But D’Argenton did not care to do so. The arrival of the countess had injured the effect of his poem—destroyed its point; and such things are not easily pardoned. He bowed, and answered with cold haughtiness that he had finished. Then he turned away without troubling himself more about her. The poor woman felt a strange pang at her heart. She had displeased him, and the very thought was unendurable. It needed all little Jack’s tender caresses and outspoken joy—all his delight at the admiration expressed for her, the attentions of everybody, the idea that she was queen of the fete—to efface the sorrow she felt, and which she showed by a silence of at least five minutes, which silence for a nature like hers was something as extraordinary as restful. The disturbance of her entrance being at last over, every one seated himself to await the next recitation. Mademoiselle Constant, who had accompanied her mistress, took her seat majestically on the front bench next the pupils. Jack swung himself on the arm of his mother’s chair, between her and M. Moronval, who smoothed the lad’s hair in the most paternal way. The assemblage was really quite imposing, and Madame Moronval took dignified possession of the little table and the shaded lamp, and proceeded to read an ethnographic composition of her husband’s on the Mongolian races. It was long and tedious—one of those lucubrations that are delivered before certain scientific societies, and succeed in lulling the members to sleep. Madame Moronval took this opportunity of demonstrating the peculiarities of her method, which had the merit—if merit it were—of holding the attention as in a vice, and the words and syllables seemed to reverberate through your own brain. To see Madame Moronval open her mouth to sound her o’s, to hear the r’s rattle in her throat, was more edifying than agreeable. The mouths of the eight children opposite mechanically followed each one of her gestures, producing a most extraordinary effect; one absolutely fascinating to Mademoiselle Constant. But the countess saw nothing of all this; she had eyes but for her poet leaning against the door of the drawing-room, with arms folded and eyes moodily cast down. In vain did Ida seek to attract his attention; he glanced occasionally about the salon, but her arm-chair might as well have been vacant; he did not appear to see her, and the poor woman was rendered so utterly miserable by this neglect and indifference, that she forgot to congratulate Moronval on the brilliant success of his essay, which concluded amid great applause and universal relief. Then followed another brief poem by Argenton, to which Ida listened breathlessly. “Ah, how beautiful!” she cried; “how beautiful!” and she turned to Moronval, who sat with a forced smile on his lips. “Present me to M. d’Argenton, if you please.” She spoke to the poet in a low voice and with great courtesy. He, however, bowed very coldly, apparently careless of her implied admiration.