There is one thing that must be said in justice to love; it is that the stronger, the clearer, the simpler the considerations opposed to it, in a word, the less common sense there is in the matter, the wilder does the passion become and the more does the lover love.  It is one of the most beautiful things under heaven, this irrationality of the heart.  We should not be worth much without it.  After having walked about the room (without forgetting either her dear fan or the passing glance at the mirror), Julie allowed herself to sink once more upon her lounge.  Whoever had seen her at this moment would have looked upon a lovely sight; her eyes sparkled, her cheeks were on fire; she sighed deeply, and murmured in a delicious transport of joy and pain: 

“Poor fellow!  He has ruined himself for me!”

Independently of the fortune which she could expect from her father, Mademoiselle Godeau had in her own right the property her mother had left her.  She had never thought of it.

At this moment, for the first time in her life, she remembered that she could dispose of five hundred thousand francs.  This thought brought a smile to her lips; a project, strange, bold, wholly feminine, almost as mad as Croisilles himself, entered her head;—­she weighed the idea in her mind for some time, then decided to act upon it at once.

She began by inquiring whether Croisilles had any relatives or friends; the maid was sent out in all directions to find out.

Having made minute inquiries in all quarters, she discovered, on the fourth floor of an old rickety house, a half-crippled aunt, who never stirred from her arm-chair, and had not been out for four or five years.  This poor woman, very old, seemed to have been left in the world expressly as a specimen of hungry misery.  Blind, gouty, almost deaf, she lived alone in a garret; but a gayety, stronger than misfortune and illness, sustained her at eighty years of age, and made her still love life.  Her neighbors never passed her door without going in to see her, and the antiquated tunes she hummed enlivened all the girls of the neighborhood.  She possessed a little annuity which sufficed to maintain her; as long as day lasted, she knitted.  She did not know what had happened since the death of Louis XIV.

It was to this worthy person that Julie had herself privately conducted.  She donned for the occasion all her finery; feathers, laces, ribbons, diamonds, nothing was spared.  She wanted to be fascinating; but the real secret of her beauty, in this case, was the whim that was carrying her away.  She went up the steep, dark staircase which led to the good lady’s chamber, and, after the most graceful bow, spoke somewhat as follows: