was a magnificent June night. She knew that by knocking on the window of her bedroom, which was on the ground floor, looking on the garden, she could summon Camille, who was sitting up for her. She knew too that Camille's vigil consisted in enjoying a good nap on the best couch in the apartment. She thought that she might without unkindness allow her to keep vigil in that way a few moments more; and feeling that her heart was overflowing with emotion, her mind fairly drowned by conflicting thoughts, she could not resist the temptation to sit down beside the basin in which the moon was reflected, clear and motionless, as in a Venetian mirror.

The nightingale had ceased to sing. It was sleeping on its young brood. All was still, and the young zephyr (the night breeze of those days) was slumbering so sweetly that it did not even stir a blade of grass. Paris too was asleep, at all events the tranquil quarter of which the hôtel D'Estrelle marked the outer limit. The sounds of the country were more audible there than those of the city; at that hour they were confined to an occasional cock-crow and the barking of a dog in the distance at long intervals. The clocks rang out in clear tones, answering one another from convent to convent; then everything relapsed into blissful silence; and if one could hear the distant rumbling of a carriage on the pavement of the real Paris, it resembled the dull murmur of the waves rather than a sound produced by human activity.

Julie, tired out and slightly bewildered, breathed deep of the tranquillity of the night, of that perfume of solitude, with the keenest pleasure. She fixed her eyes on a great white star, which shone near the moon and was reflected in the same basin. At first she sat there without thinking, oblivious of everything, enjoying absolute repose; soon her heart began to beat so violently that it pained her; first she felt hot, then cold. She rose to go away. She went to her bedroom window, but she did not knock. She returned to the stone bench. She sat down and wept. Then she rose and walked around the basin like a soul in torment; at last she stopped, smiling like a soul at peace. She consented to question herself, and when her heart replied: _I love_, she was frightened and forbade it to speak. Then she called her conscience to account for that terror, that shrinking austerity, opposed to the laws of nature and useless to God. Her conscience replied that it had nothing to do with it, and that the obstacle was not due to it but to the _reason_, a sort of artificial conscience wherein God and nature gave precedence to conventional ideas, fear, selfish scheming, precautions due to misapprehension of one's real interests. In this order of reasoning everything was expressed in terms of six-franc pieces. Marcel had reason on his side in view of the actual facts. So the heart must be sacrificed to the most sordid of facts, to the implacable menace of poverty.

"No," said Julie to herself, "that shall not be! If necessary I will sell everything, I will have nothing of my own, I will work; but I _will_ love, even though I have to ask alms! Besides, _he_ will work for three, he who works now for two! He will undertake that burden, he will be overjoyed to do it if he loves me! In his place, I should be so overjoyed!"

Julie began to walk again with increasing agitation.

"Does he love me as much as that? Does he love me with the passion that I thought that I detected the first day?--Ah! that is the question that I ask myself incessantly, that is all that troubles me, that is something that neither my conscience nor my reason, nor my heart can tell me. Perhaps he has only a friendly feeling for me, for he is a good son, and he is grateful to me for what I tried to do for his mother. He owes me gratitude and he proves his gratitude by admirable devotion. And what then? Why should he love me madly? why should he want to pass his life at my feet? He has no craving for it, for he is never at hand except on occasions when I may need him. The rest of the time he gives his mind to his real duties, his work, his mother, perhaps to some girl of his own station who will bring him a comfortable dowry--whereas I, a poor, ruined--But am I ruined?--If my husband's father has provided for my future, I am still a _grande dame_--and in that case--in that case everything in my dream is changed; I forget this young man who is not suited to me, I marry a man in society, at my choice, I am proud and happy, I love without perplexity and without shame.--Oh, yes! But now it is _he_, no stranger, no other than he, whom I love; it is he alone, and I do not know whether one can be cured of that. I do not know if one ever forgets. I fear not, since the more I try, the more utterly I fail; the more I defend myself, the more completely I am beaten. My God, my God! in all this there is but one real fear, one real torture: and that is the fear that he does not love me! How shall I find out? Perhaps I shall never find out. Can I live without it?"

Tormenting herself thus, she found herself quite near the pavilion, having no idea how she came there. The door was open, a black figure stood in the doorway. Julien, as if he had overheard her thoughts, as if he were irresistibly impelled to answer them, came straight to her side.

Julie at once recovered her reason and her pride. Taken by surprise, she was about to speak in the character of an insulted queen. He did not give her time.

"Why are you here, madame?" he said. "Can you not get in? Are your servants asleep, or are they all expecting you to come from the street? You cannot pass the night in the garden, dressed as you are. It is two o'clock. The dew is falling, you will be frozen, you will be ill. And your hood is over your shoulder, your head bare, your arms hardly covered. Here, take this heavy mantle of my mother's at once, and forgive me for being here."

"But how did you know?"

"I heard you walking on the gravel--a very light step which could be nobody's but yours, and constantly stopping and going on again. I was in the studio, then I came here and held the door ajar, saying to myself: 'She is still out-of-doors, she can't get in, she will take cold, she is tired, she is suffering, perhaps she is afraid!' I could not stand it any longer; indeed, it was my duty. And this must not go on, you know; whatever people may say or think, I do not propose that you shall kill yourself; no, I do not!"

Julien was profoundly moved, his voice trembled, and so did his hands as he placed his mother's cloak over Julie's shoulders; but he did not struggle against the surprises of passion; he chided rather, like a father who sees his child in danger. It did not occur to him that he could be accused of selfish love or of a treacherous exploit. So that he forgot all considerations of propriety, and there was in his solicitude a passionate intonation which overpowered Julie. She grasped both his hands and, carried away herself by an outburst of exalted passion, the first in her life, the least expected and the most unconquerable, she exclaimed wildly:

"You love me, you love me, I am sure! Then tell me so, that I may hear it and know it! You love me--as I want to be loved!"

Julien stifled a cry, lost his head completely and carried Julie into his studio; but she had led so chaste a life that the alarm of her modesty inevitably caused her lover's respect, momentarily submerged, to rise again to the higher regions of his heart. He fell at her feet and covered the tips of her ice-cold fingers with kisses, imploring her to have perfect confidence in him.

"Confidence!" he exclaimed, "confidence! I have sworn that I would be your brother. It is your brother who is here beside you, do not doubt it, and your confidence will save me. I told you that I adored you; that is truer than I can possibly tell you, stronger than you can dream, more terrible than I myself imagined; but I will not cause you to shed a tear, I would kill myself first! Have no fear; you shall never need to blush for having ordered me to love you."

Could he have kept his word? He believed that he could, even at the height of his delirious joy. Julie increased his strength by her own boldness.

"No, I do not propose to blush," she said, with the frankness of a serious resolution; "I propose to be your wife, for to be your mistress would degrade you. Commonplace love affairs are not becoming to a man like you; to a woman like me, dissolute conduct is impossible. I too would kill myself first! Julien, let us take our oath here and now to marry, whatever happens, whether I am rich or destitute, for there is as much chance of one as of the other. If I am poor, your determination will never weaken, you will sustain and support me. If I am rich, you will have no vain pride, you will share my destiny. This must be decided, agreed upon, sworn to. I am not brave, I warn you; that is why I insist upon pledging myself irrevocably, and then I know that I shall look neither to the right hand nor to the left. My love will become a duty; then I shall be strong, resolute and self-possessed. I was able to endure despair in marriage, because I have principles and true piety; with all the more reason I shall accept happiness, and I will struggle to be happy as I struggled formerly not to desire to be. Swear, my friend; we must be everything to each other, or we must never meet again; for this is certain, we love each other and our love is stronger than we are. Society can have nothing to say. For a fortnight past I have ceased to live, I have felt that I was dying. To-day, I went mad; I should have run after you just now if you had said to me: 'I do not love you.'--Or no, I should have thrown myself into the basin, with the moon and the star that shine in its depths. Julien, I am losing my mind, I never said such things before, I did not think that I should ever dare to say them, but here am I saying them to you, and I am not sure that it is myself who speaks. Have pity on me, sustain me, preserve my honor, which is yours, preserve your wife's purity for your own sake."

"Yes, my wife! yes, I swear it!" cried Julien, in an ecstasy of joy. "And do you too, Julie, swear it before God!"

"_Mon Dieu!_" said Julie, bewildered and suddenly becoming a little cowardly, "we have known each other a month----"

"No, not a month," replied Julien. "Only an hour; for we met a month ago for a quarter of an hour here, a quarter of an hour at your house, and this evening in the street for half an hour. We may as well say, Julie, that, so far as appearances go, we do not know each other at all, and yet we love each other. God above hears us and knows it well, for it was He who wished it, who still wishes it!"

"Yes, you are right," she replied excitedly, for she felt recreated by her lover's exalted faith; "we know nothing of each other but our love. Is not that enough? is not that everything? What is all the rest? You are a clever artist, an estimable young man, a good son; that is what everybody knows about you; but is it because of those things that I love you? I am a virtuous person, not ungenerous and of a gentle disposition, or so you may have heard; but that is not what made you love me. There are other good men, other estimable women, to whom we should never have thought of becoming attached; we love each other because we love each other, that is the whole story!"

"Yes, yes," said Julien, "love is like God, it is because it is, it is the alkahest! What does it matter that we discover in each other this or that peculiar development of mind or character? The great, the only business of our lives is to love, and since we possess each other's love, we have known each other a hundred years, forever--our love has neither beginning nor end!"

They hyperbolized thus for more than an hour in the studio, talking in low tones, by the vague light of the moon shining through the trees; Julie seated, Julien on his knees, hand in hand, but refraining from the kiss which would have been their ruin. Suddenly the moon, which was sinking toward the horizon, seemed to shine so brightly, that they were forced to conclude that the dawn was lending its light. Julie rose and fled, after making Julien swear a hundred times that their union was indissoluble.

Camille was greatly surprised, when she opened the door for her mistress, to find that it was nearly three o'clock.

"Are the servants still waiting for me?" inquired Madame d'Estrelle.

"Yes, madame; they think that madame has decided to pray all night by monsieur le marquis's body. The carriage went to fetch madame. Madame must have found it at the gate of the hôtel D'Ormonde?"

"No, I did not wait for it; it was too slow in coming. Monsieur Marcel Thierry brought me home by way of the pavilion, where I had to stop and talk business with him. Tell the servants to go to bed; the carriage will return when the coachman is sober."

"Ah! _mon Dieu!_ so madame knows? Poor Bastien! I can take my oath, madame, that he got tipsy from vexation because madame had taken a cab."

If this explanation made Julie smile, her own explanations seemed strange to the soubrette; but she suspected nothing wrong. Julie's life was so regular and so pure! Camille concluded simply that her financial position must be in great danger, since she passed the night talking with the solicitor; and she imparted her solicitude to the other servants, who were distressed by it, even while thinking that they must not allow their wages to go unpaid. The footman, who was a friend of Camille, and as such inclined to shield Bastien, went to the hôtel D'Ormonde, but did not find him there. Bastien had understood that his orders were to go back to the wineshop, and thither he had gone; he was sleeping the sleep of the angels, the only slumber supposed to be delicious enough to be compared with that of a drunken man. The carriage was waiting for him at the door, and the groom, his subordinate, had consented to watch the horses on condition that he was supplied with something to warm him on the box every fifteen minutes. The rascals did not reappear at the hôtel until daylight and did not recover their senses for twenty-four hours. Under other circumstances Julie would have dismissed them; but she foresaw that the bacchanalian episode would introduce confusion into the accounts of the romantic episode, in the gossip of the servants' hall and the porter's lodge. That is what actually happened, and as the people in Madame d'Estrelle's service were not ill-disposed toward her, it seemed that nothing was likely to transpire of her actions during that extraordinary night.

On the next night, as a matter of prudence the lovers held aloof from each other; but on the night following that, although they had made no appointment, they found themselves once more among the shrubbery in the garden, and repeated with renewed delight all that they had said two days before. They continued in this way, undisturbed and without apparent danger, nothing being easier than for Madame d'Estrelle to steal out of her apartments, even without very great precaution, her people being accustomed to see her go out alone for a breath of fresh air, at a late hour on summer nights.

What a delightful existence if it could have lasted! Those meetings had all the charm of mystery, with no remorse to disturb their joys. Both perfectly free, and aspiring only to the most sacred union, sustained by a love strong enough to be able to wait, they sat there in the darkness, amid bushes laden with flowers, in the splendor of the early summer which retains all the charm of spring; they were like two fiancés, who are permitted to love each other, and who, without abusing the permission, keep out of sight in order to arouse no jealousy. It was the honeymoon of sentiment preceding the honeymoon of passion. Passion was already awake, but they fought against it, or rather held it in reserve, by mutual consent, for the time when they would be forced to fight and display their courage; for well they knew what they would have to face, and Julien said to his friend:

"You will suffer terribly for my sake, I know; and I shall suffer to see you suffer; but then we shall belong to each other, and love will afford us ineffable joys which will make us invulnerable to assaults from outside. Even if you were not guarded here by your own modesty and my veneration, it seems to me that my selfish interests, rightly understood, would enjoin upon me not to exhaust all my happiness at once."

At other times Julien was more agitated and less resigned to wait. Then Julie would pacify him by imploring him to remember what he had said the day before.

"I have been so happy since we have loved each other thus!" she would say to him. "Let us not change this blissful condition of affairs. Remember that on the day when I shall say to you aloud that I have chosen you for my life companion, people will laugh and cry out and accuse me of a vulgar infatuation; and I know virtuous women who will say to me cynically: 'Keep him for a lover, since you must have a lover; but see him in secret and don't marry him!' With what sort of a countenance could I endure such impertinences, if my conscience were not clear, and if I no longer felt that I had the right to reply: 'No, he is not my lover! he is my fiancé, whom I love, and who has proved his respect for me as no other man could ever have proved it!' Let us keep all our weapons, Julien; truth is the most powerful of all weapons in the struggle against false ideas."