s looking at Annette, who had sat down facing him, and he
heard nothing, comprehended nothing.

He looked at her, without thinking, indulging himself with the sight of
her, as a good and habitual possession of which he had been deprived,
drinking her youthful beauty wholesomely, as we drink water when
thirsty.

"Well," said the Countess, "was not that beautiful?"

"Admirable! Superb!" he said, aroused. "By whom?"

"You do not know it?"

"No."

"What, really, you do not know it?"

"No, indeed."

"By Schubert."

"That does not astonish me at all," he said, with an air of profound
conviction. "It is superb! You would be delightful if you would play it
over again."

She began once more, and he, turning his head, began again to
contemplate Annette, but listened also to the music, that he might taste
two pleasures at the same time.

When Madame de Guilleroy had returned to her chair, in simple obedience
to the natural duplicity of man he did not allow his gaze to rest longer
on the fair profile of the young girl, who knitted opposite her mother,
on the other side of the lamp.

But, though he did not see her, he tasted the sweetness of her presence,
as one feels the proximity of a fire on the hearth; and the desire to
cast upon her swift glances only to transfer them immediately to the
Countess, tormented him--the desire of the schoolboy who climbs up
to the window looking into the street as soon as the master's back is
turned.

He went away early, for his power of speech was as paralyzed as his
mind, and his persistent silence might be interpreted.

As soon as he found himself in the street a desire to wander took
possession of him, for whenever he heard music it remained in his brain
a long time, threw him into reveries that seemed the music itself in
a dream, but in a clearer sequel. The sound of the notes returned,
intermittent and fugitive, bringing separate measures, weakened, and far
off as an echo; then, sinking into silence, appeared to leave it to the
mind to give a meaning to the themes, and to seek a sort of tender and
harmonious ideal. He turned to the left on reaching the outer Boulevard,
perceiving the fairylike illumination of the Parc Monceau, and entered
its central avenue, curving under the electric moons. A policeman
was slowly strolling along; now and then a belated cab passed; a man,
sitting on a bench in a bluish bath of electric light, was reading a
newspaper, at the foot of a bronze