s were lifted to
the ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her heart
was gone. She had never seen him, save in the street wearing his hat:
now she beheld him in the mellow light which softened still more his
pale face, wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a
love poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, he produced an
extraordinary effect upon her.

He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolish
sentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of such
women.

From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession of
her heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made frantic
signs to her as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes for
Moronval, who bowed to the ground; nor for the curious glances that
examined her from head to foot, as she stood before them in her black
velvet dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with black roses
and ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about her like a scarf.
Years after she recalled the profound impression of that evening, and
saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, which
seemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. The
future might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and wound
her, crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; but
the recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be effaced.

"You see, madame," said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile, "that
we made a beginning before your arrival. M. le Vicomte Amaury d'Argenton
was reciting his magnificent poem."

"Vicomte!" He was noble, then!

She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl.

"Continue, sir, I beg of you," she said.

But D'Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival of the countess had
injured the effect of his poem--destroyed its point; and such things are
not easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness that
he had finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself more
about her. The poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had
displeased him, and the very thought was unendurable. It needed all
little Jack's tender caresses and outspoken joy--all his delight at the
admiration expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the idea that
she was queen of the fete--to efface the sorrow she felt, and which she
showed by a silence of at least five minutes, which si