closed, and his head stretched back
on the pillow. I was sitting beside his bed, my hand in his, when I felt
it feebly pressed. His eyes half opened, and I saw him smile. Then
he said in a weak, slow, and the quavering voice of an old man who
is dying: 'The Pomard at the farther end--on the left--you know, my
boy--only for friends.' He pressed my hand again, and, as if exhausted,
closed his eyes, though I could see by the imperceptible motion of his
lips that he was still smiling inwardly. Come with me to the cellar,"
continued Oscar, after a brief silence, "at the farther end to the left,
you shall hold the lantern for me."

When we came up from the cellar, the bell was ringing furiously, and
flocks of startled birds were flying out of the chestnut-trees. It was
for dinner. All the guests were in the garden. Oscar introduced me in
his off-hand way, and I offered my arm to the mistress of the house to
conduct her to the dining-room.

On examining my friend's wife, I saw that my first impression had not
been erroneous--she was literally a little angel, and a little angel in
the shape of a woman, which is all the better. She was delicate, slender
as a young girl; her voice was as thrilling and harmonious as the
chaffinch, with an indefinable accent that smacked of no part of the
country in particular, but lent a charm to her slightest word. She had,
moreover, a way of speaking of her own, a childish and coquettish way
of modulating the ends of her sentences and turning her eyes toward her
husband, as if to seek for his approbation. She blushed every moment,
but at the same time her smile was so bewitching and her teeth so white
that she seemed to be laughing at herself. A charming little woman! Add
to this a strange yet tasteful toilette, rather daring, perhaps, but
suiting this little queen, so singular in herself. Her beautiful fair
hair, twisted up apparently at hazard, was fixed rather high up on the
head by a steel comb worn somewhat on one side; and her white muslin
dress trimmed with wide, flat ruches, cut square at the neck, short in
the skirt, and looped up all round, had a delicious eighteenth-century
appearance. The angel was certainly a trifle coquettish, but in her own
way, and yet her way was exquisite.

Hardly were we seated at table when Oscar threw toward his little queen
a rapid glance, but one so full of happiness and-why should I not
say it?--love that I experienced a kind of shiver, a thrill of env