ess of which Bianchon and two other eminent doctors who have
consulted with him declare to be beyond a doubt. Now, I will take you
to Lydie's presence; remember to play the part of doctor; for the only
thing that makes her lose her customary serenity is not to enter into
her notion of medical consultation."

After crossing several rooms Corentin was on the point of taking la
Peyrade into that usually occupied by Lydie when employed in cradling
or dandling her imaginary child, when suddenly they were stopped by the
sound of two or three chords struck by the hand of a master on a piano
of the finest sonority.

"What is that?" asked la Peyrade.

"That is Lydie," replied Corentin, with what might be called an
expression of paternal pride; "she is an admirable musician, and though
she no longer writes down, as in the days when her mind was clear, her
delightful melodies, she often improvises them in a way that moves me
to the soul--the soul of Corentin!" added the old man, smiling. "Is not
that the finest praise I can bestow upon her? But suppose we sit down
here and listen to her. If we go in, the concert will cease and the
medical consultation begin."

La Peyrade was amazed as he listened to an improvisation in which the
rare union of inspiration and science opened to his impressionable
nature a source of emotions as deep as they were unexpected. Corentin
watched the surprise which from moment to moment the Provencal expressed
by admiring exclamations.

"Hein! how she plays!" said the old man. "Liszt himself hasn't a firmer
touch."

To a very quick "scherzo" the performer now added the first notes of an
"adagio."

"She is going to sing," said Corentin, recognizing the air.

"Does she sing too?" asked la Peyrade.

"Like Pasta, like Malibran; but hush, listen to her!"

After a few opening bars in "arpeggio" a vibrant voice resounded, the
tones of which appeared to stir the Provencal to the depths of his
being.

"How the music moves you!" said Corentin; "you were undoubtedly made for
each other."

"My God! the same air! the same voice!"

"Have you already met Lydie somewhere?" asked the great master of the
police.

"I don't know--I think not," answered la Peyrade, in a stammering voice;
"in any case, it was long ago--But that air--that voice--I think--"

"Let us go in," said Corentin.

Opening the door abruptly, he entered, pulling the young man after him.

Sitting with her back to the door, and prevent