"Very naturally. I had invested my capital famously-the best speculations--partly in house rents, partly in company shares; and houses pay no rents, and nobody will buy company shares. I had 1,000 napoleons on hand, it is true, when Duplessis left Paris--much more, I thought, than I could possibly need, for I never believed in the siege. But during the first few weeks I played at whist with bad luck, and since then so many old friends have borrowed of me that I doubt if I have 200 francs left. I have despatched four letters to Duplessis by pigeon and balloon, entreating him to send me 25,000 francs by some trusty fellow who will pierce the Prussian lines. I have had two answers: 1st, that he will find a man; 2nd, that the man is found and on his way. Trust to that man, my dear friend, and meanwhile lend me 200 francs." "_Mon cher, desole_ to refuse; but I was about to ask you to share your 200 francs with me who live chiefly by my pen; and that resource is cut off. Still, _il faut vivre_--one must dine." "That is a fact, and we will dine together to-day at my expense; limited liability, though--eight francs a head." "Generous Monsieur, I accept. Meanwhile let us take a turn towards the Madeleine." The two Parisians quit the cafe, and proceed up the Boulevard. On their way they encounter Savarin. "Why," said De Breze, "I thought you had left Paris with Madame." "So I did, and deposited her safely with the Morleys at Boulogne. These kind Americans were going to England, and they took her with them. But I quit Paris! No: I am old; I am growing obese. I have always been short-sighted. I can neither wield a sword nor handle a musket. But Paris needs defenders; and every moment I was away from her I sighed to myself, '_ il faut etre la_!' I returned before the Vandals had possessed themselves of our railways, the _convoi_ overcrowded with men like myself, who had removed wives and families; and when we asked each other why we went back, every answer was the same, '_il faut etre la_.' No, poor child, no--I have nothing to give you." These last words were addressed to a woman young and handsome, with a dress that a few weeks ago might have been admired for taste and elegance by the lady leaders of the ton, but was now darned, and dirty, and draggled. "Monsieur, I did not stop you to ask for alms. You do not seem to remember me, M. Savarin." "But I do," said Lemercier, "surely I address Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin." "Ah, excuse me, _le petit_ Frederic," said Julie with a sickly attempt at coquettish sprightliness; "I had no eyes except for M. Savarin." "And why only for me, my poor child?" asked the kindhearted author. "Hush!" She drew him aside. "Because you can give me news of that monster Gustave. It is not true, it cannot be true, that he is going to be married?"