‘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 chateau 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 chateau that same evening.

A few days after this occurrence, the 15th of June arrived, the day of the fete.  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 fete—­though she had not heard that a rosiere 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