“When you breakfast with a lady you’re in love with,” he said to himself, “I wonder if you should eat, if you should satisfy your appetite? Mon Dieu! I forgot to ask Monfréville for instructions on that point. I’m afraid I shall make more stupid blunders.--But after all, what is it that I am always blamed for? For being too timid. If I don’t eat, I shall look like a fool; on the other hand, if I eat and drink freely, it will give me assurance and presumption. Yes, I certainly must eat.” The breakfast hour arrived at last. Chérubin betook himself to Madame Célival’s; his heart throbbed violently as he followed the maid to the boudoir, but he said to himself: “Well, I won’t be timid to-day, at all events, and I’ll eat a lot.” The fair widow’s boudoir was a charming retreat, hung on all sides with violet velvet. A soft, thick carpet covered the floor, and the threefold curtains allowed very little light to enter. “Evidently these ladies are very fond of the darkness,” thought Chérubin, as he entered the room; “but I am not to read poetry to-day, and I can see well enough to eat breakfast. And then, I understand--the darkness should make one bolder--that is the reason, no doubt, why these ladies expel the daylight from their rooms.” Madame Célival was awaiting Chérubin; her dress was simple, but well adapted to display her good points to advantage: her lovely black hair fell in long curls on each side of her face, and the amaranthine bows that adorned the dainty little cap she wore gave even more animation to her eyes, which were full of fire. The fascinating widow gave Chérubin such a pleasant welcome that any other than he would at once have felt at his ease. He did what he could to overcome his embarrassment, and the most judicious thing that he did was to stand in rapt contemplation of the charms of his hostess. “Well, Monsieur Chérubin,” said Madame Célival, after a moment, “what do you think of my boudoir? not so pretty as the countess’s, I suppose?” “Why, yes, madame, yes, I assure you, I like yours quite as well--in fact, I think it even prettier.” “Oh! you say that to flatter me!” “But they are equally dark.” “A bright light makes my eyes ache; I detest it.” “But, madame, you should not dread being seen; when one is so lovely----” Chérubin dared not go on; he was tremendously surprised that he had said so much; but Madame Célival, to whom the compliment seemed quite natural, replied with a smile: “Really! do you think me lovely? Oh! but it costs you men so little to say things that you don’t mean!” And, as she spoke, Madame Célival leaned carelessly on the cushion of the violet velvet couch on which she was half-reclining, and her bosom rose and fell rapidly as she gazed at Chérubin, who was sitting on a chair by her side; he lowered his eyes, dared not look at her, and held his peace. After a long pause, Madame Célival, finding that Chérubin did not speak, exclaimed: