Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 427 | Page 7

to it, once and for all.
'So you are determined?' exclaimed he with ill-restrained anger, as she
repeated her resolve to him for the fourth or fifth time.
'Yes: I will have nothing more to say to you,' replied she firmly.
'Then my father and his reverence the curé may lose all hopes of me!'

returned he bitterly. 'I have done much ill--I own it: I have won no
one's esteem: I have been idle, irregular, profligate. But wherefore?
Because I have had no one to care for me. Since my mother died, I have
been left to myself, with no kind hand to guide me, no kind tongue to
warn me: what wonder that youth should go astray?'
'No one to care for you!' exclaimed Julia, not without a tinge of sarcasm.
'Do not your father and monsieur the curé do their utmost for you?'
'The one reproves, and the other prays for me,' said Victor, with a
derisive smile; then turning to Julia, with a face in which penitence,
respect, and affection were well simulated, he exclaimed: 'but thou,
dear Julia, art the sovereign of my soul! in whose hand my fate is
placed. It is for you to shape my destiny: will you award me love or
perdition? At your bidding, no honourable deed shall be too high to
mark my obedience.'
'Then return to Marie Buren, and redeem the promise you made her,'
exclaimed Julia warmly.
'Nay, sweet Julia, if my priestess bids me turn away from heaven, I am
justified in protesting. Hope is the spring whence good and great works
flow. Bid me despair, and you bid me seek ruin.'
'Pooh! pooh!' exclaimed the young girl with contempt. 'I am plain Julia
Gostillon, who loves frankness and honour. You have neither one nor
other, and so I love you not; and again and again I repeat it, I will have
nothing more to say to you.'
Though the persevering Victor continued the colloquy, and exerted
himself to the utmost, sparing neither vows nor tears, Julia remained
firm. At last, seeing that his case was hopeless, he changed his tone into
one of sorrowful resignation--declared that honest frankness was a
great virtue, and that it was well they had discovered that their affection
was not reciprocal; and, in conclusion, begged the wearied Julia to
accompany him that night to the château for the last time, for the
purpose of explaining to his father, who might otherwise be troubled
with suspicions, that their courtship was broken off by mutual consent.

After much persuasion, Julia consented, and accordingly paid her last
visit to the château that same evening.
A few days after this occurrence, the 15th of June arrived, the day of
the fête. On the preceding evening, unknown to the good Julia, a score
of light-hearted girls were weaving garlands of flowers, and preparing
the crown of roses, in the house of neighbour Morelle; in that of
neighbour Bontemps another gay party were industriously ornamenting
a wooden throne with coverings, hangings, and cushions of
brightest-coloured flowers; and half the people of the hamlet were
thinking of Julia, and preparing bouquets, pincushions, caps, and
various little trifles, to present to her on the morrow.
In due course the morrow came. The summer sun had not risen many
hours, when troops of bright-eyed girls, lustrous with rosy cheeks,
braided hair, snow-white gowns, and streaming ribbons, went, tripping
beneath the trees, towards the cottage of Widow Gostillon. After them
came bands of youths and boys, and anon men and matrons, and the
elders of the place, till nearly all the little community was gathered
round the house. Early as it was, Julia had risen, and was at work. She
had had her own pleasant anticipations of the fête--though she had not
heard that a _rosière_ was to be crowned, much less that the honour
was in store for herself--and had intended, by commencing some hours
earlier than usual, to have done her work so much the sooner, that she
might share the pleasures of the festal day. But all thoughts of work
were quickly banished by her eager visitors, who, touched even by the
fact, that they had found her busy at the time when all were
holiday-making, embraced her, praised her, bade her prepare for
coronation, wept, laughed, chatted, clapped their hands, jumped,
danced, and made such a bustle, that Widow Gostillon, in some
consternation, cried out from her chamber to know what was the matter.
And the poor widow wept, too, when she discovered what was going
on--wept solemnly in thinking over Julia's fidelity to herself, her
industry, cleverness, self-denial, sweetness, and, as a proud mother
might, of her beauty. And presently the neighbours brought forth the
poor invalid in her chair, and placed her on a pleasant spot