"_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