tify than annoy her." Here a
strain of music stole in upon my monologue, and suspended it; it was
a bugle, very skilfully played, in the neighbourhood of the park, I
thought, or on the Place Royale. So sweet were the tones, so subduing
their effect at that hour, in the midst of silence and under the
quiet reign of moonlight, I ceased to think, that I might listen more
intently. The strain retreated, its sound waxed fainter and was soon
gone; my ear prepared to repose on the absolute hush of midnight once
more. No. What murmur was that which, low, and yet near and approaching
nearer, frustrated the expectation of total silence? It was some one
conversing--yes, evidently, an audible, though subdued voice spoke in
the garden immediately below me. Another answered; the first voice was
that of a man, the second that of a woman; and a man and a woman I saw
coming slowly down the alley. Their forms were at first in shade, I
could but discern a dusk outline of each, but a ray of moonlight met
them at the termination of the walk, when they were under my very nose,
and revealed very plainly, very unequivocally, Mdlle. Zoraide Reuter,
arm-in-arm, or hand-in-hand (I forget which) with my principal,
confidant, and counsellor, M. Francois Pelet. And M. Pelet was saying--

"A quand donc le jour des noces, ma bien-aimee?"

And Mdlle. Reuter answered--

"Mais, Francois, tu sais bien qu'il me serait impossible de me marier
avant les vacances."

"June, July, August, a whole quarter!" exclaimed the director. "How can
I wait so long?--I who am ready, even now, to expire at your feet with
impatience!"

"Ah! if you die, the whole affair will be settled without any trouble
about notaries and contracts; I shall only have to order a slight
mourning dress, which will be much sooner prepared than the nuptial
trousseau."

"Cruel Zoraide! you laugh at the distress of one who loves you so
devotedly as I do: my torment is your sport; you scruple not to stretch
my soul on the rack of jealousy; for, deny it as you will, I am certain
you have cast encouraging glances on that school-boy, Crimsworth; he has
presumed to fall in love, which he dared not have done unless you had
given him room to hope."

"What do you say, Francois? Do you say Crimsworth is in love with me?"

"Over head and ears."

"Has he told you so?"

"No--but I see it in his face: he blushes whenever your name is
mentioned." A little laugh of exulting coquetry announced Mdlle.