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306 “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 SMITia&M ik UIF M&Si ¥ ©ABSIF IF & . 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