"Except where I could get some money. At first to dance--you remember my bolero. Then I got a better engagement. Do you not remember that you taught me to recite verses? Had it been for myself alone, I might have been contented to starve. Without thee, what was life? But thou wilt recollect Madeleine, the old _bonne_ who lived with me. Well, she had attended and cherished me since I was so high-lived with my mother. Mother! no; it seems that Madame Surville was not my mother after all. But, of course, I could not let my old Madeleine starve; and therefore, with a heart as heavy as lead, I danced and declaimed. My heart was not so heavy when I recited thy songs." "My songs! _Pauvre ange_!" exclaimed the Poet. "And then, too, I thought, 'Ah, this dreadful siege! He, too, may be poor--he may know want and hunger;' and so all I could save from Madeleine I put into a box for thee, in case thou shouldst come back to me some day. _Mon homme_, how could I go to the Salle Favre? How could I read journals, Gustave? But thou art not married, Gustave? _Parole d'honneur_?" "_Parole d'honneur_! What does that matter?" "Everything! Ah! I am not so _mechante_, so _mauvaise tete_ as I was some months ago. If thou went married, I should say, 'Blessed and sacred be thy wife! Forget me.' But as it is, one word more. Dost thou love the young lady, whoever she be? or does she love thee so well that it would be sin in thee to talk trifles to Julie? Speak as honestly as if thou wert not a poet." "Honestly, she never said she loved me. I never thought she did. But, you see, I was very ill, and my parents and friends and my physician said that it was right for me to arrange my life, and marry, and so forth. And the girl had money, and was a good match. In short, the thing was settled. But oh, Julie, she never learned my songs by heart! She did not love as thou mayst, and still dost. And--ah! well--now that we meet again--now that I look in thy face--now that I hear thy voice--No, I do not love her as I loved, and might yet love thee. But--but--" "Well, but? oh, I guess. Thou seest me well dressed, no longer dancing and declaiming at cafes: and thou thinkest that Julie has disgraced herself? she is unfaithful?" Gustave had not anticipated that frankness, nor was the idea which it expressed uppermost in his mind when he said, "but, but--" There were many buts all very confused, struggling through his mind as he spoke. However, he answered as a Parisian sceptic, not ill-bred, naturally would answer: "My dear friend, my dear child" (the Parisian is very fond of the word child or enfant in addressing a woman), "I have never seen thee so beautiful as thou art now; and when thou tellest me that thou are no longer poor, and the proof of what thou sayest is visible in the furs, which, alas'. I cannot give thee, what am I to think?"