e, when he believed her to be
exalted by her singing and the passion exhaled in this exquisite song,
the poet softly entered, judging it to be a favorable moment, and enough
agitated himself to believe in the contagion of his agitation.

The first sight which met his eyes was Mademoiselle de Corandeuil
stretched out in her armchair, head thrown back, arms drooping and
letting escape by way of accompaniment a whistling, crackling, nasal
melody. The old maid's spectacles hanging on the end of her nose had
singularly compromised the harmony of her false front. The 'Gazette de
France' had fallen from her hands and decorated the back of Constance,
who, as usual, was lying at her mistress's feet.

"Horrible old witch!" said Gerfaut to himself. "Decidedly, the Fates are
against me to-day." However, as both mistress and dog were sleeping
soundly, he closed the door and tiptoed across the floor.

Madame de Bergenheim had ceased to sing, but her fingers still continued
softly to play the motive of the song. As she saw Octave approaching her,
she leaned over to look at her aunt, whom she had not noticed to be
asleep, as the high back of her chair was turned toward her. Nobody
sleeps in a very imposing manner, but the old lady's profile, with her
false front awry, was so comical that it was too much for her niece's
gravity. The desire to laugh was, for the moment, stronger than respect
for melancholy; and Clemence, through that necessity for sympathy
peculiar to acute merriment, glanced involuntarily at Octave, who was
also smiling. Although there was nothing sentimental in this exchange of
thoughts, the latter hastened to profit by it; a moment more, and he was
seated upon a stool in front of the piano, at her left and only a few
inches from her.

"How can a person sleep when you are singing?"

The most embarrassed freshman could have turned out as bright a speech as
this; but the eloquence of it lay less in the words than in the
expression. The ease and grace with which Octave seated himself, the
elegant precision of his manner, the gracious way in which he bent his
head toward Clemence, while speaking, showed a great aptitude in this
kind of conversation. If the words were those of a freshman, the accent
and pose were those of a graduate.

The Baroness's first thought was to rise and leave the room, but an
invincible charm held her back. She was not mistress enough of her eyes
to dare to let them meet Octave's; so she turn