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“And which saved you, of course,” continued the lady.

“Through the influence of my friends, I entered the Ecole Polytechnique, and, after graduating, cut the army, and cast my fate, for better or for worse, in the flowery paths of literature.”

“Now, do not say it proved for worse.”

“It was for worse,” said Dupleisis. “My family were treated shabbily; ‘the muse is a maiden of good memory,’ but a cocote; my satiric efforts were rewarded by a lettre de cachet.”

“What a loss to France!”

“At the accession of the Emperor, I returned, a prodigal son of Mars, and now manage to sustain myself by—-“

“By writing sonnets to Brazilian hospitality,” interrupted mademoiselle.

Dupleisis bowed gravely. “Anxious to do so, mademoiselle, but I have not, as yet, collected sufficient material.”

The retort crimsoned the lady’s face, and Dupleisis adroitly covered her confusion by asking her to sing.

“What will you say to me, when you speak of yourself as though you were a block of wood?”

“The prosy geologist talks pedantically of a granite rock, and is mute when he sees the flower that blooms above it.”

“Mon Dieu, M. Dupleisis! I cannot sit by and hear Chamfort so ruthlessly robbed.”

“Mademoiselle, you are unkind. I say nothing complimentary but you cry, ‘Stop thief!'”

The lady played a few sparkling bars, and sang. She had a magnificent voice, but her music, like herself, was studied, faultless, but chilling as the north wind. It swelled deep and full, in rich, flute-like tones, now ringing clear and sweet in pure, rippling notes, now quivering low in waves of enchanting melody. There were soft, gurgling sounds, that flowed wild and free as a mountain-rivulet. It was brilliant, bewildering; but the dazzle was like the frozen glitter of an icicle. Suddenly, a look of unmitigated scorn swept across her face, and the music ceased.

She eyed Dupleisis for a moment half defiantly, and asked, “Would you really like to hear me sing?”

Dupleisis answered, earnestly, “Yes.”

A plaintive prelude followed, and her voice mingled with it almost imperceptibly. It was one of those gloomy Spanish ballads, dramatic rather than harmonious, that poured forth its mournful strains in the fitful measure of an AEolian harp. There were bursts of pathos that seemed to echo from her very soul. It was fierce, mocking, passionate; tender, wicked, terrible. It sank in sobs of melting compassion; it implored pity and sympathy in words of thrilling entreaty; and then it rose, cold and calm, in sounds of withering derision and implacable hate. It trembled, it scorned, it pleaded, it taunted, it struggled, it hoped, it despaired; and then, as if for the dead, it wailed and died in a long, helpless cry of sorrow.

Dupleisis sat listening to the dreary history entranced. There was love, and feeling, and fond womanly devotion; there was refined thought, gentle pity, and warm generous charity; and there was a neglected heart, a gloomy, embittered mind, a life lost in utter desolation. The glorious being whom God had created to cheer and encourage man was a beautiful statue.

Who would teach that heart to feel again? Who turn to quivering flesh that rigid marble? Yet the man of iron sat masking his features, controlling his emotions, with every muscle under his command. It was a flash of real feeling from a proud, sensitive woman, but it passed lightly as a snowdrift on a frozen river.

CHAPTER IV.

“Mr. Reed, you certainly are the most old-maidish man I ever saw in my life.”

The room did appear old-maidish, as Mademoiselle Milan stood looking in. The balmy breeze fluttered pleasantly past the little French curtains, the glowing sunshine warmed the delicate tracery of the walls and lighted up the flowers on a huge rug spread on the bare floor. A tiny bouquet of Spanish violets, in a wonderful little vase, filled the room with a dreamy perfume, such as one sometimes imagines he would find in those far-off little islands in the South seas. There were crayon sketches hung between the windows, here and there a statuette filled a niche, and out on the glass-floored gallery was a perfect bower of flowers. There were several easy-chairs placed about in comfortable positions, as if they were all made to sit on, and a great lounge, covered with green marine, stood, like a small grass-mound, under one of the windows.