Chérubin looked at her, and dared not stir. There was another long pause; the young man would have liked to say a multitude of things, but, as he did not know how to express himself, he inquired at last: “Is your husband well, madame?” The pretty creature burst into laughter which seemed a little forced, and replied: “Yes, monsieur, my husband is singing! So long as he is making music, that is all that he wants.--Mon Dieu! there’s a smell of patchouli here, too, and musk. Ah! it gives me a sort of vertigo!” And whether as a result of the vertigo, or for some other reason, the young woman half-reclined against Chérubin, so that her face almost touched his, and he would have had to move very little nearer to kiss her; but, deeply moved to find that lovely mouth so near to him that he could almost feel her breath, he dared not move a muscle, and finally he faltered: “Madame, I believe that I was to read poetry to you.” The little countess abruptly raised her head and rested it on the back of the couch, as she replied with a touch of spite in her voice: “Mon Dieu! what a memory you have, monsieur!--Well, take that album in front of you and read.” Chérubin took up an album that lay on a chair, opened it and saw a medley of drawings, poems, portraits--everything, in short, that one finds in a woman’s album; and, after turning the leaves a moment, he glanced at the countess and asked timidly: “What do you want me to read to you, madame?” “Mon Dieu! whatever you choose, it makes no difference to me!” Chérubin opened the album again, at random, and read: “Fair countess, on this page, You bid me pen some verse: Quick your commands engage; For you the universe Would rhyme.--But clear to see My lines good sense ignore. How could it other be? You’ve reft me of its store.” “Oh! that is that absurd Monsieur Dalbonne!” murmured Madame de Valdieri, twisting about impatiently on the couch. “He is forever writing such nonsense; he adores all women.--Are you like that, Monsieur Chérubin?” “I, madame!” Chérubin replied in confusion; “oh, no! I--I--But I continue: “‘STORY OF A MOUSE.’” “Ah! this is much longer.” The fair Emma, who evidently did not care to hear the story of a mouse read at length, and who thought that Chérubin was making sport of her, determined to resort to violent measures; she fell back on the couch, murmuring: “Oh! I can’t stand it any longer! these different scents set my nerves on edge; I am fainting!” Chérubin uttered a cry of alarm, dropped the album, and gazed at the lovely blonde, who had chosen the most bewitching attitude that a coquette could devise in which to faint, and whose half-closed eyes wore an expression which did not indicate any very serious danger. But instead of admiring it all, Chérubin rose and ran about the room, looking for smelling-bottles and crying: