The piano was open, the pupils were ranged against the wall; a small green table, on which stood a glass of _eau-sucré_ and a reading-lamp, was in readiness. M. Moronval, imposing in his white vest; Madame, red and oppressed by all the worry of the evening; and Mâdotu, shivering in the wind from the door,—all are waiting for the countess. Meanwhile, as she came not, D’Argenton consented to recite a poem that all his assistants knew, for they had heard it a dozen times before. Standing in front of the chimney, with his hair thrown back from his wide forehead, the poet declaimed, in a coarse, vulgar voice, what he called his poem. His friends were not sparing in their praises. “Magnificent!” said one. “Sublime!” exclaimed another; and the most amazing criticism came from yet another,—“Goethe with a heart?” Here Ida entered. The poet did not see her, for his eyes were lifted to the ceiling. But she saw him, poor woman; and from that moment her heart was gone. She had never seen him, save in the street wearing his hat: now she beheld him in the mellow light which softened still more his pale face, wearing a dress-coat and evening gloves, reciting a love poem, and, believing in love as he did in God, he produced an extraordinary effect upon her. He was the hero of her dreams, and corresponded with all the foolish sentimental ideas that lie hidden very often in the hearts of such women. From that very moment she was his, and he took exclusive possession of her heart. She paid no attention to her little Jack, who made frantic signs to her as he threw her kiss after kiss; nor had she eyes for Moronval, who bowed to the ground; nor for the curious glances that examined her from head to foot, as she stood before them in her black velvet dress and her little white opera hat, trimmed with black roses and ornamented with tulle strings which wrapped about her like a scarf. Years after she recalled the profound impression of that evening, and saw as in a dream her poet as she saw him first in that salon, which seemed to her, seen through the vista of years, immense and superb. The future might heap misery upon her; her past could humiliate and wound her, crush her life, and something more precious than life itself; but the recollection of that brief moment of ecstasy could never be effaced. “You see, madame,” said Moronval, with his most insinuating smile, “that we made a beginning before your arrival. M. le Vicomte Amaury d’Argenton was reciting his magnificent poem.” “Vicomte!” He was noble, then! She turned toward him, timid and blushing as a young girl. “Continue, sir, I beg of you,” she said.