ured, madame," answered D'Argenton, gravely.

Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he
turned away without vouchsafing another syllable.

But Moronval profited by this opening. "Think of it!" he said; "think
that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as
that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!"

"And why can you not?" asked Ida, quickly.

"Because we have not the funds."

"But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to
languish!"

She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had
played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady's
weakness by talking to her of D'Argenton, whom he painted in glowing
colors.

He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature,
one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot.

Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth.

"Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the
noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of
an agent."

This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate by
many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these
two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made
various efforts to attract his mother's attention. "Jack, do be quiet!"
and "Jack, you are insufferable!" finally sent him off, with tearful
eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile
the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally
Labassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice
was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Madou, who was in the
kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow
worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times.

Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D'Argenton,
who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of
them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He
appeared to be out of temper--and with whom? With the whole world; for
he was one of that very large class who are at war against society, and
against the manners and customs of their day.

At this very moment he was declaiming violently, "You have all the vices
of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name.
Love is a farce. You have accompli