her causes of grief and suffering, should I tell thee, poor wife, of a
sin that I hoped thy son had repented and would not repeat? And Gustave
kept his word. He has never, so far as I know, attended, at least
spoken, at the Red clubs since that evening."

"Thank heaven so far," murmured Madame Rameau.

"So far, yes; but hear more. A little time after I thus met him he
changed his lodging, and did not confide to us his new address, giving
as a reason to us that he wished to avoid a clue to his discovery by
that pertinacious Mademoiselle Julie."

Rameau had here sunk his voice into a whisper, intended only for his
wife, but the ear of the Venosta was fine enough to catch the sound, and
she repeated, "Mademoiselle Julie! Santa Maria! who is she?"

"Oh!" said M. Rameau, with a shrug of his shoulders, and with true
Parisian sangfroid as to such matters of morality, "a trifle not worth
considering. Of course, a good-looking garcon like Gustave must have
his little affairs of the heart before he settles for life. Unluckily,
amongst those of Gustave was one with a violent-tempered girl who
persecuted him when he left her, and he naturally wished to avoid all
chance of a silly scandal, if only out of respect to the dignity of his
fiancee. But I found that was not the true motive, or at least the only
one, for concealment. Prepare yourself, my poor wife. Thou hast heard of
these terrible journals which the decheance has let loose upon us. Our
unhappy boy is the principal writer of one of the worst of them, under
the name of 'Diderot le Jeune."'

"What!" cried the Venosta. "That monster! The good Abbe Vertpre was
telling us of the writings with that name attached to them. The Abbe
himself is denounced by name as one of those meddling priests who are to
be constrained to serve as soldiers or pointed out to the vengeance of
the canaille. Isaura's fiancee a blasphemer!"

"Hush, hush!" said Madame Rameau, rising, very pale but self-collected.
"How do you know this, Jacques?"

"From the lips of Gustave himself. I heard first of it yesterday from
one of the young reprobates with whom he used to be familiar, and who
even complimented me on the rising fame of my son, and praised the
eloquence of his article that day. But I would not believe him. I bought
the journal--here it is; saw the name and address of the printer--went
this morning to the office--was there told that 'Diderot le Jeune' was
within revising the press--stationed m