rits of him who has a
right to say, 'I am what I was when thou didst pledge thyself to take me
for better or for worse'?

"Gustave has been here after an absence of several days. He was not
alone. The good Abbe Vertpre and Madame de Vandemar, with her son,
M. Raoul, were present. They had come on matters connected with our
ambulance. They do not know of my engagement to Gustave; and seeing him
in the uniform of a National Guard, the Abbe courteously addressed
to him some questions as to the possibility of checking the terrible
increase of the vice of intoxication, so alien till of late to the
habits of the Parisians, and becoming fatal to discipline and bodily
endurance,--could the number of the cantines on the ramparts be more
limited? Gustave answered with rudeness and bitter sarcasm, 'Before
priests could be critics in military matters they must undertake
military service themselves.'

"The Abbe replied with unalterable good-humour, 'But, in order to
criticise the effects of drunkenness, must one get drunk one's self?'
Gustave was put out, and retired into a corner of the room, keeping
sullen silence till my other visitors left.

"Then before I could myself express the pain his words and manner
had given me, he said abruptly, 'I wonder how you can tolerate the
tartuferie which may amuse on the comic stage, but in the tragedy
of these times is revolting.' This speech roused my anger, and the
conversation that ensued was the gravest that had ever passed between
us.

"If Gustave were of stronger nature and more concentrated will, I
believe that the only feelings I should have for him would be antipathy
and dread. But it is his very weaknesses and inconsistencies that secure
to him a certain tenderness of interest. I think he could never be
judged without great indulgence by women; there is in him so much of
the child,--wayward, irritating one moment, and the next penitent,
affectionate. One feels as if persistence in evil were impossible to
one so delicate both in mind and form. That peculiar order of genius
to which he belongs seems as if it ought to be so estranged from all
directions, violent or coarse. When in poetry he seeks to utter some
audacious and defying sentiment, the substance melts away in daintiness
of expression, in soft, lute-like strains of slender music. And when
he has stung, angered, revolted my heart the most, suddenly he subsides
into such pathetic gentleness, such tearful remorse, that I fee