Part 45 (1/2)

”Do you like Madame Celival's boudoir better?”

”Madame Celival's boudoir? Why, I have never been in it, madame; I don't know what it is like.”

”Oh! what a fib!”

”I a.s.sure you, madame----”

”You are lying!--However, I cannot blame you; discretion is the first condition one should exact in love.”

”Discretion----”

”Oh! you play the innocent to perfection; but I am not taken in by that ingenuous air. Mon Dieu! there is such a strong smell of perfumery here--a mixture of scents. Have you essence of rose about you?”

”Rose? I don't know; it is possible. Does it affect you unpleasantly?”

”My nerves are so sensitive! but it will pa.s.s away.”

The pretty countess lay back a moment, put her handkerchief to her face, and drew a long breath.

Cherubin looked at her, and dared not stir. There was another long pause; the young man would have liked to say a mult.i.tude 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 Cherubin, 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 alb.u.m in front of you and read.”

Cherubin took up an alb.u.m 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 alb.u.m; 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!”

Cherubin opened the alb.u.m 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 Cherubin?”

”I, madame!” Cherubin replied in confusion; ”oh, no! I--I--But I continue: