That evening, there was a reception and concert at the Duveyriers.

Towards nine o'clock, Octave, who had been invited for the first time, was just finishing dressing. He was grave, and felt irritated with himself. Why had he missed fire with ValÉrie, a woman so well connected? And Berthe Josserand, ought he not to have reflected before refusing her? At the moment he was tying his white tie, the thought of Marie Pichon had become unbearable to him: five months in Paris, and nothing but that wretched adventure! It was as painful to him as a disgrace, for he well saw the emptiness and the uselessness of such a connection. And he vowed to himself, as he took up his gloves, that he would no longer waste his time in such a manner. He was decided to act, as he had at length got into society, where opportunities were certainly not wanting.

But, at the end of the passage, Marie was watching for him. Pichon not being there, he was obliged to go in for a moment.

“How smart you are!” murmured she.

They had never been invited to the Duveyriers', and that filled her with respect for the first floor drawing-room. Besides, she was jealous of no one, she had neither the strength nor the will to be so.

“I shall wait for you,” resumed she holding up her forehead. “D° not come up too late; you can tell me how you amused yourself.”

Octave had to deposit a kiss on her hair. Though relations were established between them, according to his fancy, whenever a desire or want of something to do drew him to her, they did not as yet address each other very familiarly. He at length went downstairs; and she, leaning over the balustrade, followed him with her eyes.

At the same minute, quite a drama was enacting at the Josserands'. In the mind of the mother, the Duveyriers' party to which they were going, was to decide the question of a marriage between Berthe and Auguste Vabre. The latter, who had been vigorously attacked for a fortnight past, still hesitated, evidently entertaining doubts with respect to the dowry. So Madame Josserand, for the purpose of striking a decisive blow, had written to her brother, informing him of the contemplated marriage and reminding him of his promises, with the hope that, in his answer, he might say something that she could turn to account. And all the family were awaiting nine o'clock before the dining-room stove, dressed ready to go down, when Monsieur Gourd brought up a letter from uncle Bachelard which had been forgotten under Madame Gourd's snuff-box since the last delivery.

“Ah! at last!” said Madame Josserand, tearing open the envelope.

The father and the two daughters watched her anxiously as she read. AdÈle, who had had to dress the ladies, was moving heavily about, clearing the table still covered with the dirty crockery from the dinner. But Madame Josserand turned ghastly pale.

“Nothing! nothing!” stuttered she, “not a clear sentence! He will see later on, at the time of the marriage. And he adds that he loves us very much all the same. What a confounded scoundrel!”

Monsieur Josserand in his evening dress sank into a chair. Hortense and Berthe also sat down, their legs feeling worn out; and they remained there, the one in blue, the other in pink, in their eternal costumes, altered once again.

“I have always said,” murmured the father, “that Bachelard is imposing upon us. He will never give a sou.”

Standing up in her flaring dress, Madame Josserand was reading the letter over again. Then, her anger burst out, “Ah! men! men! That one, one would think him an idiot, he leads such a life. Well! not a bit of it! Though he never seems to be in his right mind, he opens his eye the moment any one speaks to him of money. Ah! men! men!”

She turned towards her daughters, to whom this lesson was addressed.

“It has come to the point, you see, that I ask myself why it is you have such a mania for getting married. Ah! if you had been worried out of your lives by it as I have! Not a fellow who loves you for yourselves and who would bring you a fortune without haggling! Millionaire uncles who, after having been fed for twenty years, will not even give their nieces a dowry! Husbands who are quite incompetent, oh! yes, sir, incompetent!”

Monsieur Josserand bowed his head. AdÈle, who was not even listening, was quietly finishing clearing the table. But Madame Josserand suddenly turned angrily upon her.

“What are you doing there, spying upon us? Go into your kitchen and see if I am there!”

And she wound up by saying:

“In short, everything for those wretched beings, the men; and for us, not even enough to satisfy our hunger. Listen! they are only fit for being taken in! Remember my words!”

Hortense and Berthe nodded their heads, as though deeply penetrated by what their mother had been saying. For a long time past she had completely convinced them of man's utter inferiority, his unique part in life being to marry and to pay. A long silence ensued in the smoky dining-room, where the remainder of the things left on the table by AdÈle emitted a stuffy smell of food. The Josserands, gorgeously arrayed, scattered on different chairs and overwhelmed, were forgetting the Duveyriers' concert as they reflected on the continual deceptions of life From the depths of the adjoining chamber, one could hear the snoring of Saturnin, whom they had sent to bed early.

At length, Berthe spoke:

“So it is all up. Shall we take our things off?”

But, at this, Madame Josserand's energy at once returned to her. Eh? what? take their things off! and why pray! were they not respectable people, was not an alliance with their family as good as with any other? The marriage should take place all the same, she would die rather. And she rapidly distributed their parts to each: the two young ladies were instructed to be very amiable to Auguste, and not to leave him until he had taken the leap; the father received the mission of overcoming old Vabre and Duveyrier, by agreeing with everything they said, if his intelligence was sufficient to enable him to do such a thing; as for herself, desirous of neglecting nothing, she undertook the women, she would know how to get them all on her side. Then, collecting her thoughts and casting a last glance round the dining-room, as though to make sure that no weapon had been forgotten, she put on the terrible look of a man of war about to lead his daughters to massacre, and uttered these words in a powerful voice:

“Let us go down!”

And down they went. In the solemnity of the staircase, Monsieur Josserand was full of uneasiness, for he foresaw many disagreeable things for the too narrow conscience of a worthy man like himself.

When they entered, there was already a crush at the Duveyriers'.

The enormous grand piano occupied one entire end of the drawing-room, the ladies being seated in front of it on rows of chairs, like at the theatre; and two dense masses of black coats filled up the doorways leading to the dining-room and the parlour. The chandelier and the candelabra, and the six lamps standing on side-tables, lit up with a blinding light the white and gold room in which the red silk of the furniture and of the hangings showed up vividly. It was very warm, the fans produced a breeze at regular intervals, impregnated with the penetrating odours of bodices and bare shoulders.

Just at that moment, Madame Duveyrier was taking her seat at the piano. With a gesture, Madame Josserand smilingly begged she would not disturb herself; and she left her daughters in the midst of the men, as she accepted a chair for herself between ValÉrie and Madame Juzeur. Monsieur Josserand had made for the parlour, where the landlord, Monsieur Vabre, was dozing at his usual place, in the corner of a sofa. There were also Campardon, ThÉophile and Auguste Vabre, Doctor Juillerat and the AbbÉ Mauduit, forming a group; whilst Trublot and Octave, who had rejoined each other, had flown from the music to the end of the dining-room. Near them, and behind the stream of black coats, Duveyrier, thin and tall of stature, was looking fixedly at his wife seated at the piano waiting for silence. In the button-hole of his coat he wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in a neat little rosette.

“Hush! hush! silence!” murmured some friendly voices.

Then, Clotilde Duveyrier commenced one of Chopin's most difficult serenades. Tall and handsome, with magnificent red hair, she had a long face, as pale and cold as snow; and, in her grey eyes, music alone kindled a flame, an exaggerated passion on which she existed without any other desire either of the flesh or the spirit. Duveyrier continued watching her; then, after the first bars, a nervous exasperation contracted his lips, he drew aside and kept himself at the farthest end of the dining-room. On his clean-shaven face, with its pointed chin and eyes all askew, large red blotches indicated a bad blood, quite a pollution festering just beneath the skin.

Trublot, who was examining him, quietly observed:

“He does not like music.”

“Nor I either,” replied Octave.

“Oh! the unpleasantness is not the same for you. A man, my dear fellow, who was always lucky. Not a whit more intelligent than another, but who was helped along by every one. Belonging to an old middle-class family, the father an ex-presiding judge, called to the bar the moment he had completed his studies, then appointed, deputy judge at Reims, from whence he was removed to Paris and made judge of the Court of First Instance, decorated, and now a counsellor before he is forty-five years of age. It's stiff, isn't it? But he does not like music, that piano has been the bane of his life. One cannot have everything.”

Meanwhile, Clotilde was knocking off the difficult passages with extraordinary composure. She handled her piano like a circus-rider her horse. Octave's attention was solely occupied with the furious working of her hands.

“Just look at her fingers,” said he, “it is astonishing! A quarter of an hour of that must hurt her immensely.”

And they both fell to talking of women without troubling themselves any further with what she was playing. Octave felt rather embarrassed on catching sight of ValÉrie: what line of conduct should he pursue? ought he to speak to her or pretend not to see her? Trublot affected a great disdain: there was still not one to take his fancy; and, as his companion protested, looking about, and saying that there was surely one amongst the number who would suit him, he learnedly declared:

“Well! take your choice, and you will see afterwards, when the gloss is off. Eh? not the one with the feathers over there; nor the blonde in the mauve dress; nor that old party, though she at least has the merit of being fat. I tell you, my dear fellow, it is absurd to seek for anything of the kind in society. Plenty of airs, but not a particle of pleasure!”

Octave smiled. He had to make his position in the world; he could not afford merely to consider his taste, like Trublot, whose father was so rich. The sight of those rows of women set him musing, he asked himself which among them he would have chosen for his fortune and his pleasure, if he had been allowed to take one of them away. As he was weighing them with a glance, one after the other, he suddenly exclaimed:

“Hallo! my employer's wife! She visits here then?”

“Did you not know it?” asked Trublot. “In spite of the difference in their ages, Madame HÉdouin and Madame Duveyrier are two school friends. They used to be inseparable, and were called the polar bears, because they were always fully twenty degrees below freezing point. They are some more of the ornamental class! Duveyrier would be in a sad plight if he had not some other hot water-bottle for his feet in winter time!”

But Octave had now become serious. For the first time, he beheld Madame HÉdouin in a low neck dress, her shoulders and arms bare, with her black hair plaited in front; and she appeared in the ardent light as the realisation of his desires: a superb woman, extremely healthy and calmly beautiful, who would be a benefit in every way to a man. Complicated plans were already absorbing him, when an awful din awoke him from his dream.

“What a relief! it is finished!” said Trublot.

Compliments were being showered upon Clotilde. Madame Josserand, who had hastened to her, was pressing her hands; whilst the men resumed their conversation, and the ladies fanned themselves more vigorously. Duveyrier then ventured back into the parlour, where Trublot and Octave followed him. Whilst in the midst of the skirts, the former whispered into the latter's ear:

“Look on your right. The angling has commenced.”

It was Madame Josserand who was setting Berthe on to Auguste. He had imprudently gone up to the ladies to wish them good evening. His head was not bothering him so much just then; he merely felt a touch of neuralgia in his left eye; but he dreaded the end of the party, for there was going to be singing, and nothing was worse for him than this.

“Berthe,” said the mother, “tell Monsieur Vabre of the remedy you copied for him out of that book. Oh! it is a sovereign cure for headaches!”

And, having started the affair, she left them standing beside a window.

“By Jove! they are going in for chemistry!” murmured Trublot.

In the parlour, Monsieur Josserand, desirous of pleasing his wife, had remained seated before Monsieur Vabre, feeling very embarrassed, for the old gentleman was asleep, and he did not dare awake him to do the amiable. But, when the music ceased, Monsieur Vabre raised his eye-lids. Short and stout, and completely bald, save for two tufts of white hair over his ears, he had a ruddy face, with thick lips, and round eyes almost at the top of his head. Monsieur Josserand having politely inquired after his health, the conversation began. The retired notary, whose four or five ideas always followed the same order, commenced by making an observation about Versailles, where he had practiced during forty years; then, he talked of his sons, once more regretting that neither the one nor the other had shown himself capable of carrying on the practice, so that he had decided to sell it and inhabit Paris; after which, he came to the history of his house, the building of which was the romance of his life.

“I have buried three hundred thousand francs in it, sir. A superb speculation, my architect said. But to-day I have great difficulty in getting the value of my money; more especially as all my children have come to live here, with the idea of not paying me, and I should never have a quarter's rent, if I did not apply for it myself on the fifteenth. Fortunately, I have work to console me.”

“Do you still work much?” asked Monsieur Josserand.

“Always, always, sir!” replied the old gentleman with the energy of despair. “Work is life to me.”

And he explained his great task. For ten years past, he had every year waded through the official catalogue of the exhibition of paintings, writing on tickets each painter's name, and the paintings exhibited. He spoke of it with an air of weariness and anguish; the whole year scarcely gave him sufficient time, the task was often so arduous, that it sometimes proved too much for him; for instance, when a lady artist married, and then exhibited under her husband's name, how was he to see his way clearly?

“My work will never be complete, it is that which is killing me,” murmured he.

“You take a great interest in art, do you not?” resumed Monsieur Josserand, to flatter him.

Monsieur Vabre looked at him, full of surprise.

“No, I do not require to see the paintings. It is merely a matter of statistics. There now! I had better go to bed, my head will be all the clearer to-morrow. Good-night, sir.”

He leant on a walking-stick, which he used even in the house, and withdrew, walking painfully, the lower part of his back already succumbing to paralysis. Monsieur Josserand felt perplexed: he had not understood very clearly, he feared he had not spoken of the tickets with sufficient enthusiasm.

But a slight hubbub coming from the drawing-room, attracted

Trublot and Octave again to the door. They saw a lady of about fifty enter, very stout, and still handsome, followed by a young man, correctly attired, and with a serious air about him.

“What! they arrive together!” murmured Trublot. “Well! I never!”

The new-comers were Madame Dambreville and LÉon Josserand. She had undertaken to find him a wife; then, whilst waiting, she had kept him for her own personal use; and they were now in their full honeymoon, attracting general attention in the middle-class drawing-rooms. There were whisperings amongst the mothers who had daughters to marry. But Madame Duveyrier was advancing to meet Madame Dambreville, who supplied her with young men for her choruses. Madame Josserand at once supplanted her, and overwhelmed her son's friend with all sorts of attentions, reflecting that she might have need of her. LÉon coldly exchanged a few words with his mother; yet, she was now beginning to think that he would after all be able to do something for himself.

“Berthe does not see you,” said she to Madame Dambreville. “Excuse her, she is telling Monsieur Auguste of some remedy.”

“But they are very well together, we must leave them alone,” replied the lady, understanding at a glance.

They both watched Berthe maternally. She had ended by pushing Auguste into the recess caused by the window, and was keeping him there with her pretty gestures. He was becoming animated, and running the risk of a bad headache.

Meanwhile, a group of grave men were talking politics in the parlour. There had been a stormy sitting of the Senate the day before, where they were discussing the address respecting the Roman question; and Doctor Juillerat, whose opinions were atheistical and revolutionary, was maintaining that Rome ought to be given to the king of Italy; whilst the AbbÉ Mau-duit, one of the heads of the Ultramontane party prophesied the most awful catastrophes, if Frenchmen did not shed the last drop of their blood in supporting the temporal power of the pope.

“Perhaps some modus vivendi may be found which will prove acceptable to both parties,” observed LÉon Josserand arriving.

He was just then the secretary of a celebrated barrister, one of the deputies of the left. During two years, having nothing to expect from his parents, whose mediocrity moreover exasperated him, he had frequented the students' quarter in the guise of a ferocious demagogue. But, since his acquaintance with the Dambrevilles, at whose expense he was satisfying his first appetites, he was calming down, and drifting into the learned Republican.

“No, no agreement is possible,” said the priest. “The Church could not make terms.”

“Then, it shall vanish!” exclaimed the doctor.

And, though great friends, having met at the bedsides of all the departing souls of the Saint-Roch district, they seemed irreconcilable, the doctor thin and nervous, the priest fat and affable. The latter preserved a polite smile, even when making his most absolute statements, like a man of the world, tolerant for the shortcomings of existence, but also like a Catholic who did not intend to abandon any of his religions belief.

“The Church vanish, pooh!” said Campardon with a furious air, just to be well with the priest, from whom he was expecting a large order.

Besides, it was the opinion of almost all the gentlemen: it could not vanish. ThÉophile Vabre, who, coughing and spitting, and shaking with fever, dreamed of universal happiness through the organization of a humanitarian republic, alone maintained that, perhaps, it would be transformed.

The priest resumed in his gentle voice:

“The Empire is committing suicide. You will see it is so, next year, when the elections come on.”

“Oh! as for the Empire, we permit you to rid us of it,” said the doctor boldly. “You will be rendering us a precious service.”

Then, Duveyrier, who seemed listening profoundly, shook his head. He belonged to an Orleanist family; but he owed everything to the Empire and considered he ought to defend it.

“Believe me,” he at length declared severely, “do not shake the foundations of society, or everything will collapse. It is we, as sure as fate, who suffer from every catastrophe.”

“Very true!” observed Monsieur Josserand, who entertained no opinion, but remembered his wife's instructions.

All spoke at once. None of them liked the Empire. Doctor Juillerat condemned the Mexican expedition, the AbbÉ Mauduit blamed the recognition of the kingdom of Italy. Yet, ThÉophile Vabre and even LÉon felt anxious when Duveyrier threatened them with another '93. What was the use of those continual revolutions? had not liberty been obtained? and the hatred of new ideas, the fear of the people wishing their share, calmed the liberalism of those satisfied middle-class men. They all declared, however, that they would vote against the Emperor, for he was in need of a lesson.

“Ah! how they bore me!” said Trublot, who had been trying to understand for some minutes past.

Octave persuaded him to return to the ladies. In the recess of the window, Berthe was deafening Auguste with her laughter. This big fellow, with his pale blood, was forgetting his fear of women, and was becoming quite red, beneath the attacks of the lovely girl, whose breath warmed his face. Madame Josserand, however, probably considered that the affair was dragging, for she looked fixedly at Hortense; and the latter obediently went and gave her sister her assistance.

“Are you quite recovered, madame?” Octave dared to ask ValÉrie. “Quite, sir, thank you,” replied she coolly, as though she remembered nothing.

Madame Juzeur spoke to the young man about some old lace which she wished to show him, to have his opinion of it; and he had to promise to look in on her for a moment on the morrow. Then, as the AbbÉ Mauduit re-entered the drawing-room, she called him and made him sit beside her with an air of rapture.

The conversation had again resumed. The ladies were discussing their servants.

“Well! yes,” continued Madame Duveyrier, “I am satisfied with ClÉmenee, she is a very clean and very active girl.”

“And your Hippolyte,” asked Madamo Josserand, “had you not the intention of discharging him?”

Just then, Hippolyte, the footman, was handing round some iees. When he had withdrawn, tall, strong, and with a florid complexion, Clotilde answered in an embarrassed way:

“We have deeided to keep him. It is so unpleasant changing! You know, servants get used to one another, and I should not like to part with ClÉmence.”

Madame Josserand hastened to agree with her, feeling that they were on delicate ground. There was some hope of marrying the two together, some day; and the AbbÉ Mauduit, whom the Duveyriers' had consulted in the matter, slowly wagged his head, as though to dissemble a state of affairs known to all the house, but of which no one ever spoke. All the ladies now opened their hearts: ValÉrie had sent another servant about her business that very morning, and that made three in a week; Madamo Juzeur had deeided to take a young girl of fifteen from the foundling hospital so as to teach her herself; as for Madame Josserand, her complaints of AdÈle seemed never likely to cease, a slut, a good-for-nothing, whose goings-on were most extraordinary. And they all, feeling languid in the blaze of the candles and the perfume of the flowers, sank deeper into these ante-room stories, wading through greasy account-books, and taking a delight in relating the insolence of a coachman or of a scullery-maid.

“Have you seen Julie?” abruptly asked Trublot of Octave, in a mysterious tone of voice.

And, as the other looked at him in amazement, he added:

“My dear fellow, she is stunning. Go and see her. Just pretend you want to go somewhere, and then slip into the kitchen. She is stunning!”

He was speaking of the Duveyriers' cook. The ladies' conversation was taking a turn: Madame Josserand was describing, with overflowing admiration, a very modest estate which the Duveyriers had near Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, and which she had merely caught a glimpse of from the train, one day when she was going to Fontainebleau. But Clotilde did not like the country, she lived there as little as possible, merely during the holidays of her son, Gustave, who was then studying rhetoric at the LycÉe Bonaparte.

“Caroline is right in not wishing to have any children,” declared she, turning towards Madame HÉdouin, seated two chairs away from her. “The little things interfere with all your habits!”

Madame HÉdouin said that she liked them a good deal. But she was much too busy; her husband was constantly away, and she had everything to look after.

Octave, standing up behind her chair, searched with a side glance the little curly hairs, as black as ink, on the nape of her neck, and the snowy whiteness of her bosom, which—her dress being open very low—disappeared in a mass of lace. She ended by completely confusing him, as she sat there so calm, speaking but rarely and with a continuous smile on her handsome face; he had never before seen so superb a creature, even at Marseilles. Decidedly, it was worth trying, though it would be a long task.

“Having children robs women of their good looks so quickly!” said he in her ear, leaning over, feeling an absolute necessity to speak to her, and yet finding nothing else to say.

She slowly raised her large eyes, and then replied with the simple air with which she would give him an order at the warehouse.

“Oh! no, Monsieur Octave; with me it is not for that. One must have the time, that is all.”

But Madame Duveyrier intervened. She had merely greeted the young man with a slight bow, when Campardon had introduced him to her; and now she was examining him, and listening to him, without seeking to hide a sudden interest. When she heard him conversing with her friend, she could not help asking:

“Pray, excuse me, sir. What voice have you?”

He did not understand immediately; but he ended by saying that his was a tenor voice. Then, Clotilde became quite enthusiastic: a tenor voice, really! what a piece of luck, tenor voices were becoming so rare! For instance, for the “Blessing of the Daggers,” which they were going to sing by-and-by, she had never been able to find more than three tenors among her acquaintances, when at least five were required. And, suddenly excited, her eyes sparkling, she had to restrain herself from going at once to the piano to try his voice. He was obliged to promise to come one evening for the purpose. Trublot, who was behind him, kept nudging him with his elbow, ferociously enjoying himself in his impassibility.

“Ah! so you are in for it too!” murmured he, when she had moved away. “For myself, my dear fellow, she first of all thought I had a barytone voice; then, seeing that I did not get on all right, she tried me as a tenor; but as I went no better, she has decided to use me to-night as bass. I am one of the monks.”

But he had to leave Octave as Madame Duveyrier was just then calling him; they were about to sing the chorus, the great piece of the evening. There was quite a commotion. Some fifteen men, all amateurs, and all recruited among the guests of the house, painfully opened a passage for themselves through the groups of ladies, to form in front of the piano. They were constantly brought to a standstill, and asked to be excused, in voices drowned by the hum of conversations; whilst the fans were moved more rapidly in the increasing heat. At length, Madame Duveyrier counted them; they were all there, and she distributed them their parts, which she had copied out herself. Campardon took the part of Saint-Bris; a young auditor attached to the Council of State was intrusted with De Nevers's few bars; then came eight nobles, four aldermen, and three monks, represented by barristers, clerks, and simple householders. She, who accompanied, had also reserved herself the part of Valentine, passionate cries which she uttered whilst striking chords; for she would have no lady amongst the gentlemen, the resigned troop of whom she directed with all the severity of a conductor of an orchestra.

The conversations continued, an intolerable noise issued from the parlour especially, where the political discussions were evidently entering on a disagreeable phase. Then Clotilde, taking a key from her pocket, tapped gently with it on the piano. A murmur ran through the room, the voices dropped, two streams of black coats again flowed to the doors; and, looking over the heads, one beheld for a moment Duveyrier's red spotted face wearing an agonised expression. Octave had remained standing behind Madame HÉdouin, the glances from his lowered eyes losing themselves, in the shadows of her bosom, in the depths of the lace. But when the silence was almost complete, there was a burst of laughter, and he raised his head. It was Berthe, who was amused at some joke of Auguste's; she had heated his poor blood to such a point that he was becoming quite jovial. Every person in the drawing-room looked at them, mothers became grave, members of the family exchanged a glance.

“She has such spirits!” murmured Madame Josserand tenderly, in such a way as to be heard.

Hortense, close to her sister, was assisting her with complaisant abnegation, joining in her laughter, and pushing her up against the young man; whilst the breeze which entered through the partly open window behind them gently swelled the big crimson silk curtains.

But a sepulchral voice resounded, all the heads turned towards the piano. Campardon, his mouth wide open, his beard spread out in a lyrical blast, was giving the first line:

“Yes, we are here assembled by the queen's command.”

Clotilde at once ran up a scale and down again; then, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, a look of fright on her face, she uttered the cry:

“I tremble!”

And the whole thing followed, the eight barristers, clerks and householders, their noses on their parts, in the postures of schoolboys humming and hawing over a page of Greek, swore that they were ready to deliver France. This opening was a surprise, for the voices were stifled beneath the low ceiling, one was unable to catch more than a sort of hum, like a noise of passing carts full of paving stones causing the windows to rattle. But when Saint-Bris's melodious line: “For this holy cause—” unrolled the principal theme, some of the ladies recognised it and nodded their heads knowingly. All were warming to the work, the nobles shouted out at random: “We swear it!—We will follow you!” and, each time, it was like an explosion which caught the guests full in the chest.

“They sing too loud,” murmured Octave in Madame HÉdouin's ear.

She did not move. Then, as De Nevers's and Valentine's explanations bored him, more especially as the auditor attached to the Council of State was a false barytone, he corresponded by signs with Trublot who, whilst awaiting the entrance of the monks, drew his attention with a wink to the window where Berthe was continuing to keep Auguste imprisoned. Now, they were alone, in the fresh breeze from outside; whilst, with her ear pricked up, Hortense stood before them, leaning against the curtain and mechanically twisting the loop. No one was watching them now, even Madame Josserand and Madame Dambreville were looking away, after an instinctive exchange of glances.

Meanwhile, Clotilde, her fingers on the keys, carried away and unable to risk a gesture, stretehed her neck and addressed to the music stand this oath intended for De Nevers:

“Ah! from to-day all my blood is yours!”

The aldermen had made their entrance, a substitute, two attorneys, and a notary. The quartette was well delivered, the line: “For this holy cause—” returned, spread out, supported by half the chorus, in a continuous expansion. Cam pardon, his mouth opened wider and wider, gave the orders for the combat, with a terrible roll of syllables. And, suddenly, the chant of the monks burst forth: Trublot sang from his stomach, so as to reach the low notes.

Octave, having had the curiosity to wateh him singing, was struck with surprise, when he again cast his eyes in the direction of the window. As though carried away by the chorus, Hortense had unfastened the loop, by a movement which might have been unintentional; and, in falling, the big crimson silk curtain had completely hidden Auguste and Berthe. They were there behind it, leaning against the window bar, without a movement betraying their presence. Oetave no longer troubled himself about Trublot, who was just then blessing the daggers: “Holy daggers, by us be blessed.” Whatever could they be doing behind that curtain? The fugue was commencing; to the deep tones of the monks, the chorus replied: “Death! death! death!” And still they did not move; perhaps, feeling the heat too much, they were simply watching the cabs pass. But Saint-Bris's melodious line had again returned, by degrees all the voices uttered it with the whole strength of their lungs, progressively and in a final outburst of extraordinary force. It was like a gust of wind burying itself in the farthest corners of the too narrow room, scaring the candles, making the guests turn pale and their ears bleed. Clotilde furiously strummed away on the piano, carrying the gentlemen along with her with a glance; then the voices quieted down, almost whispering: “At midnight, let there be not a sound!” and she continued on alone, using the soft pedal, and imitating the cadenced and distant footsteps of some departing patrol.

Then, suddenly, in the midst of this expiring music, of this relief after so much uproar, one heard a voice exclaim:

“You are hurting me!”