"Hum!" said Paul, "let me look at thee. Ah! pardon, citizen, I recognize thee now; but why didst thou not knock? We wait supper for thee. Come in. Bravo, my lads, be always on the alert. I will join you soon."
And pushing the other into the passage, he led him without another word into the parlor. For an instant all remained silent. Paul then spoke:
"Thou art a spy and a traitor, and as such worthy of death. Not content with foreign armies and French traitors on the frontiers, we must have them here in Paris. Albert de Clery, thou hast thy choice—the guillotine, or a voluntary enrollment in the army. Go forth, without regard to party, and fight the enemies of thy country, and in one year thou shalt find a cousin, a friend, and, I suppose, a wife."
Godard, Helene, Paul, all spoke in turns. They joined in regretting the misery of Frenchmen fighting against Frenchmen. They pointed out that, no matter what was its form of government, France was still France. Albert resisted for some time, but at last the strong man yielded. The four men then supped in common, and the young royalist, as well as the republican, found that men may differ in politics, and yet not be obliged to cut each other's throats. They found ample subjects for agreement in other things. Before morning, Albert, led away by the eloquence of young Paul, voluntarily pledged himself not to fight against France. Next day he took service, and, after a tearful adieu, departed. He went with a ragged band of raw recruits to fight the battles of his country, a little bewildered at his new position; but not unconvinced that he was acting more wisely than in fomenting the evil passions of the hour.
Immediately after the leave-taking, Helene commenced her new existence in plain and ordinary garb, taking her post as the old clothier's housekeeper. An old woman was cook and housemaid, and with her aid Helene got on comfortably. The warm-hearted sans-culotte found, in additional comfort, and in her society, ample compensation for his hospitality. Helene, by gentle violence, brought him to the use of clean linen, which, like Marat, and other semi-insane individuals, Godard had originally affected to reject, as a sign of inferior civism. He became, too, more humanely disposed in general to his enemies, and, ere three months, ardently longed for the end of the awful struggle which was desolating the land. Aristides Godard felt the humanizing influence of woman, the best attribute of civilization—an influence which, when men can not feel it, they at once stamp their own character.
Paul became an assiduous visitor at his father's house. He brought the fair countess news from the army, flowers, books, and sometimes letters from cousin Albert. They soon found much mutual pleasure in each other's society, but Paul never attempted to offer serious court to the affianced wife of the young Count de Clery. Paul was of a remarkably honorable character. Of an ardent and passionate temperament, he had imbibed from his mother a set of principles which were his guide through life. He saw this young girl, taken away from the class in which she was brought up, deprived of the pleasures of her age and rank, and compelled to earn her living, and he did his utmost to make her time pass pleasantly. Helene was but eighteen, and the heart at this age, knows how to bound away from sorrow, as from a precipice, when a better prospect offers; and Helene, deeply grateful at the attention paid her, both by father and son, soon became reconciled to her new mode of existence, and then quite happy. Paul devoted every spare hour to her, and as he had read, thought, and studied, the once spoiled child of fortune found much advantage in his society.
At the end of three months, Albert ceased to write, and his friend became anxious. Inquiries were made, which proved that he was alive and well, and then they ceased to hear of him. A year passed, two years, and calmer days came round, but no tidings reached of the absent one. Helene was deeply anxious—her cheeks grew pale—she became thin. Paul did all he could to rouse her. He took her out, he showed her all the amusements and gayeties of Paris, but nothing seemed to have any effect. The poor fellow was in despair, as he was deeply attached to the orphan girl. Once a week, at least, he pestered the war office with inquiries about Bastide, the name under which the cousin had enrolled himself.
Father Godard, when the days of the club were over, doubly grateful for the good deed he had done, and which had its full reward, retired from business, took a simple lodging in a more lively quarter, and found in Helene a dutiful and attached daughter. For a wonder, there was a garden attached to the house, and here the retired tradesman, on a summer's evening, would smoke his pipe and take his coffee, while Paul and Helene strolled about the alleys or chatted by his side.
One evening in June—one of those lovely evenings which makes Paris half Italian in look, when the boulevards are crowded with walkers, when thousands crowd open-air concerts, and all is warm, and balmy, and fragrant, despite a little dust—the trio were collected. Father Godard was smoking his second pipe, Helene was sipping some sugar and water, and Paul, seated close by her side, was thinking. The young man's face was pale, while his eyes were fixed on Helene with a half-melancholy, half-passionate expression. There was a world of meaning in that look, and Paul perhaps felt that he was yielding to an unjustifiable emotion, for he started.
"A flower for your thoughts, Paul," said Helene, quietly.