of a by-gone day,
pervaded by sublime melancholy; then he turned to the page where the
line occurs, "Thy songs are sweet, I love to say them over," and ended
with the delicate idyll _Neere_.

Mme. de Bargeton sat with one hand buried in her curls, heedless of
the havoc she wrought among them, gazing before her with unseeing eyes,
alone in her drawing-room, lost in delicious dreaming; for the first
time in her life she had been transported to the sphere which was hers
by right of nature. Judge, therefore, how unpleasantly she was disturbed
by Amelie, who took it upon herself to express the general wish.

"Nais," this voice broke in, "we came to hear M. Chardon's poetry, and
you are giving us poetry out of a book. The extracts are very nice, but
the ladies feel a patriotic preference for the wine of the country; they
would rather have it."

"The French language does not lend itself very readily to poetry, does
it?" Astolphe remarked to Chatelet. "Cicero's prose is a thousand times
more poetical to my way of thinking."

"The true poetry of France is song, lyric verse," Chatelet answered.

"Which proves that our language is eminently adapted for music," said
Adrien.

"I should like very much to hear the poetry that has cost Nais her
reputation," said Zephirine; "but after receiving Amelie's request in
such a way, it is not very likely that she will give us a specimen."

"She ought to have them recited in justice to herself," said Francis.
"The little fellow's genius is his sole justification."

"You have been in the diplomatic service," said Amelie to M. du
Chatelet, "go and manage it somehow."

"Nothing easier," said the Baron.

The Princess' private secretary, being accustomed to petty manoeuvres of
this kind, went to the Bishop and contrived to bring him to the fore.
At the Bishop's entreaty, Nais had no choice but to ask Lucien to recite
his own verses for them, and the Baron received a languishing smile from
Amelie as the reward of his prompt success.

"Decidedly, the Baron is a very clever man," she observed to Lolotte.

But Amelie's previous acidulous remark about women who made their own
dresses rankled in Lolotte's mind.

"Since when have you begun to recognize the Emperor's barons?" she
asked, smiling.

Lucien had essayed to deify his beloved in an ode, dedicated to her
under a title in favor with all lads who write verse after leaving
school. This ode, so fondly cherished, so beautiful--since it