ereal strain, and then that peasant dance, so full of dash and
colour; and then the mournful burden which returns, the duo of the
violoncellos. Ah! monsieur, the violoncellos, the violoncellos!'

'And Berlioz, madame, the festival air in "Romeo." Oh! the solo of the
clarionets, the beloved women, with the harp accompaniment! Something
enrapturing, something white as snow which ascends! The festival
bursts upon you, like a picture by Paul Veronese, with the tumultuous
magnificence of the "Marriage of Cana"; and then the love-song begins
again, oh, how softly! Oh! always higher! higher still--'

'Did you notice, monsieur, in Beethoven's Symphony in A, that knell
which ever and ever comes back and beats upon your heart? Yes, I see
very well, you feel as I do, music is a communion--Beethoven, ah, me!
how sad and sweet it is to be two to understand him and give way--'

'And Schumann, madame, and Wagner, madame--Schumann's "Reverie," nothing
but the stringed instruments, a warm shower falling on acacia leaves, a
sunray which dries them, barely a tear in space. Wagner! ah, Wagner! the
overture of the "Flying Dutchman," are you not fond of it?--tell me you
are fond of it! As for myself, it overcomes me. There is nothing left,
nothing left, one expires--'

Their voices died away; they did not even look at each other, but sat
there elbow to elbow, with their faces turned upward, quite overcome.

Sandoz, who was surprised, asked himself where Mathilde could have
picked up that jargon. In some article of Jory's, perhaps. Besides, he
had remarked that women talk music very well, even without knowing a
note of it. And he, whom the bitterness of the others had only grieved,
became exasperated at sight of Mathilde's languishing attitude. No, no,
that was quite enough; the men tore each other to bits; still that might
pass, after all; but what an end to the evening it was, that feminine
fraud, cooing and titillating herself with thoughts of Beethoven's and
Schumann's music! Fortunately, Gagniere suddenly rose. He knew what
o'clock it was even in the depths of his ecstasy, and he had only just
time left him to catch his last train. So, after exchanging nerveless
and silent handshakes with the others, he went off to sleep at Melun.

'What a failure he is!' muttered Mahoudeau. 'Music has killed painting;
he'll never do anything!'

He himself had to leave, and the door had scarcely closed behind his
back when Jory declared:

'Have y