“Yes,” said the countess.

“Will you have him?” he cried.

“How can you think of such a thing?” she answered.  “Why, he’s your friend!”

The cat, who hid the inkstand behind him, divined that Schmucke wanted it, and jumped to the bed.

“He’s as mischievous as a monkey,” said Schmucke.  “I call him Mirr in honor of our great Hoffman of Berlin, whom I knew well.”

The good man signed the papers with the innocence of a child who does what his mother orders without question, so sure is he that all is right.  He was thinking much more of presenting the cat to the countess than of the papers by which his liberty might be, according to the laws relating to foreigners, forever sacrificed.

“You assure me that these little papers with the stamps on them—­”

“Don’t be in the least uneasy,” said the countess.

“I am not uneasy,” he said, hastily.  “I only meant to ask if these little papers will give pleasure to Madame du Tillet.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “you are doing her a service, as if you were her father.”

“I am happy, indeed, to be of any good to her—­ Come and listen to my music!” and leaving the papers on the table, he jumped to his piano.

The hands of this angel ran along the yellowing keys, his glance was rising to heaven, regardless of the roof; already the air of some blessed climate permeated the room and the soul of the old musician; but the countess did not allow the artless interpreter of things celestial to make the strings and the worn wood speak, like Raffaelle’s Saint Cecilia, to the listening angels.  She quickly slipped the notes into her muff and recalled her radiant master from the ethereal spheres to which he soared, by laying her hand upon his shoulder.

“My good Schmucke—­” she said.

“Going already?” he cried.  “Ah! why did you come?”

He did not murmur, but he sat up like a faithful dog who listens to his mistress.

“My good Schmucke,” she repeated, “this is a matter of life and death; minutes can save tears, perhaps blood.”

“Always the same!” he said.  “Go, angel! dry the tears of others.  Your poor Schmucke thinks more of your visit than of your gifts.”

“But we must see each other often,” she said.  “You must come and dine and play to me every Sunday, or we shall quarrel.  Remember, I shall expect you next Sunday.”

“Really and truly?”

“Yes, I entreat you; and my sister will want you, too, for another day.”

“Then my happiness will be complete,” he said; “for I only see you now in the Champs Elysees as you pass in your carriage, and that is very seldom.”

This thought dried the tears in his eyes as he gave his arm to his beautiful pupil, who felt the old man’s heart beat violently.

“You think of us?” she said.

“Always as I eat my food,” he answered,—­“as my benefactresses; but chiefly as the first young girls worthy of love whom I ever knew.”