r. Youmaeale is doubtless at this
moment worshiping certain stars, and I am surprised at not seeing him;
but it rests with you to make me forget his absence."

"Here is an excellent opportunity to produce my sonnet," said the Gascon
to himself. "If I dared, madame, I would recite some little verses which
might, perhaps, interest you."

"Verses--how? are you a poet, chevalier?"

"All lovers are, madame."

"That is an admission--you are in love, in order to be entitled to be a
poet?"

"No, madame," said Croustillac sadly. "I am in love by right of
suffering."

"And to chant your sad martyrdom--let us hear the verses."

"The verses, madame, do all in their power to picture two blue eyes,
blue and beautiful, like yours; it is a sonnet."

"Let us have this sonnet."

And Croustillac recited the following lines in a languorous and
impassioned tone:

"They are not eyes, rather gods are they,
They are above kings in power true.
Gods, no! they are the heavens of tender blue,
And their radiant glance makes kings obey."

"One must choose, chevalier," said Blue Beard; "are they eyes, or gods,
or the heavens?"

Croustillac's reply was a happy one:

"The heavens, no! each a radiant sun
Whose burning rays but blind the view.
Suns? not so, but light so strong, so true,
They predict the love but just begun!"

"Really, chevalier, I am curious to know where you will stop. Suns, I
own, please me; gods also."

Croustillac continued with a languorous softness:

"Ah! if gods, would they work me ill?
If the heavens, would add more sorrow still?
Two suns? 'tis false--that orb is one----"

"Ah, heavens, chevalier, you delight me; among all these charming
comparisons there remains nothing more for me but lightening----"

Croustillac bowed his head:

"Stars! no, the stars are too many, too clear,
Always my meaning shineth still,
Eyes, gods, suns, and stars appear."

"How charming; at least, chevalier," said Angela, laughing, "you have
given me a choice of comparisons, and I have but to select; therefore I
shall keep them all--gods, heavens, suns and stars."

The adventurer looked at Blue Beard a moment in silence; then he said,
in a tone the sadness of which was so sincere that the little widow was
struck by it, "You are right, madame; this sonnet is absurd; you do well
to mock at it, but what would you have? I am unhappy, I am justly
punished for my mad presump