ich you take such pleasure--this room
is really the whole of life to my poor daughter, monsieur."

"Ah! madame, your father is quite right."

"But why?" she said; "if Jean did any damage to my room my father would
restore it."

"Yes, my child; but remember you could not leave it; you don't know what
Parisian tradesmen are; they would take three months to renovate your
room. Let Jean take care of it? no, indeed! how can you think of it?
Auguste and I take such precautions that we allow no dust, and so avoid
all sweeping."

"It is a matter of health, not economy," said Godefroid; "your father is
right."

"I am not complaining," said Vanda, in a caressing voice.

That voice was a concert of delightful sounds. Soul, motion, life itself
were concentrated in the glance and in the voice of this woman; for
Vanda had succeeded by study, for which time was certainly not lacking
to her, in conquering the difficulty produced by the loss of her teeth.

"I have much to make me happy in the midst of my sufferings, monsieur,"
she said; "and certainly ample means are a great help in bearing
trouble. If we had been poor I should have died eighteen years ago,
but I still live. Oh, yes, I have many enjoyments, and they are all the
greater because they are perpetually won from death. I am afraid you
will think me quite garrulous," she added, smiling.

"Madame, I should like to listen to you forever," replied Godefroid;
"I have never heard a voice that was comparable to yours; it is music;
Rubini is not more enchanting."

"Don't speak of Rubini or the opera," said the old man, sadly. "That
is a pleasure that, rich as I am, I cannot give to my daughter. She was
once a great musician, and the opera was her greatest pleasure."

"Forgive me," said Godefroid.

"You will soon get accustomed to us," said the old man.

"Yes, and this is the process," said the sick woman, laughing; "when
they've cried 'puss, puss, puss,' often enough you'll learn the
puss-in-the-corner of our conversations."

Godefroid gave a rapid glance at Monsieur Bernard, who, seeing the tears
in the eyes of his new neighbor, seemed to be making him a sign not to
undo the results of the self-command he and his grandson had practised
for so many years.

This sublime and perpetual imposture, proved by the complete illusion of
the sick woman, produced on Godefroid's mind the impression of an
Alpine precipice down which two chamois hunters picked their way. The
magn