The poet was very much surprised; it seemed to him that he had dictated much more. The terrible advantage thought has over expression bewildered him. All that he dreamed, all that was in embryo within his brain, he fancied was already in form and on the page, and he was aghast at the disproportion between the dream and the reality. His delusion was like that of Don Quixote,—he believed himself in the Empyrean, and took the vapors from the kitchen for the breath of heaven, and, seated on his wooden horse, felt all the shock of an imaginary fall.. Had he been in such a state of mental exaltation merely to produce those two lines? Were these the only result of that frantic rubbing of his dishevelled hair, of that weary pacing to and fro?’ He was furious, for he felt that he was ridiculous. “It is your fault,” he said to Charlotte. “How can a man work in the face of a crying woman? It is always the same thing—nothing is accomplished. Years pass away and the places are filled. Do you not know how small a thing disturbs literary composition? I ought to live in a tower a thousand feet above all the futilities of life, instead of being surrounded by caprices, disorder, and childishness.” As he speaks he strikes a furious blow upon the table, and poor Charlotte, with the tears pouring from her eyes, gathers up the pens and papers that have flown about the room in wild confusion. The arrival of Dr. Hirsch ends this deplorable scene, and after a while tranquillity is restored. The doctor is not alone; Labassandre comes with him, and both are grave and mysterious in their manner. Charlotte turns hastily. “What news, doctor?” she asks. “None, madame; no news whatever.” But Charlotte detected a covert glance at D’Argenton, and knew that the physician’s words were false. “And what do the officers of the Company say?” continued the mother, determined to learn the truth. Labassandre undertook to answer, and while he spoke, the doctor contrived to convey to D’Argenton that the Cydnus had gone to the bottom,—“a collision at sea—every soul was lost.” D’Argenton’s face never changed, and it would have been difficult to form any idea of his feelings. “I have been at work,” he said. “Excuse me, I need the fresh air.” “You are right,” said Charlotte; “go out for a walk;” and the poor woman, who usually detained her poet in the house lest the high-born ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain should entrap him, is this evening delighted to see him leave her, that she may weep in peace—that she may yield to all the wild terror and mournful presentiments that assail her. This is why even the presence of the servant annoys her, and she sends her to her attic. “Madame wishes to be alone! Is not madame afraid? The noise of the wind is very dismal on the balcony.” “No, I am not afraid; leave me.”