"Take care of yourself. When hawks less it elevates the lighter it is, the and nightingales fly together the hawk more it saddens." may escape, and the nightingale complain of the barbarity of kings in a cage: flebiliter gemens infelix avis.'" "He is not fit to conduct a journal," replied Rameau, magniloquently, "who will not brave a danger for his body in defence of the right to infinity for his thought." "Bravo!" said Mrs. Morley, clapping her pretty hands. "That speech reminds me of home. The French are very much like the Americans in their style of oratory." 66 So," said Louvier, "my old friend the Vicomte has come out as a writer, a politician, a philosopher; I feel hurt that he kept this secret from me despite our intimacy. I suppose you knew it from the first, M. Rameau ?" 66 No, I was as much taken by surprise as the rest of the world. You have long known M. de Mauléon?" "Yes, I may say we began life together that is, much at the same time." "What is he like in appearance?" asked Mrs. Morley. "The ladies thought him very handsome when he was young," replied Louvier. "He is still a fine-looking man, about my height." "That is meant to hit me," said Savarin, with his sunny laugh "me whom you call cynical." “No, dear M. Savarin; for above all your cynicism is genuine gaiety, and below it solid kindness. You have that which I do not find in M. de Mauléon's writings, nor often in the talk of the salons-you have youthfulness.” "Youthfulness at sixty-oh you flat terer!" "Genius does not count its years by the almanac," said Mrs. Morley. "I know what Isaura means she is quite right; there is a breath of winter in M. de Mauléon's style, and an odour of fallen leaves. Not that his diction wants vigour; on the contrary, it is crisp with hoarfrost. But the sentiments conveyed by the diction are those of a nature sear and withered. And it is in this combination of brisk words and decayed feelings that his writing represents the talk and mind of Paris. He and Paris are always fault-finding: fault-finding is the attri bute of old age." Colonel Morley looked round with pride, as much as to say — "clever talker, my wife." Savarin understood that look, and re"I should like to know him!" cried |plied to it courteously. "Madame has a Mrs. Morley, "if only to tease that hus-gift of expression which Emile de Girarband of mine. He refuses me the dear-din can scarcely surpass. But when she est of woman's rights — I can't make him blames us for fault-finding, can she exjealous." pect the friends of liberty to praise the present style of things?" "You may have the opportunity of knowing this ci-devant Lovelace very soon," said Rameau, "for he has begged me to present him to Mademoiselle Cicogna, and I will ask her permission to do so, on Thursday evening when she receives." "I should be obliged to the friends of liberty," said the Colonel, drily, "to tell me how that state of things is to be mended. I find no enthusiasm for the Orleanists, none for a Republic; people sneer at religion; no belief in a cause, no adherence to an opinion. But the worst of it is that, like all people who are blaṣés, the Parisians are eager for strange excitement, and ready to listen to any oracle who promises a relief from indifferentism. This it is which makes the Press more dangerous in France than it is in any other country. Elsewhere the Press Nay, I do not pretend to be a politi-sometimes leads, sometimes follows, pubcian at all, but there is something in the lic opinion. Here there is no public writing of Pierre Firmin that pains and opinion to consult, and instead of opinion chills me." the Press represents passion.” Isaura, who had hitherto attended very listlessly to the conversation bowed assent. Any friend of yours will be welcome. But I own the articles signed in the name of Pierre Firmin do not prepossess me in favour of their author." Why so?" asked Louvier; "surely you are not an Imperialist?" "Yet the secret of its popularity," said Savarin, is that it says what every one says only better." "I see now that it is exactly that which displeases me; it is the Paris talk condensed into epigram: the graver it is the 'My dear Colonel Morley," said Savarin, "I hear you very often say that a Frenchman cannot understand America. Permit me to observe that an American cannot understand France—or at least Paris. Apropos of Paris that is a large speculation of yours, Louvier, in the new suburb." "And a very sound one; I advise you to invest in it. I can secure you at present 5 per cent on the rental; that is nothing-the houses will be worth double when the Rue de Louvier is completed." "Alas! I have no money; my new journal absorbs all my capital." "Shall I transfer the moneys I hold for you, Signorina, and add to them whatever you may have made by your delightful roman, as yet lying idle, to this investment? I cannot say more in its fayour than this I have embarked a very large portion of my capital in the Rue de Louvier, and I flatter myself that I am not one of those men who persuade their friends to do a foolish thing by setting them the example." his leave. The other visitors followed his example except Rameau, who was left alone with the Venosta and Isaura. The former had no liking for Rameau, who showed her none of the attentions her innocent vanity demanded, and she soon took herself off to her own room to calculate the amount of her savings and dream of the Rue de Louvier, and "golden joys." Rameau approaching his chair to Isaura's then commenced conversation, dryly enough, upon pecuniary matters; acquitting himself of the mission with which De Mauléon had charged him, the request for a new work from her pen for the “Sens Commun," and the terms that ought to be asked for compliance. The young lady-author shrank from this talk. Her private income, though modest, "Whatever you advise on such a sub-sufficed for her wants, and she felt a senject," said Isaura, graciously, "is sure to sitive shame in the sale of her thoughts be as wise as it is kind." "You consent then?" "Certainly." and fancies. Putting hurriedly aside the mercantile aspect of the question, she said that she had no other work in her mind at present- that, whatever her vein of invention might be, it flowed at its own will and could not be commanded. Here the Venosta, who had been listening with great attention to Louvier's commendation of this investment, drew him aside, and whispered in his ear-"I suppose, M. Louvier, that one can't put "Nay," said Rameau, “this is not true. a little money-a very little money- We fancy, in our hours of indolence, that poco-poco-pocolino, into your street." we must wait for inspiration; but once "Into my street! Ah, I understand force ourselves to work, and ideas spring -into the speculation of the Rue de forth at the wave of the pen. You may Louvier certainly you can. Arrange-believe me here- I speak from experiments are made on purpose to suit the ence: I, compelled to work, and in modes convenience of the smallest capitalists - not to my taste I do my task I know from 500 francs upwards." not how. I rub the lamp, the genius comes."" "And you feel quite sure that we shall double our money when the street is completed I should not like to have my brains in my heels." * "More than double it, I hope, long before the street is completed." "I have saved a little money — very little. I have no relations, and I mean to leave it all to the Signorina; and if it could be doubled, why, there would be twice as much to leave her." "So there would," said Louvier. "You can't do better than put it all into the Rue de Louvier. I will send you the necessary papers to-morrow, when I send hers to the Signorina." Louvier here turned to address himself to Colonel Morley, but finding that degenerate son of America indisposed to get the cent per cent for his money when offered by a Parisian, he very soon took "I have read in some English author that motive power is necessary to continued labour: you have motive power, I have none." "I do not quite understand you." "I mean that a strong ruling motive is required to persist in any regular course of action that needs effort: the motive with the majority of men is the need of subsistence; with a large number (as in trades or professions), not actually want, but a desire of gain, and perhaps of distinction, in their calling: the desire of professional distinction expands into the longings for more comprehensive fame, more exalted honours, with the few who become great writers, soldiers, statesmen, orators." "And do you mean to say you have no such motive?" "None in the sting of want, none in the desire of gain." "But fame?" "Alas! I thought so once. I know as Gustave Rameau's had never before not now I begin to doubt if fame thrilled her ears. Yes, she was deeply should be sought by women." This was moved; and yet, by that very emotion, said very dejectedly. she knew that it was not to the love of this wooer that her heart responded. "Tut, dearest Signorina! what gadfly has stung you? Your doubt is a weakness unworthy of your intellect; and even were it not, genius is destiny and will be obeyed: you must write, despite yourself and your writings must bring fame, whether you wish it or not." There is a circumstance in the history of courtship familiar to the experience of many women, that while the suitor is pleading his cause, his language may touch every fibre in the heart of his listener, yet substitute, as it were, another presence for his own. She may be sayhering to herself, "Oh that another had said those words!" and be dreaming of the Rameau took her hand, which she other, while she hears the one. yielded to him passively, and clasping it in both his own, he rushed on impul Isaura was silent, her head drooped on her breast there were tears in downcast eyes. sively. -- "Oh, I know what these misgivings are when we feel ourselves solitary, unloved: how often have they been mine! But how different would labour be if shared and sympathized with by a congenial mind, by a heart that beats in unison Thus it was now with Isaura, and not till Rameau's voice had ceased did that dream pass away, and with a slight shiver she turned her face towards the wooer, sadly and pityingly. 66 your "It cannot be," she said, in a low whisper; "I were not worthy of love could I accept it. Forget that you have so spoken; let me still be a friend admirwith one's own!" ing your genius, interested in your caIsaura's breast heaved beneath her reer. I cannot be more. Forgive me if robe, she sighed softly. I unconsciously led you to think I could, I am so grieved to pain you.” "And then how sweet the fame of which the one we love is proud! how trifling becomes the pang of some malignant depreciation, which a word from the beloved one can soothe! Oh Signorina! oh Isaura! are we not made for each other? Kindred pursuits, hopes and fears in common; the same race to run, the same goal to win! I need a motive, stronger than I have yet known for the persevering energy that insures success supply to me that motive. Let me think that whatever I win in the strife of the world is a tribute to Isaura. No, do not seek to withdraw this hand, let me claim it as mine for life. I love you as man never loved before-do not reject my love." "Am I to understand," said Rameau, coldly, for his amour propre was resentful, "that the proposals of another have been more fortunate than mine?" And he named the youngest and comeliest of those whom she had rejected. "Certainly not," said Isaura. Rameau rose and went to the window, turning his face from her. In reality he was striving to collect his thoughts and decide on the course it were most pru dent for him now to pursue. The fumes of the absinthe which had, despite his previous forebodings, emboldened him to hazard his avowal, had now subsided into the languid reaction which is generally consequent on that treacherous stimulus, a reaction not unfavourable to passionless reflection. He knew that if he said he could not conquer his love, he would still cling to hope, and trust to perseverance and time, he should compel Isaura to forbid his visits, and break off their familiar. intercourse. This would be fatal to the chance of yet winning her, and would also be of serious disadvantage to his more worldly interests. Her literary aid might become essential to the journal on which his fortunes depended; and at all events, in her conversation, in her en couragement, in her sympathy with the pains and joys of his career, he felt a support, a comfort, nay, an inspiration. For the spontaneous gush of her fresh thoughts and fancies served to recruit his own jaded ideas, and enlarge his own stinted range of invention. No, he could not commit himself to the risk of banishment from Isaura. And mingled with meaner motives for discretion, there was one of which he was but vaguely conscious, purer and nobler. In the society of this girl, in whom whatever was strong and high in mental organization became so sweetened into feminine grace by gentleness of temper and kindliness of disposition, Rameau felt himself a better man. The virginlike dignity with which she moved, so untainted by a breath of scandal, amid salons in which the envy of virtues doubted sought to bring innocence itself into doubt, warmed into a genuine reverence the cynicism of his professed creed. While with her, while under her chastening influence, he was sensible of a poetry infused within him far more true to the Camoena than all he had elaborated into verse. In these moments he was ashamed of the vices he had courted as distractions. He imagined that, with her all his own, it would be easy to reform. No; to withdraw wholly from Isaura was to renounce his sole chance of redemption. While these thoughts, which it takes so long to detail, passed rapidly through his brain, he felt a soft touch on his arm, and, turning his face slowly, encountered the tender, compassionate eyes of Isaura. "Be consoled, dear friend," she said, with a smile, half cheering, half mournful. "Perhaps for all true artists the solitary lot is the best." "I will try to think so," answered Rameau; "and meanwhile I thank you with a full heart for the sweetness with which you have checked my presumption - the presumption shall not be repeated. Gratefully I accept the friendship you deign to tender me. You bid me forget the words I uttered. Promise in turn that you will forget them—or at least consider them withdrawn. You will receive me still as friend?" "As friend, surely; yes. Do we not both need friends?" She held out her hand as she spoke; he bent over it, kissed it with respect, and the interview thus closed. CHAPTER V. It was late in the evening of that day when a man who had the appearance of a decent bourgeois, in the lower grades of that comprehensive class, entered one of the streets in the Faubourg Montmartre, tenanted chiefly by artisans. He paused at the open doorway of a tall narrow house, and drew back as he heard footsteps descending a very gloomy staircase. The light from a gas lamp on the street fell full on the face of the person thus quitting the house-the face of a young and handsome man, dressed with the quiet elegance which betokened one of higher rank or fashion than that neighbourhood was habituated to find among its visitors. The first comer retreated promptly into the shade, and, as by sudden impulse, drew his hat low down over his eyes. The other man did not, however, observe him, went his way with quick step along the street, and entered another house some yards distant. "What can that pious Bourbonite do here?" muttered the first comer. "Can he be a conspirator? dark as Erebus on that staircase." Diable! 'tis as But Taking cautious hold of the banister, the man now ascended the stairs. On the landing of the first floor there was a gas lamp which threw upward a faint ray that finally died at the third story. at that third story the man's journey ended; he pulled a bell at the door to the right, and in another moment or so the door was opened by a young woman of twenty-eight or thirty, dressed very simply, but with a certain neatness not often seen in the wives of artisans in the Faubourg Montmartre. Her face, which though pale and delicate, retained much of the beauty of youth, became clouded as she recognised the visitor; evidently the visit was not welcome to her. "Monsieur Lebeau again!" she exclaimed, shrinking back. "At your service, chère dame. The good man is of course at home? Ah, I catch sight of him," and sliding by the woman, M. Lebeau passed the narrow lobby in which she stood, through the open door conducting into the room in which Armand Monnier was seated, his chin propped on his hand, his elbow resting on the table, looking abstractedly into space. In a corner of the room two small children were playing languidly with a set of bone tablets inscribed with the letters of the alphabet. But whatever the children were doing with the alphabet, they were certainly not learning to read from it. The room was of fair size and height and by no means barely or shabbily fur nished. There was a pretty clock on the ❘ theirs the world as it exists is the foe mantelpiece. On the wall were hung of you three. The world I would replace designs for the decoration of apartments, it by will be more friendly." and shelves on which were ranged a few books. The window was open, and on the sill were placed flower-pots; you could scent the odour they wafted into the room. Altogether it was an apartment suited to a skilled artisan earning high wages. From the room we are now in, branched on one side a small but commodious kitchen; on the other side, on which the door was screened by a portière, with a border prettily worked by female hands some years ago, for it was faded now -was a bedroom, communicating with one of less size in which the children slept. We do not enter those additional rooms, but it may be well here to mention them as indications of the comfortable state of an intelligent skilled artisan of Paris, who thinks he can better that state by some revolution which may ruin his employer. Monnier started up at the entrance of Lebeau, and his face showed that he did not share the dislike to the visit which that of the female partner of his life had evinced. On the contrary, his smile was cordial, and there was a hearty ring in the voice which cried out Always ready to work for liberty, mon brave." The poor woman made no reply, but as he drew her towards him, she leant her head upon his breast and wept quietly. Monnier led her thus from the room whispering words of soothing. The children followed the parents into the adjoining chamber. In a few minutes Monnier returned, shutting the door behind him and drawing the portière close. "You will excuse me, Citizen, and my poor wife-wife she is to me and to all who visit here, though the law says she is not." I respect Madame the more for her dislike to myself," said Lebeau, with a somewhat melancholy smile. "Not dislike to you personally, Citizen, but dislike to the business which she connects with your visits, and she is more than usually agitated on that subject this evening, because, just before you came, another visitor had produced a great effect on her feelings - poor dear Héloise." "Indeed, how?" "Well, I was employed in the winter in redecorating the salon and boudoir of Madame de Vandemar; her son, M. Raoul, took great interest in superintend ing the details. He would sometimes talk to me very civilly, not only on my work, but on other matters. It seems "I hope so what's in the wind now?" that Madame now wants something done "Oh Armand, be prudent be pru- to the salle-à-manger, and asked old dent," cried the woman piteously. "Do Gérard- my late master, you know-to not lead him into further mischief, Monsieur Lebeau : as she faltered forth the last words, she bowed her head over the two little ones, and her voice died in send me. Of course he said that was impossible for, though I was satisfied with my own wages, I had induced his other men to strike, and was one of the ringleaders in the recent strike of artisans in general-a dangerous man, and he would have nothing more to do with me. So M. Raoul came to see and talk with me scarce gone before you rang at the bell - you might have almost met him on The cause of the millions," inter- the stairs." rupted Monnier. No." He approached the woman and took up one of the children very tenderly, stroking back its curls and kissing the face, which, if before surprised and saddened by the mother's sob, now smiled gaily under the father's kiss. "Canst thou doubt, my Héloise," said the artisan, mildly, "that whatever I do thou and these are not uppermost in my thoughts? I act for thine interest and "I saw a beau monsieur come out of the house. And so his talk has affected Madame." "Very much; it was quite brotherlike. He is one of the religious set, and they always get at the weak side of the soft sex." "Ay," said Lebeau, thoughtfully; "if religion were banished from the laws of men, it would still find a refuge in the hearts of women. But Raoul de Vandemar did not presume to preach to Madame |