“How happy you are,” she said, “in the possession of such a talent!” Then she asked where she could obtain his poems. “They are not to be procured, madame,” answered D’Argenton, gravely. Without knowing it, she had again wounded his sensitive pride, and he turned away without vouchsafing another syllable. But Moronval profited by this opening. “Think of it!” he said; “think that such verses as those cannot find a publisher! That such genius as that is buried in obscurity! If we only could publish a magazine!” “And why can you not?” asked Ida, quickly. “Because we have not the funds.” “But they can easily be procured. Such talent should not be allowed to languish!” She spoke with great earnestness; and Moronval saw at once that he had played his cards well, and proceeded to take advantage of the lady’s weakness by talking to her of D’Argenton, whom he painted in glowing colors. He spoke of him as Lara, or Manifred, a proud and independent nature, one which could not be conquered by the hardships of his lot. Here Ida interrupted him to ask if the poet was not of noble birth. “Most assuredly, madame. He is a viscount, and descended from one of the noblest families in Auvergne. His father was ruined by the dishonesty of an agent.” This was his text, which he proceeded to enlarge upon, and illustrate by many romantic incidents. Ida drank in the whole story; and while these two were absorbed in earnest conversation, Jack grew jealous, and made various efforts to attract his mother’s attention. “Jack, do be quiet!” and “Jack, you are insufferable!” finally sent him off, with tearful eyes and swollen lips, to sulk in the corner of the salon. Meanwhile the literary entertainments of the evening went on, and finally Labassandre, after numerous entreaties, was induced to sing. His voice was so powerful, and so pervaded the house, that Mâdou, who was in the kitchen preparing tea, replied by a frightful war-cry. The poor fellow worshipped noise of all kinds and at all times. Moronval and the comtesse continued their conversation; and D’Argenton, who by this time understood that he was the subject, stood in front of them, apparently absorbed in conversation with one of the professors. He appeared to be out of temper—and with whom? With the whole world; for he was one of that very large class who are at war against society, and against the manners and customs of their day. At this very moment he was declaiming violently, “You have all the vices of the last century, and none of its amenities. Honor is a mere name. Love is a farce. You have accomplished nothing intellectually.” “Pardon me, sir,” interrupted his hearer. But the other went on more vehemently and more aggressively. He wished, he said, that all France could hear what he thought. The nation was abased, crushed beyond all hope of recuperation. As for himself, he had determined to emigrate to America.