This beautiful spot, stripped of its flowers and verdure, had now a grander character. From the sombre pines, frosty showers fell upon my head, and the branches of the old lindens, clad in ice formed delicate arcades of crystal, above the arbor of the alleys. One might have thought them the naves of a gigantic cathedral offering all the caprices of an unknown and fantastic architecture. But I again found Spring in the rotunda of the library. They had separated it from the contiguous galleries by fitting the arches with glass windows, so as to make a sort of temperate hothouse. The waters of the fountain still murmured amid exotics that were even more beautiful than those I had seen before, and this flowing water, whilst without all sources slept enchained in ice, delighted alike the eye and ear. It was with some difficulty that I decided to look at the Naiad. I found her less beautiful than the memory left me of her whose form and features she recalled. Then, gradually, I began to admire and love it, as one cherishes a portrait which in general appearance and in some of the features at least, resembles a beloved one. My feelings had been contained and over excited for so long a time that I burst into tears and, overwhelmed with emotion, remained seated on the spot where I had beheld one whom I no longer hoped to see. The sound of a silken robe caused me to raise my head, and I saw before me a very tall and slender woman, but of most graceful mien, who regarded me anxiously. For an instant I confounded her with my vision, but the darkness which was rapidly advancing prevented me from clearly distinguishing her face, and besides a woman in panniers and furbelows so little resembles a nymph of the renaissance, that my illusions were quickly dispelled, and I arose to salute her simply as a mortal. She also bowed, hesitated for an instant to address me, then decided to do so, and I trembled at the sound of her voice which penetrated to the very core of my being. ’Twas the silvery voice, the voice without its equal upon earth, of the divinity. And I was dumb and incapable of replying. As when in the presence of my immortal nymph, I was too bewildered to understand what she was saying. She seemed greatly embarrassed by my silence, and I made an effort to shake off this absurd stupor. She asked me if I were not M. Just Nivières. “Yes, madame,” I at last answered. “I beg of you to pardon my preoccupation. I was a little indisposed, I was dozing.” “No,” replied she with adorable sweetness, “you were weeping! That was what drew me here from the gallery where I was awaiting the signal of my brother’s arrival.” “Your brother?” “Yes, your friend, Bernard d’Aillane.” “So you are Mademoiselle d’Aillane?”