Just as he arrived at that conclusion, Gustave Rameau felt the touch of a light, a soft, a warm, yet a firm hand, on his aria. He turned, and beheld the face of the woman whom, through so many dreary weeks, he had sought to shun--the face of Julie Caumartin. Julie was not, as Savarin had seen her, looking pinched and wan, with faded robes, nor, as when met in the cafe by Lemercier, in the faded robes of a theatre. Julie never looked more beautiful, more radiant, than she did now; and there was a wonderful heartfelt fondness in her voice when she cried, "_Mon homme! mon homme! seul homme au monde a mon coeur, Gustave, cheri adore_! I have found thee-at last--at last!" Gustave gazed upon her, stupefied. Involuntarily his eye glanced from the freshness of bloom in her face which the intense cold of the atmosphere only seemed to heighten into purer health, to her dress, which was new and handsome--black--he did not know that it was mourning--the cloak trimmed with costly sables. Certainly it was no mendicant for alms who thus reminded the shivering Adonis of the claims of a pristine Venus. He stammered out her naive, "Julie!"--and then he stopped. "_Oui, ta Julie! Petit ingrat_! how I have sought for thee! how I have hungered for the sight of thee! That monster Savarin! he would not give me any news of thee. That is ages ago. But at least Frederic Lemercier, whom I saw since, promised to remind thee that I lived still. He did not do so, or I should have seen thee--n'est ce, pas?" "Certainly, certainly--only--_chere amie_--you know that--that--as I before announced to thee, I--I--was engaged in marriage--and--and--" "But are you married?" "No, no. Hark! Take care--is not that the hiss of an obus?" "What then? Let it come! Would it might slay us both while my hand is in thine!" "Ah!" muttered Gustave, inwardly, "what a difference! This is love! No preaching here! _Elle est plus digne de moi que d'autre_." "No," he said, aloud, "I am not married. Marriage is at best a pitiful ceremony. But if you wished for news of me, surely you must have heard of my effect as an orator not despised in the Salle Favre. Since, I have withdrawn from that arena. But as a journalist I flatter myself that I have had a _beau succes_." "Doubtless, doubtless, my Gustave, my Poet! Wherever thou art, thou must be first among men. But, alas it is my fault--my misfortune. I have not been in the midst of a world that perhaps rings of thy name." "Not my name. Prudence compelled me to conceal that. Still, Genius pierces under any name. You might have discovered me under my nom de plume." "Pardon me--I was always _bete_. But, oh! for so many weeks I was so poor--so destitute. I could go nowhere, except--don't be ashamed of me-- except--" "Yes? Go on."