Under the influence of his presence she was more foolish by far than nature had made her; her piquancy forsook her, and the versatility that rendered her so charmingly absurd was quite gone. But D’Argenton relented, and suspended his hygienic exercise for a moment. “I shall be most happy to recite anything, madame, at your command; but what?” Here Moronval interposed. “Recite the ‘Credo,’ my dear fellow,” he said. “Very well, then; I am satisfied to obey you.” The poem commenced gently enough with the words,— “Madame, your toilette is charming.” Then irony deepened to bitterness, bitterness to fury, and concluded in these terrific words: “Good Lord, deliver me from this woman so terrible, Who drains from my heart its life-blood.” As if these extraordinary words had aroused in his memory most painful recollections, D’Argenton relapsed into silence, and said not another word the whole evening. Poor Ida was also thoughtful, haunted by vague fears of the noble ladies who had so warped the gentle spirit of her poet, so drained his heart that there was not a drop left for her. “You know, my dear fellow,” said Moronval, as they strolled through the empty boulevards, arm-in-arm, that night, little Madame Moronval pattering on in front of them,—“you know if I can succeed in the establishment of my Review, that I shall make you editor-in-chief!” Moronval threw the half of his cargo overboard in order to save his ship, for he saw that unless the poet was enlisted, the countess would take no interest in the scheme. D’Argenton made no reply, for he was absorbed in thoughts of Ida. No man can play the part of a lyric poet, a martyr to love, without being conscious of, and touched by, that silent adoration which appeals to his vanity, both as a man of letters and a man of the world. Since he had seen Ida in her luxurious home, about which there was the same suspicion of vulgarity that clung about herself, the rigidity of his principles had amazingly softened. CHAPTER VI. AMAURY D’ARGENTON. Amaury d’Argenton belonged to one of those ancient provincial families whose castles resembled great farms. Impoverished for the three last generations, they had finally sold their property, and come to Paris to seek their fortunes; with little change for the better, however; and for the last thirty years they had dropped the _De_, which Amaury ventured to resume on adopting his literary career. He meant to make it famous, and even was audacious enough to announce this intention aloud.