lence for a nature
like hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The disturbance of
her entrance being at last over, every one seated himself to await the
next recitation.

Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat
majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on
the arm of his mother's chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothed
the lad's hair in the most paternal way.

The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took
dignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and
proceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband's on the
Mongolian races. It was long and tedious--one of those lucubrations
that are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed in
lulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity of
demonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit--if
merit it were--of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and
syllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see Madame
Moronval open her mouth to sound her o's, to hear the r's rattle in
her throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eight
children opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures,
producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating to
Mademoiselle Constant.

But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet
leaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes
moodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he
glanced occasionally about the salon, but her arm-chair might as well
have been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was
rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that she
forgot to congratulate Moronval on the brilliant success of his essay,
which concluded amid great applause and universal relief.

Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened
breathlessly.

"Ah, how beautiful!" she cried; "how beautiful!" and she turned to
Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. "Present me to M.
d'Argenton, if you please."

She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He,
however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied
admiration.

"How happy you are," she said, "in the possession of such a talent!"

Then she asked where she could obtain his poems.

"They are not to be proc