ears older than she. He was
rich, and two years later he died, leaving all his fortune to his
widow.... One after another Madame de la Houssaye introduced to us at
least twenty persons, the most of whose names, unfortunately, I have
forgotten. I kept notes, but have mislaid them....

A few moments before dinner the countess re-appeared among us, followed by
two servants in livery bearing salvers of fruit; and while we ate she
seated herself at the harpsichord and played.

"Do you sing?" she asked me.

"A little, madame."

[The two sisters sang a song together.]

"Children," she cried, "tell me, I pray you, who taught you that duet?"

"A young French lady, one of our friends," replied Suzanne.

"But her name! What is her name?"

"Madame Carpentier."

The name meant nothing to her. She sighed, and asked us to sing on.... At
dinner we met again my father and the count. After dinner the countess
sent for me to come to her chamber while she was nursing her babe. After a
few unimportant words she said:

"You have had your lessons from a good musician."

"Yes, madame, our friend plays beautifully on the harp."

"On the harp! And you say her name is--"

"Madame Joseph Carpentier."

"It is strange," said Madame de la Houssaye. "The words of your duet are
by me, and the music by my friend the Viscomptesse Alix de Morainville.
All manner of things have happened in this terrible Revolution; I had for
a moment the hope that she had found chance to emigrate and that you had
met her. Do you know M. Carpentier?"

"Yes, madame; he was with her. He is--in fact--a laboring gardener."

"Oh! then there is no hope. I had the thought of a second marriage, but
Alix de Morainville could never stoop so low. Poor, dear, innocent little
Alix! She must be dead--at the hand of butchers, as her father and her
husband are."

When we returned to the joyous company in the garden all wanted to speak
at once. The countess imposed silence, and then Tonton informed us that a
grand ball was proposed in our honor, to be given in the large dining-room
of Mr. Morphy's tavern, under the direction of Neville Declouet, the
following Monday--that is, in four days.

Oh, that ball! I lay my pen on the table and my head in my hands and see
the bright, pretty faces of young girls and richly clad cavaliers, and
hear the echoes of that music so different from what we have to-day. Alas!
the larger part of that company are sleeping now in the cemetery