dined with De Villeneuve, there to take his solitary repast. The first person he saw on entering the coffee-room was De Villeneuve himself, who had left Zelie at Hastings, and proceeded to London on some private business of his own. He welcomed Julian with apparent rapture; heard the tale of his rejection with wellassumed sympathy, and was adroitly leading the way to Zelie's unhappy state, when Julian suddenly exclaimed 66 Alphonse, if I could love again, what would it avail? Heaven grant you may be wrong, and that your gifted and lovely sister has not fixed her young affections on a brokenhearted and a ruined man!" "Ruined! that is a strong term to use, Julian; say disappointed, rather." "No, Alphonse-ruined! ruined in fortune! But lucky that that ruin has revealed to me of what base clay was the woman I so worshipped! I am an altered man, Alphonse. My heart seems well-nigh broken, but my spirit is strong. I will not give a false, worldly coquette, the triumph of dying for her. I have a father; immense and unfortunate speculations have ruined him. I may have to toil for his support, as I certainly shall for my own; for I have talents, energy, and the world, before me. But that is a poor prospect for any woman who loves me.” The first expression of Alphonse's peculiar face was horror; the next, bitter disappointment and blank dismay. However, he forced himself to express the deepest sympathy, and won from Julian all the details of the whole affair ; the projects and intentions of his family, as far as he knew them, and his own melancholy prospects of penurious toil. Many of De Villeneuve's questions, Julian (who, from delicacy towards his father, had asked no details of his losses) was unable to answer. Nothing could exceed the almost angry surprise of the Frenchman, which ended VOL. III. H in a burst of tears, the secret of which might be found in the failure of some hopes of his own, rather perhaps than in Julian's ruin. However, he embraced him, on parting, with a vehemence in which rage was probably more concerned than affection; but Julian, deceived by his tears and his hugs, believed him to be that truest of friends, the friend of the Ruined. De Villeneuve joined him the next morning at breakfast, to learn, if possible, more particulars; and came with the joyful intelligence that a letter from Zelie had undeceived him, and that her admired friend Julian was not the object of her love. CHAPTER LXII. "Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, BURNS. A bitter smile passed over Julian's face, while De Villeneuve, with great apparent exultation, announced his discovery. "I suspect," he said, "that there are few women whose love would survive the total ruin of one's fortunes." "Ah! my dearest friend, that would make no difference to Zelie. In fact, she does not know it; it was all my mistake a mistake engendered by my great and blinding anxiety to call my bosom friend a brother—we so easily believe what we devoutly wish; but is it not fortunate I was wrong? Your broken fortunes, Zelie, had she loved you, would have exerted herself to the utmost to bind; but she would have had little courage, I fear, to attempt the hopeless task of binding a broken heart, and of rebuilding your ruined hopes." "It is better as it is," said Julian. "I am so grieved, so deeply grieved, friend of my heart, that in your distress I have no power to assist or to comfort! Ah! friendship has its pleasures, but it has its tortures, too, and this is one. Alas! at this moment I am quite destitute! In the rash hope of assisting my friend, I yesterday ventured my all—at least, the little all which remained to me of Zelie's benefit; and she is now ill and in need, while I am too destitute to assist her, and, what, on my honour, grieves me more, to aid you." 1 |