anners, had not given one an inclination to
laugh, their half-starved air and the feverish glitter of eyes that
had wept over so many lost illusions and disappointed hopes, would have
awakened profound compassion in the hearts of lookers-on.

Besides these there were others, who, finding art too hard a
taskmistress and too niggardly in her rewards, sought other employment..
For example, a lyric poet kept an intelligence office, a sculptor was an
agent for a wine merchant, and a violinist was in a gas-office.

Others less worthy allowed themselves to be supported by their wives.
These couples came together, and the poor women bore on their brave,
worn faces the stamp of the penalty they paid for the companionship of
men of genius. Proud of being allowed to accompany their husbands, they
smiled upon them with an air of gratified maternal vanity. Then there
were the habitues of the house, the three professors; Labassandre
in gala costume, exercising his lungs at intervals by tremendous
inspirations; and D'Argenton, the handsome D'Argenton, curled and
pomaded, wearing light gloves, and his manners a charming mixture of
authority, geniality, and condescension.

Standing near the door of the salon, Moronval received every one,
shaking hands with all, but growing very anxious as the hour grew later
and the countess did not appear; for Ida de Barancy was called the
countess under that roof. Every one was uncomfortable. Little Madame de
Moronval went from group to group, saying, with an amiable air, "We will
wait a few moments, the countess has not yet arrived!"

The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small
green table, on which stood a glass of _eau-sucre_ and a reading-lamp,
was in readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, red
and oppressed by all the worry of the evening; and Madotu, shivering in
the wind from the door,--all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile,
as she came not, D'Argenton consented to recite a poem that all his
assistants knew, for they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing in
front of the chimney, with his hair thrown back from his wide forehead,
the poet declaimed, in a coarse, vulgar voice, what he called his poem.

His friends were not sparing in their praises.

"Magnificent!" said one. "Sublime!" exclaimed another; and the most
amazing criticism came from yet another,--"Goethe with a heart?"

Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eye