“It is a beautiful picture,” said Godefroid; “and quite unknown to those who are in search of the rare works of that master.”

“To me it is merely an object of affection,” replied Vanda; “I live in my heart only,—­and it is a beautiful life,” she added, casting a look at her father in which she seemed to put her very soul.  “Ah! monsieur, if you only knew what my father really is!  Who would believe that the stern and lofty magistrate to whom the Emperor was under such obligations that he gave him that snuff-box, and on whom Charles X. bestowed as a reward that Sevres tea-set which you see behind you, who would suppose that that rigid supporter of power and law, that learned jurist, should have within his heart of rock the heart of a mother, too?  Oh! papa, papa! kiss me, kiss me! come!”

The old man rose, leaned over the bed and kissed the broad poetic forehead of his daughter, whose passionate excitements did not always take the turn of this tempest of affection.  Then he walked about the room; his slippers, embroidered by his daughter, making no noise.

“What are your occupations?” said Vanda to Godefroid, after a pause.

“Madame, I am employed by pious persons to help the unfortunate.”

“Ah! what a noble mission, monsieur!” she said.  “Do you know the thought of devoting myself to that very work has often come to me? but ah! what ideas do not come to me?” she added, with a motion of her head.  “Suffering is like a torch which lights up life.  If I were ever to recover health—­”

“You should amuse yourself, my child,” said her father.

“Oh yes!” she said; “I have the desire, but should I then have the faculty?  My son will be, I hope a magistrate, worthy of his two grandfathers, and he will leave me.  What should I do then?  If God restores me to life I will dedicate that life to Him—­oh! after giving you all you need of it,” she cried, looking tenderly at her father and son.  “There are moments, my dear father, when the ideas of Monsieur de Maistre work within me powerfully, and I fancy that I am expiating something.”

“See what it is to read too much!” said the old man, evidently troubled.

“That brave Polish general, my great grandfather, took part, though very innocently, in the partition of Poland.”

“Well, well! now it is Poland!” said Monsieur Bernard.

“How can I help it, papa? my sufferings are infernal; they give me a horror of life, they disgust me with myself.  Well, I ask you, have I done anything to deserve them?  Such diseases are not a mere derangement of health, they are caused by a perverted organization and—­”

“Sing that national air your poor mother used to sing; Monsieur Godefroid wants to hear it; I have told him about your voice,” said the old man, endeavoring to distract her mind from the current of such thoughts.

Vanda began, in a low and tender voice, to sing a Polish song which held Godefroid dumb with admiration and also with sadness.  This melody, which greatly resembles the long drawn out melancholy airs of Brittany, is one of those poems which vibrate in the heart long after the ear has heard them.  As he listened, Godefroid looked at Vanda, but he could not endure the ecstatic glance of that fragment of a woman, partially insane, and his eyes wandered to two cords which hung one on each side of the canopy of the bed.