As soon as Charles was gone, Julie burst into tears. She knew not why, but there was a deep depression of spirits hung over her which she could not dissipate, and she wept profusely. She had scarcely reasoned herself out of giving way to her grief, when Charles returned.
"My father," said he, "is absent a few leagues, from Paris, but he comes back to-morrow evening. So, dear Julie, my hopes must be delayed."
Charles saw that she had been weeping, but he took no notice, and applied himself, during the evening, to wean her thoughts from every subject of sorrow, and he succeeded, if not in entirely calming, at least in greatly soothing, her mind. The journey had much fatigued her, and Charles left her at an early hour. "For your sake, Julie," he said, "I must not stay in the same hotel with you, but I will be with you early to-morrow."
It was Charles's task, during the whole succeeding day, to occupy Julie's thoughts by various subjects of interest, so as to prevent them ever recurring to her own situation. He gave her mind no time to fall back upon itself. Neither did he himself wish to think the approaching interview with his father offered much that he dreaded, and he would not let his thoughts rest upon it.
At length, however, the evening came, and he again left Julie upon the same errand that he had done the night before. In going to his father's hotel, he, walked with extraordinary rapidity, as if he were afraid that reflection should intrude upon him by the way; but, on being informed that his father had returned some time, he paused to collect his thoughts, took two or three turns in the court, and then entered the room where his parent was.
Far different from the sprightly lad that long ago consorted with Armand Villars, old Durand, in passing through life, had lost many of the better qualities which had distinguished him in boyhood: circumstances had so often induced him to glide from one opinion to another, that he had but small pretensions to sincerity. Fortune had made him proud, and the lesser points of morality had gradually become effaced, in mingling with corrupted society. He was still a man of courage, of wit, of talent, and, as he had never cried very loud for any particular party, his changes in political opinion had never been criticised very severely. He was also a man of pleasure, an Epicurean, but one that forgot some of the best tenets of his sect. Every thing was to be sacrificed to pleasure except interest; and all was to yield to that. His affection for his son was strong, but there was much of it pride; and though on his return he received him kindly, it was more like the reception of an old companion than a son.
"Well, Charles," said he, after the first few minutes, "so your broken arm is whole again: and what has become of the beautiful little nurse you wrote to me about? You owe her a good deal, in truth."
"I owe her everything, sir," replied Charles, "and as to what has become of her, she is at this moment in Paris, and----"
"Ha, ha, ha! so that is the way you repay her," interrupted his father, laughing. "Charles, Charles, you, are a sad libertine. But take care what you are about; you will certainly get your throat cut. That sulky old Roman, her father, will not take it quietly, depend upon it. I remember him when a boy; his anger was not easily moved, but, when once excited, his vengeance was not like that of a child."
"I rather think, sir, that you mistake me," replied Charles. "Julie is purity itself. I love her beyond everything on earth, and I have now come to ask you to sanction my immediate union with her."