"Well, well, Monsieur," exclaimed Isaura, her whole face brightening;
"and you come on the part of Gustave Rameau to say that on reflection he
does not hold me to our engagement--that in honour and in conscience I am
free?"

"I see," answered De Mauleon, smiling, "that I am pardoned already. It
would not pain you if such were my instructions in the embassy I
undertake?"

"Pain me? No. But--"

"But what?"

"Must he persist in a course which will break his mother's heart, and
make his father deplore the hour that he was born? Have you influence
over him, M. de Mauleon? If so, will you not exert it for his good?"

"You interest yourself still in his fate, Mademoiselle?"

"How can I do otherwise? Did I not consent to share it when my heart
shrank from the thought of our union? And now when, if I understand you
rightly, I am free, I cannot but think of what was best in him."

"Alas! Mademoiselle, he is but one of many--a spoilt child of that
Circe, imperial Paris. Everywhere I look around, I see but corruption.
It was hidden by the halo which corruption itself engenders. The halo
is gone, the corruption is visible. Where is the old French manhood?
Banished from the heart, it comes out only at the tongue. Were our
deeds like our words, Prussia would beg on her knee to be a province of
France. Gustave is the fit poet for this generation. Vanity--desire to