o not seem to me so ugly
as you did just now. But go--go!" and she left the aperture abruptly.

The artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an
appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry
and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to
forget the ugliness of Jacques Ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied
hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture:

"Cecily, come back,--come back! Bid me do what you will, I will be your
tiger."

"No, no, master!" said Cecily, still retreating. "And in order to forget
you, I will sing a song of my country."

"Cecily, return!" exclaimed Jacques Ferrand, in a supplicating tone.

"No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp
hurts my eyes,--a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and Cecily
extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose
increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment.

From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture
that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle
formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of
softness and _abandonnement_, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet
damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious
preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared
thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to
mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire
from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which
tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and
roared loudly.

Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on
Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her.

"Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We
do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative,
without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a
symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and
pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you."

And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the
expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and
vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song:

"Flowers--still flowers, everywhere.
My lover is coming--my ho