D’Argenton was foolish and conceited, but he understood the nature of this woman in a most wonderful degree. She thought him handsomer and more fascinating than he was twelve years before, when she saw him for the first time, under the chandeliers of the Moronval salon. Many of the same persons were there also: Labassandre in bottle-green velvet, with the high boots of Faust; and Dr. Hirsch with his coat-sleeves spotted by various chemicals; and Moronval in a black coat very white in the seams, and a white cravat very black in the folds; several “children of the sun,”—the everlasting Japanese prince, and the Egyptian from the banks of the Nile. What a strange set of people they were! They might have been a band of pilgrims on the march toward some unknown Mecca, whose golden lamps retreat before them. During the twelve years that we have known them, many have fallen from the ranks, but others have risen to take their places; nothing discourages them, neither cold nor heat, nor even hunger. They hurry on, but they never arrive. Among them D’Argenton, better clothed and better fed, resembled a rich Hadji with his harem, his pipes, and his riches; on this evening he was especially radiant, for he had triumphed. During the reading of the poem Charlotte sat in an attitude of feigned indifference, blushing occasionally at veiled allusions to herself. Near her was Madame Moronval, who, small as she was, seemed quite tall because of the extraordinary height of her forehead and the length of her chin. The poem went on and on, the fire crackled on the hearth, and the wind rattled against the glass doors of the balcony, as it did on a certain night of which Charlotte apparently had but little remembrance. Suddenly, during a most pathetic passage, the door opened suddenly; the servant appeared, and with a terrified air summoned her mistress. “Madame, madame!” she cried. Charlotte went to her. “What is it?” she asked. “A man insists on seeing you. I told him that it was impossible; but he said he would wait for you, and he seated himself on the stairs.” “I will see him,” said Charlotte, much moved; for she guessed at the purport of the message. But D’Argenton objected, and turning toward Labassandre, he said, “Will you have the goodness to see who this intruder is?” and the poet turned back to the table to resume his reading. But the door opened again wide enough to admit the head and arm of Labassandre, who beckoned earnestly. “What is it?” said D’Argenton, impatiently, when he reached the ante-room. “Jack is very ill,” said the tenor. “I don’t believe it,” answered the poet. “This man swears that it is so.” D’Argenton looked at the man, whose face was not absolutely unknown to him. “Did you come from the gentleman,—that is to say, did he send you?” “No; he is too sick to send any one. It is three weeks since he has been in his bed, and very, very ill.” “What is his disease?”