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“I assure you. my father, that I will never
play more. lam ashamed of having given
myself up so long a time to this passion,
which I now abhor. I will follow your
counsels, and, from to-day, will begin to live :
for, from to-day, I will abjure those foolish
illusions which 1 have so long nourished in j
my soul. I thank you, my father; your,
counsels have given me hope; they have re
stored me to life.*’
“ Let, my Julian, the impulses of your;
heart incessantly direct your actions, and
you will be happy; think of the love of
your wife; recall to mind always her great
love for you —all that she has done for you —
and I am persuaded that no sacrifice will be
too great to procure her a happiness, of which
she is so worthy ; for you are aware, Julian,
that it was with great regret that Madame
De Bellemont bestowed upon you the hand
of her daughter. She anticipated for her a
much more brilliant match with regard to
fortune; for her Emilie, young, beautiful,
full of grace and intelligence, would have
been able, with so large a dowry and such
brilliant expectations, to have united herself
to a man much above, by his social position
and wealth, one who possessed nothing but
the title of Advocate, and talents, it is true,
which could be rendered considerable. Re
collect, then, always, that your Emilie, influ
enced by her love, refused all for you; that
her tears, her prayers, were all that moved
her mother, who feared that her refusal might
conduct her daughter to the tomb; and re
member, above all, that your fatal passion
has already devoured the dowry of your
wife, and a part of her inheritance, and that
you have much to do to repair the evils
which you have caused!”
“ Yes, my father, this idea will never de_
sert me; and I swear to you that Emilie
shall be happy!”
Julian, fully resolved to fulfil the promise
he had made to his father, hastened to return
home. He was anxious, already, to be near
Emilie, in order that he might share with her
his new projects, and to assure her that he
would never play more He recapitulated in
his mind all the persons whom he had neg
lected lately, and who could be of service to
him in his profession, in which he was re
solved to distinguish himself: he formed the
resolution of calling on them, and trying to
regain their confidence.
I must have been insane,” said he to him
self, “to abandon myself so long to this cur
sed love of play! Oh! infamous Roulette!
execrable green carpet! you may exercise
your murderous influence upon others : but,
as for me, I renounce you forever. You
have ruined me ; you have rendered me very
culpable; but now 1 abhor you. Were you
able to load me with the gold which cost so
many tears, and so much blood, I would still
flee you, so much would 1 be ashamed of
such riches! Oh! my Emilie! I am now
happy ! The paternal counsels have destroy
ed this passion, which deprived me of all en
ergy, and held in suspense my faculties.
Oh! charming woman! what will be your
joy, in learning this change! And your
mother —she will also finally pardon me, for
she will be a witness of all my efforts for
your happiness!”
Whilst absorbed in these agreeable reflec
tions, Julian perceived that he was already
at the corner of the street. He raised his
head, and observed Emilie at the window,
waiting impatiently for him.
“ Angel of goodness,” murmured he, in a
low voice, “ f !i ave ruined you, and you
smile yet !”
He ran hastily up the steps, and was pre- j
vented from ringing by Emilie’s appearing at
the door. She had been weeping, for her
beautiful eyes were ‘till red ; but they were
brilliant now, for something had given her
hope : her heart hounded with joy, when she
perceived the sam° fire in the eyes of Julian,
/or she was under the impression that he had
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given himself up to the most violent despair.
“ Emilie, 1 will never play more ! I have
promised my father, and I swear it to you !
Excellent father! he has pardoned all! And
you —will you pardon me. alsoZ”
The young wife replied to her husband by
caresses; her emotions stifled her voice.
“But,” continued Julian, “this pardon
which I ask, I will merit. The evil which l
have done is very great, Emilie; but I will
repair all. Believe me, my wife, if, in giv
ing myself up to this passion, (which I will
have the courage to conquer.) I wished to
! amass riches, it was for you —you only —
whom 1 love with all the strength of my
soul. By the power of gold, I wished to pro
cure for you all the pleasures, all the sweets
of life. I would have been so proud to have
seen you surpass all your rivals by your lux
ury, as well as by your grace and beauty;
but the means which I employed to obtain
this end were wrong. I will follow another
| profession more worthy of my character. I
conjure you, Emilie, tell me that you pardon
me, and that you will love me always !”
41 I pardon you/ I have never been an
gry. Were you to plunge a poignard in my
heart, I would still love you.”
“ Oh! matchless woman !”
“My Julian ! we will be happy, now.”
“Oh, yes, we shall be; and I will even
force your mother to pardon me.”
“My mother !—she has just gone!”
“ Your mother just gone Z Oh, heavens !”
“Why do you turn pale, Julian Z”
“ You have told her all! She knows all!
Ah ! Emilie, 1 believed you more lenient.”
“Julian, do not be angry. She has also
pardoned you.”
“ Can it be possible Z”
“Listen to me, Julian. A short time af
ter your departure with your father, my moth
er came in. I was weeping; my tears were
not altogether caused by the loss of our pro
perty, but by your sorrow, your suffering.
Notwithstanding my efforts to conceal my
tears, she remarked them. I declare to you,
! she suspected, in a moment, the cause.
;-Poor child!’ said she, ‘your husband has
been gambling again!’ She accompanied
: these words with a look which overwhelmed
i me. I knew not what to reply, and com
i menced weeping again. My silence convin-
Iced her of the truth of her suspicions. She
! loves me so much, this poor mother, that at
first she mingled her tears with mine. Af
! terwatds. she loaded vou with the most bit
ter reproaches; but the voice that I had lost
to accuse you. I found to defend. I remind
ed her of all the noble qualities of your mind
and heart. ‘ And what matters these quali
ties,’ she replied, in the excess of her sor
! row, ‘ if an abominable vice destroys them
1 all Z’ These reproaches, Julian, I felt that
you merited, and they made me miserable.
My mother gave me yet another blow more
terrible. ‘Emilie,’ said she, ‘youmustcome
with me. I cannot support the thought of
my daughter’s living in misery. By his mis
conduct, your husband has ruined you; but
: this is not your fault. Come, and share with
I your mother the little fortune that remains to
1 her, and abandon a wretch who does not mer
it even your pity.’ You cannot imagine, my
Julian, the effect these words had on me. I
threw myself at the feet of my mother, and
implored your pardon, but I found her inexo
rable. 1 then protested that I would never
leave you ; that, however great your faults
might be, I would never consent io abandon
you. ‘Death alone shall separate us,’ said
I. At this moment, the bell rang : my moth
er pressed me to rise ; she appeared uneasy ;
her maternal tenderness became alarmed at
the idea of any one suspecting ray position.
The servant, who opened the door, came, a
few moments after, with two letters addressed
to you. I took them, but hesitated sometime
before opening .them,- so much did I appre
hend some new misfortune!”
“ And these letters —where are they Z”
said Julian.
“ They are on your bureau. But let me
finish. I recollected, then, that you desired
me to open the letters which came in your
absence, so that I might send for you in a
case of emergency ; this decided me to break
the seals. The first that I read was signed
by M. Trezel, the rich merchant, who, after
some eulogies on your talents, informs you
that he had decided to confide to you his in
terest in several important cases, which he
has to sustain, and, in the most flattering
terms, begs you to appoint an hour for meet
ing him. This letter, my Julian, was like a
ray of the sun in the midst of a violent tem
pest; it inspired me with hope. I read ihc
second ; it was from an unfortunate man,
accused of a political crime, and who offers
you a considerable sum, if, by your elo
quence, you are able to save him. ‘Tour
name.’ said he, ‘is already an object of re
spect and gratitude among the prisoners, who
please themselves by repeating and proclaim
ing the zeal and warmth with which you en
gage in the defence of the unfortunate.’ Af
ter reading these letters, a sigh escaped my
breast, and I exclaimed hastily: ‘Julian, why
have you this miserable love of play Z
Without it, you could be so happy.’ These
words excited the curiosity of my mother:
‘ What is there new V said she. ‘Read, my
mother,’ replied I, giving her the two letters;
and, while she was reading, I examined her
countenance attentively. With joy, I saw
that the reading of them produced the desired
effect. Her air of sadness was dissipated,
and a tear hung on her eye-lids. *lt is true,’
said she to me, when she had finished read
ing, ‘your husband is to be pitied: you
would be so happy without this accursed
vice. He is so much the more culpable,
possessing all these advantages which might
render your position so agreeable.’ ‘But,
my mother, lie has so good a heart. Have
you read that these unfortunates love him
already as a benefactor V ‘I know it, Emi
lie: Julian has an excellent soul. I feel that
I could have loved him so much, but this pas
sion has deprived me of all hope.’ There
was nothing of anger in the tone in which
she pronounced these last words: there was
even something of tenderness. I saw that
the favorable moment had arrived for obtain
ing your pardon: I threw myself again at
her feet; and this time she could not resist
my prayers. This excellent mother pressed
me to her heart, and a kiss sealed your par
don. But what is the matter, Julian Z Why
do you weep Z”
“ These tears are those of repentance, Emi
lie, for having caused so much sorrow to
those so good, so worthy of a better fate.”
Do not afflict yourself, Julian; all that is
as a cloud which is now dissipated. Go to
my mother; she will give you the money for
which you have need.”
“My father has already supplied me : the
nobleman! —he had but ten thousand francs
left, and he forced me to take them. Look!
they are in this portfolio.”
“Julian, we have good parents.”
The young Advocate arranged his toilet,
took the two letters which his wife had pla
ced upon his bureau, and departed. He
called first at the house of h'is mother-in
law, whose benevolent reception gave him
much joy.
“Render my daughter happy,” said she to
him, “and 1 will pardon all. Give yourself
up entirely to your profession, and abjure
vour late follies, and some day fortune will
be the recompense.”
Full of hope for the future, he called next
at the house of the merchant, who had offer
ed to confide to him his business. He recei
ved all the papers and information relative to
the cases with which he was charged, and
repaired afterwards to the prison. The Jail
or conducted him into the chamber of his cli
ent: this was a man extremely rich, accused
of a political crime, of which death was the
penalty. He saw him, listened to his means
of defence, consoled him, promised him to
take immediate steps to investigate the case;
and his woids, lull of consolation, reanimated,
in the breast of this man a hope which the
stern face and discouraging words of the offi
cer of justice had destroyed. In traversing
a little court where several of the prisoners
were walking, Julian perceived a man clothed
in rags, who sat alone in a corner, and ap
peared absorbed in profound meditation
Notwithstanding the livid paleness of his
face, there was something noble about him
which surprised him. He asked the officer
who he was, and of what crime accused ]
“He is an unfortunate man,” replied the
officer, “ accused of a horrible assassination :
yet, for all that, he is the most tranquil of
my prisoners. Ido not know whether he is
guilty or not : but it is plain that he is poor,
and no celebrated Advocate will lend him his
talents. There has been a lawyer appointed
to defend him, but he has not yet taken the
trouble to come and see him.”
“ He has, then, submitted all his interroga
tories Z”
“Certainly, his case will come on in five
or six days.”
Influenced by a sentiment of mingled pity
and interest, Julian approached the accused.
“ You are, without doubt, the gentleman
appointed for my defence.”
“No, sir,” replied Julian ; “but I am an
Advocate, and I offer to defend you.”
A sarcastic smile contracted the lips of the
accused.
“My rags,” said he, “’should have con
vinced you that I possess not a sous.”
“ I know it; hut I have been told that you
are unfortunate, and that is sufficient to ex
cite my interest.*’
“But they did not tell you, perhaps, that 1
am accused of a most horrible crime.”
“I know that, also ; but it pleases me to
believe that you are innocent; and the day
in which my voice will make known the in
nocence of an unfortunate man, will be the
happiest of my life.”
“ Innocent! without doubt 1 am; but how
many false indictments, deceitful appearances,
and tales of infamous tattlers, have filled the
minds of the judges with prejudice, who have
condemned to the scaffold victims whose
hearts were often more pure than their own!
But, sir, your language in this place surprises
me. I have suffered so much from the cor
ruption of men —1 have had so many proofs
of their perversity —that I did not believe
there existed a single man who wished to do
good. Rich, I have been spoiled by those
who called themselves my friends: living in
the most profound misery, it has been the
persecution of these men that placed me in
this prison, which, without doubt, I shall
never leave but to be dragged to execution.
But what imports to me my infamous death 1
I have no family to inherit what will be call
ed my dishonor : I have but one relation liv
ing, whose fate I am ignorant of.”
“ For mercy’s sake, sir, dispel these sad
thoughts. If you are really” innocent, hope-
Men are not so perverse as y T ou think. Be
not revive, moreover, the black ingratitude
from which you have suffered so much, h
must be a firm conviction that will condemn
a man to death; and a single doubt has saved
many who were guilty.”
Julian pressed again the unfortunate Ge
rard to choose him for his defender. Be
made him explain all the circumstances o
his accusation, and the recital convinced hm>
of his innocence. He forced him, afterwards,
to accept of all the silver he had in his purser
and recommended to the officer to gi vc Ri
every thing that he needed ; and then depart
ed, after having assured him that he would re
turn as soon as he had taken cognizance ol a
the necessary documents. The same day>h e
paid several visits to persons whose retom