ascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him for
the first time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of the
same persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet, with
the high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves spotted by
various chemicals; and Moronval in a black coat very white in the seams,
and a white cravat very black in the folds; several "children of the
sun,"--the everlasting Japanese prince, and the Egyptian from the banks
of the Nile. What a strange set of people they were! They might have
been a band of pilgrims on the march toward some unknown Mecca, whose
golden lamps retreat before them. During the twelve years that we have
known them, many have fallen from the ranks, but others have risen to
take their places; nothing discourages them, neither cold nor heat,
nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never arrive. Among them
D'Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled a rich Hadji with
his harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening he was especially
radiant, for he had triumphed.

During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in an attitude of feigned
indifference, blushing occasionally at veiled allusions to herself.
Near her was Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed quite tall
because of the extraordinary height of her forehead and the length of
her chin. The poem went on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, and
the wind rattled against the glass doors of the balcony, as it did on a
certain night of which Charlotte apparently had but little remembrance.
Suddenly, during a most pathetic passage, the door opened suddenly; the
servant appeared, and with a terrified air summoned her mistress.

"Madame, madame!" she cried.

Charlotte went to her. "What is it?" she asked.

"A man insists on seeing you. I told him that it was impossible; but he
said he would wait for you, and he seated himself on the stairs."

"I will see him," said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at the
purport of the message.

But D'Argenton objected, and turning toward Labassandre, he said, "Will
you have the goodness to see who this intruder is?" and the poet turned
back to the table to resume his reading. But the door opened again wide
enough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly.

"What is it?" said D'Argenton, impatiently, when he reached the
ante-room.

"Jack is very ill," said the tenor.

"I don't believe i