As I said before, it was on these occasions alone that my father ever had anything to say. He would sometimes speak of one of his hunting parties, where a certain horse had distinguished himself; he would recall some road that another had travelled over with surprising speed; then, the promenade over, he would return home to dine. Although for quite a long time he had only been able to take the lightest nourishment, he insisted that his table, of which he was rather vain, should be served with the same dainty abundance as when he was in health, but he never partook of anything. My aunt and Hélène assisted at these silent repasts, where we were waited on by the old white-headed servants, dressed in their funereal black. My father never spoke at meal-times, and as we had noticed how the least noise seemed to distress him, we confined our conversations to exchanging a few remarks spoken in an undertone. After dinner, which was soon over, we would go into the parlour, and, getting out the chess-board, I would sit down to it opposite my father. I would arrange the chessmen and we would begin the pretence of a game; for my father was entirely too absent-minded to really play any more. At long intervals he would push one of his men from one square to another on the board, and for the form of it I would advance one of mine,--all this was done in perfect silence; for it was a sort of mechanical occupation rather than an amusement that my father sought in this simulation of chess-playing. While we were so occupied my aunt would read and Hélène seat herself at the piano for about an hour's time. This musical hour, except the visit to the horses' pound, was the only other incident of our daily life which appeared to make any impression on my father; for as he continued to push about his pieces in an aimless way, he would say to Hélène, in his low and penetrating voice: "Hélène, I should like you to play such or such an air for me." Sometimes, though very rarely, he would ask her to repeat the same piece for him two or three times, when he would place his elbows on the chess-board, and, hiding his head in his two hands, would seem lost in meditation. One day, only after having asked a second time for a song, I noticed when he raised his venerable head, where suffering had marked such deep lines, that his eyes were filled with tears. The airs which he liked best to have Hélène repeat to him were few in number and very old-fashioned. I remember among others "Pauvre Jacques," the cavatina of "Don Juan," one of the Beethoven symphonies, and two or three romances by Paësiello. One of these last, a simple, sweet, and sad melody called "La Mort d'Elvire," seemed to affect him more profoundly than any of the others, so that he would say, after a deep sigh, "That is enough, Hélène. Thank you, my child." And as soon as the music ceased, a deep silence would fall on us.