"Nay, surely, Mademoiselle, all connection between you and young Rameau has ceased for months--ceased from the date of that illness in July which nearly carried him off." "I resigned him to the care of his mother," said the girl; "but when he no longer needs a mother, he belongs to me. Oh, consider, M. Savarin, for his sake I refused the most splendid offers! When he sought me, I had my _coupe_, my opera-box, my _cachemires_, my jewels. The Russians-- the English--vied for my smiles. But I loved the man. I never loved before: I shall never love again; and after the sacrifices I have made for him, nothing shall induce me to give him up. Tell me, I entreat, my dear M. Savarin, where he is hiding. He has left the parental roof, and they refused there to give me his address." "My poor girl, don't be _mechante_. It is quite true that Gustave Rameau is engaged to be married; and any attempt of yours to create scandal--" "Monsieur," interrupted Julie, vehemently, "don't talk to me about scandal! The man is mine, and no one else shall have him. His address?" "Mademoiselle," cried Savarin, angrily, "find it out for yourself." Then--repentant of rudeness to one so young and so desolate--he added, in mild expostulatory accents: "Come, come, _ma belle enfant_, be reasonable: Gustave is no loss. He is reduced to poverty." "So much the better. When he was well off I never cost him more than a supper at the _Maison Doree_; and if he is poor he shall marry me, and I will support him!" "You!--and how?" "By my profession when peace comes; and meanwhile I have offers from a _cafe_ to recite warlike songs. Ah! you shake your head incredulously. The ballet-dancer recite verses? Yes! he taught me to recite his own _Soyez bon pour moi_. M. Savarin! do say where I can find _mon homme_." "No." "That is your last word?" "It is." The girl drew her thin shawl round her and hurried off. Savarin rejoined his friends. "Is that the way you console yourself for the absence of Madame?" asked De Breze, drily. "Fie!" cried Savarin, indignantly; "such bad jokes are ill-timed. What strange mixtures of good and bad, of noble and base, every stratum of Paris life contains! There is that poor girl, in one way contemptible, no doubt, and yet in another way she has an element of grandeur. On the whole, at Paris, the women, with all their faults, are of finer mould than the men." "French gallantry has always admitted that truth," said Lemercier. "Fox, Fox, Fox." Uttering this cry, he darted forward after the dog, who had strayed a few yards to salute another dog led by a string, and caught the animal in his arms. "Pardon me," he exclaimed, returning to his friends, "but there are so many snares for dogs at present. They are just coming into fashion for roasts, and Fox is so plump." "I thought," said Savarin, "that it was resolved at all the sporting clubs that, be the pinch of famine ever so keen, the friend of man should not be eaten."