"Here is Herr Pushkin," said Zeneida. "He composes charming melodies." Pushkin felt as if stung by a tarantula. He compose the melody to Ryleieff's song of freedom! Subordination can be carried to a nicety of perfection. A state councillor, when he puts on the uniform of a private of volunteers, may find he has to obey the orders of his own chancery clerk and corporal; or a duke, if he become a freemason, have to make obeisance to a bootmaker, as master of the lodge; but for one poet to be called upon to write the music to another poet's effusion, when he feels himself to be Cæsar and the other man Pompey, is a sheer impossibility. Pushkin's face crimsoned. "To the best of my belief, the words and air of the _Marseillaise_ were composed at one and the same time. Rouget de l'Isle wrote them together. Nor can it be otherwise. The poet alone can find the fitting inspiration. Ryleieff's poem is fine, very fine, but it does not inflame and excite one. To such an end the fire of enthusiasm is a necessity." And unconsciously he slapped his breast, as though to say, "And it is here." "Do you know, Pushkin," said Zeneida, "if you are really feeling the poetic ardor of which you speak--if you think you can compose something better than we have here, you could not do better than to retire into this little side chamber; there you will find piano and writing-table. Give us something better suited to our purpose!" Pushkin was caught. "Why not? I will write you a song which the peasant will not need to take first to the priest to have its meaning explained to him." And with that he looked straight into Zeneida's eyes, with a look which said, "If you can bestow a kiss for Ryleieff's rhymes, what will you give me when I put on paper the words that burn in my heart?" Rising, he repaired to the inner room. Soon the sound of chords showed him to be deep in poetic creation. When once thus absorbed, a man does not lightly break off. Zeneida had no better wish for him. As Pushkin left the room Zeneida turned the roulette-board. The ball stopped at Nicholas Turgenieff. He was thus made President of the Council that day, and accordingly took the chair--made to resemble that of the banker of a roulette-table.