I looked at her to see whether she meant her request, for it was by no means easy to say. She looked very brilliant, but had an unusual darkness round her eyes,--a wide ring of the deepest violet. She either had wept forth that shadow, or was in a peculiar state. Neither tears nor smiles were upon her face, and her lips burned with a living scarlet,--no rose-soft red, as wont. Her hair, fastened under her cap in long bands, fell here and there, and seemed to have no strength. She had been drinking _eau sucrée_, for a glass of it was upon the table, and a few fresh flowers, which she hastened to put away from her as I entered. I was so much affected by her looks, though no fear seized me, that I took her hand. It was dry and warm, but very weak and tremulous. "Maria, you were at that garden last night, and danced. I knew how it would be,--it was too early in the year." "I was not at the Spielheim, for when Florimond said none of you were going from Cecilia, I declined. But no dancing would have made me ill as I have been; it was nothing to care for, and is now past." "Was it cold, then? It seems more like fever." "It was neither, or perhaps a little of both. Let me have my score again, Carl. I need only ask for it, you know, as it is mine." "You need not be so proud, Maria. I shall of course return it, but not unless you promise me to do no more to it just now." "Not _just_ now. But I made believe to be ill on purpose that I might have a day's leisure. I must also copy it out." "Maria, you never made believe, for if you _could_ tell a lie, it would not be for yourself. You _have_ been ill, and I suspect much that I know how. If you will tell me, I will fetch the score,--that is, if it is good for you to have it. But I would rather burn it than that it should hurt you; and I tell you, it all depends upon that." "I will tell you, Carl, and more, because it is over now, and cannot happen again. I was lying in my bed, and heard the clock strike ten. I thought also that I had heard it rain; so I got up and looked out. There was no rain, but there were stars; and seeing them, my thoughts grew bright,--bright as when I imagined that music; and being in the same mood,--that is, quiet and yet excited, if you can believe in both together,--I went to my writing. It was all there ready for me; and Josephine, who always disturbs me, because she talks, was very fast asleep. It may sound proud, Carlino, but I am certain the Chevalier was with me,--that he stood behind my chair, and I could not look round for fear of seeing him. He guided my hand; he thrust out my ideas,--all grew clear; and I was not afraid, even of a ghost companion." "But the Chevalier is alive and well." "And yet, I tell you, his ghost was with me. Well, Carl, I had written until I could not see, for my lamp went out, and it was not yet light. I suppose I then fell asleep, for I certainly had a vision." "What was that, Maria?"