“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?”
“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.”