numberless spires and domes, were all spread before his
eyes. He saw the carriages pass over the bridges, and the boats glide
through the arches. "Here I can live and breathe," he said to himself.
"It was impossible for me to accomplish anything in that dull little
hole of Aulnettes! How could one work in such a lethargic atmosphere?"

Charlotte was still young and gay; she managed the house and the
kitchen, which was no small matter with the number of persons who daily
assembled around her table. The poet, too, had recently acquired the
habit of dictating instead of writing, and as Charlotte wrote a graceful
English hand, he employed her as secretary. Every evening, when they
were alone, he walked up and down the large room and dictated for an
hour. In the silent old house, his solemn voice, and another sweeter and
fresher, awakened singular echoes. "Our author is composing," said the
concierge with respect.

Let us look in upon the D'Argenton menage. We find them installed in a
charming little room, filled with the aroma of green tea and of Havana
cigars. Charlotte is preparing her writing-table, arranging her pens,
and straightening the ream of thick paper. D'Argenton is in excellent
vein; he is in the humor to dictate all night, and twists his moustache,
where glitter many silvery hairs. He waits to be inspired. Charlotte,
however, as is often the case in a household, is very differently
disposed: a cloud is on her face, which is pale and anxious; but
notwithstanding her evident fatigue, she dips her pen in the inkstand.

"Let us see--we are at chapter first. Have you written that?"

"Chapter first," repeated Charlotte, in a low, sad voice.

The poet looked at her with annoyance; then, with an evident
determination not to question her, he continued,--

"In a valley among the Pyrenees, those Pyrenees so rich in legendary
lore--"

He repeated these words several times, then turning to Charlotte, he
said, "Have you written this?"

She made an effort to repeat the words, but stopped, her voice strangled
with sobs. In vain did she try to restrain herself, her tears flowed in
torrents.

"What on earth is the matter?" said D'Argenton. "Is it this news of
the Cydnus? It is a mere flying report, I am sure, and I attach no
importance to it. Dr. Hirsch was to call at the office of the Company
to-day, and he will be here directly."

He spoke in a satirical tone, slightly disdainful, as the weak,
children, fools, an