into a courtesan, and the courtesan whom a mere nothing would have
turned into the most loving and the purest of virgins. Marguerite had
still pride and independence, two sentiments which, if they are wounded,
can be the equivalent of a sense of shame. I did not speak a word; my
soul seemed to have passed into my heart and my heart into my eyes.

"So," said she all at once, "it was you who came to inquire after me
when I was ill?"

"Yes."

"Do you know, it was quite splendid of you! How can I thank you for it?"

"By allowing me to come and see you from time to time."

"As often as you like, from five to six, and from eleven to twelve. Now,
Gaston, play the Invitation A la Valse."

"Why?"

"To please me, first of all, and then because I never can manage to play
it myself."

"What part do you find difficult?"

"The third part, the part in sharps."

Gaston rose and went to the piano, and began to play the wonderful
melody of Weber, the music of which stood open before him.

Marguerite, resting one hand on the piano, followed every note on the
music, accompanying it in a low voice, and when Gaston had come to
the passage which she had mentioned to him, she sang out, running her
fingers along the top of the piano:

"Do, re, mi, do, re, fa, mi, re; that is what I can not do. Over again."

Gaston began over again, after which Marguerite said:

"Now, let me try."

She took her place and began to play; but her rebellious fingers always
came to grief over one of the notes.

"Isn't it incredible," she said, exactly like a child, "that I can not
succeed in playing that passage? Would you believe that I sometimes
spend two hours of the morning over it? And when I think that that idiot
of a count plays it without his music, and beautifully, I really believe
it is that that makes me so furious with him." And she began again,
always with the same result.

"The devil take Weber, music, and pianos!" she cried, throwing the music
to the other end of the room. "How can I play eight sharps one after
another?" She folded her arms and looked at us, stamping her foot. The
blood flew to her cheeks, and her lips half opened in a slight cough.

"Come, come," said Prudence, who had taken off her hat and was smoothing
her hair before the glass, "you will work yourself into a rage and do
yourself harm. Better come and have supper; for my part, I am dying of
hunger."

Marguerite rang the bell, sat down to the piano again, an