“I have much to make me happy in the midst of my sufferings, monsieur,” she said; “and certainly ample means are a great help in bearing trouble.  If we had been poor I should have died eighteen years ago, but I still live.  Oh, yes, I have many enjoyments, and they are all the greater because they are perpetually won from death.  I am afraid you will think me quite garrulous,” she added, smiling.

“Madame, I should like to listen to you forever,” replied Godefroid; “I have never heard a voice that was comparable to yours; it is music; Rubini is not more enchanting.”

“Don’t speak of Rubini or the opera,” said the old man, sadly.  “That is a pleasure that, rich as I am, I cannot give to my daughter.  She was once a great musician, and the opera was her greatest pleasure.”

“Forgive me,” said Godefroid.

“You will soon get accustomed to us,” said the old man.

“Yes, and this is the process,” said the sick woman, laughing; “when they’ve cried ‘puss, puss, puss,’ often enough you’ll learn the puss-in-the-corner of our conversations.”

Godefroid gave a rapid glance at Monsieur Bernard, who, seeing the tears in the eyes of his new neighbor, seemed to be making him a sign not to undo the results of the self-command he and his grandson had practised for so many years.

This sublime and perpetual imposture, proved by the complete illusion of the sick woman, produced on Godefroid’s mind the impression of an Alpine precipice down which two chamois hunters picked their way.  The magnificent gold snuff-box enriched with diamonds with which the old man carelessly toyed as he sat by his daughter’s bedside was like the stroke of genius which in the work of a great man elicits a cry of admiration.  Godefroid looked at that snuff-box, wondering it had not been sold or found its way to the mont-de-piete.

“This evening, Monsieur Godefroid, my daughter received the announcement of your visit with such excitement that all the curious symptoms of her malady which have troubled us very much for the last twelve days have entirely disappeared.  You can fancy how grateful I am to you.”

“And I, too,” said the invalid in her caressing tones, drooping her head with a motion full of coquetry.  “Monsieur is to me a deputy from the world.  Since I was twenty years old, monsieur, I have not seen a salon, or a party, or a ball.  And I must tell you that I love dancing, and adore the theatre, especially the opera.  I imagine everything by thought!  I read a great deal; and then my father, who goes into society, tells me about social events.”

Godefroid made an involuntary movement as if to kneel at the old man’s feet.

“Yes, when he goes to the opera, and he often goes, he describes to me the singing and tells me about the dresses of the ladies.  Oh!  I would I were cured for the sake of my father, who lives solely for me as I live by him and for him, and then for my son, to whom I would fain be a real mother.  Ah! monsieur, what blessed beings my old father and my good son are!  I should also like to recover so as to hear Lablache, Rubini, Tamburini, Grisi, and ‘I Puritani.’  But—­”