uettish, seductive way:

"Aline?"

The mute glance which replied to this question was such an eloquent
denial that all words were superfluous. His sweet, knowing smile betrayed
the secret of his duplicity; he was understood and forgiven. There was at
this moment no longer any doubt, fear, or struggle between them. They did
not feel the necessity of any explanation as to the mutual suffering they
had undergone; the suffering no longer existed. They were silent for some
time, happy to look at each other, to be together and alone-for the old
aunt still slept. Not a sound was to be heard; one would have said that
sleep had overcome the two lovers also. Suddenly the charm was broken by
a terrible noise, like a trumpet calling the guilty ones to repentance.

CHAPTER XVII

A RUDE INTERRUPTION

Had a cannon-ball struck the two lovers in the midst of their ecstasy it
would have been less cruel than the sensation caused by this horrible
noise. Clemence trembled and fell back in her chair, frozen with horror.
Gerfaut rose, almost as frightened as she; Mademoiselle de Corandeuil,
aroused from her sleep, sat up in her chair as suddenly as a
Jack-in-a-box that jumps in one's face when a spring is touched. As to
Constance, she darted under her mistress's chair, uttering the most
piteous howls.

One of the folding-doors opposite the window opened; the bell of a
hunting-horn appeared in the opening, blown at full blast and waking the
echoes in the drawing-room. The curtain of the drama had risen upon a
parody, a second incident had changed the pantomime and sentiments of the
performers. The old lady fell back in her chair and stopped up her ears
with her fingers, as she stamped upon the floor; but it was in vain for
her to try to speak, her words were drowned by the racket made by this
terrible instrument. Clemence also stopped her ears. After running in her
terror, under every chair in the room, Constance, half wild, darted, in a
fit of despair, through the partly opened door. Gerfaut finally began to
laugh heartily as if he thought it all great fun, for M. de Bergenheim's
purple face took the place of the trumpet and his hearty laugh rang out
almost as noisily.

"Ah! ha! you did not expect that kind of accompaniment," said the Baron,
when his gayety had calmed a little; "this is the article that you were
obliged to write for the Revue de Paris, is it? Do you think that I am
going to leave you to sing Italian duets with M