One evening he bought her a little warm gray cloak that took his fancy; when he went home after dinner to give it her he found the three birds of song had taken flight--sans tambour ni trompette, and leaving no message for him. The baker-landlord had turned them adrift--sent them about their business, sacrificing some of his rent to get rid of them; not a heavy loss, I fancy. Barty went after them all over the little town, but did not find them; he heard they were last seen marching off with guitar and fiddle in a southerly direction along the coast, and found that their luggage was to be sent to Ostend. He felt very sorry for Marianina and missed her--and gave the cloak to some poor child in the town, and was very lonely. One morning as he loafed about dejectedly with his hands in his pockets, he found his way to the little Hôtel de Ville, whence issued sounds of music. He went in. It was like a kind of reading-room and concert-room combined; there was a piano there, and a young lady practising, with her mother knitting by her side; and two or three other people, friends of theirs, lounging about and looking at the papers. The mamma was a very handsome person of aristocratic appearance. The pretty daughter was practicing the soprano part in a duet by Campana, which Barty knew well; it was "Una sera d' amore." The tenor had apparently not kept his appointment, and madame expressed some irritation at this; first to a friend, in French, but with a slight English accent--then in English to her daughter; and Barty grew interested. After a little while, catching the mamma's eye (which was not difficult, as she very frankly and persistently gazed at him, and with a singularly tender and wistful expression of face), he got up and asked in English if he could be of any use--seeing that he knew the music well and had often sung it. The lady was delighted, and Barty and mademoiselle sang the duet in capital style to the mamma's accompaniment: "guarda che Bianca luna," etc. "What a lovely voice you've got! May I ask your name?" says the mamma. "Josselin." "English, of course?" "Upon my word I hardly know whether I'm English or French!" said Barty, and he and the lady fell into conversation. It turned out that she was Irish, and married to a Belgian soldier, le Général Comte de Clèves (who was a tremendous swell, it seems--but just then in Brussels). Barty told Madame de Clèves the story of his eye--he was always very communicative about his eye; and she suddenly buried her face in her hands and wept; and mademoiselle told him in a whisper that her eldest brother had gone blind and died three or four years ago, and that he was extraordinarily like Barty both in face and figure. Presently another son of Madame de Clèves came in--an officer of dragoons in undress uniform, a splendid youth. He was the missing tenor, and made his excuses for being late, and sang very well indeed.