It was too late for him to consult Monfréville; the appointed hour was drawing nigh. Chérubin completed his toilet, but did not notice that Jasmin had saturated him with perfumery: his coat was scented with essence of rose, his waistcoat with patchouli, his handkerchief with Portugal water; and, in addition, all his other garments smelt of musk. He looked himself over, concluded that he was becomingly arrayed, stepped into his tilbury, and soon reached the countess’s abode. He was admitted by the same maid, and instead of taking him to the salon, she led him through several secret passages to a delicious boudoir, where the light was so soft and mysterious that one could scarcely see. However, after a few seconds, Chérubin’s eyes became accustomed to that doubtful light, and he spied the pretty countess half-reclining on a couch at the back of a little curtained recess, which seemed intended to perform the functions of an alcove. Chérubin made a low bow and said: “I beg pardon, madame, but I did not see you at first, it is so dark here.” “Do you think so?” rejoined the fair Emma affectedly. “I don’t like broad daylight, it tires my eyes.--It is very kind of you, Monsieur Chérubin, to consent to sacrifice a few moments to me--you are in such great demand everywhere!” “It is a great pleasure to me, madame, and I--I--really I cannot promise to read poetry very well. I am not much used to it.” The countess smiled and motioned him to a seat beside her. Chérubin was exceedingly perturbed in spirit as he entered the delicious little recess and seated himself on the couch, which was not very broad, so that he was necessarily very close to the other person upon it. There was a moment’s silence. Emma, flattered by Chérubin’s evident emotion and embarrassment in her presence, decided to begin the conversation, which she was not accustomed to do. “How do you like my boudoir?” “Exceedingly pretty, madame; but it seems to me to be a little dark for reading poetry.” The little lady arched her eyebrows slightly and rejoined: “Do you like Madame Célival’s boudoir better?” “Madame Célival’s boudoir? Why, I have never been in it, madame; I don’t know what it is like.” “Oh! what a fib!” “I assure you, madame----” “You are lying!--However, I cannot blame you; discretion is the first condition one should exact in love.” “Discretion----” “Oh! you play the innocent to perfection; but I am not taken in by that ingenuous air. Mon Dieu! there is such a strong smell of perfumery here--a mixture of scents. Have you essence of rose about you?” “Rose? I don’t know; it is possible. Does it affect you unpleasantly?” “My nerves are so sensitive! but it will pass away.” The pretty countess lay back a moment, put her handkerchief to her face, and drew a long breath.