Madame de Bergenheim had ceased to sing, but her fingers still continued softly to play the motive of the song.  As she saw Octave approaching her, she leaned over to look at her aunt, whom she had not noticed to be asleep, as the high back of her chair was turned toward her.  Nobody sleeps in a very imposing manner, but the old lady’s profile, with her false front awry, was so comical that it was too much for her niece’s gravity.  The desire to laugh was, for the moment, stronger than respect for melancholy; and Clemence, through that necessity for sympathy peculiar to acute merriment, glanced involuntarily at Octave, who was also smiling.  Although there was nothing sentimental in this exchange of thoughts, the latter hastened to profit by it; a moment more, and he was seated upon a stool in front of the piano, at her left and only a few inches from her.

“How can a person sleep when you are singing?”

The most embarrassed freshman could have turned out as bright a speech as this; but the eloquence of it lay less in the words than in the expression.  The ease and grace with which Octave seated himself, the elegant precision of his manner, the gracious way in which he bent his head toward Clemence, while speaking, showed a great aptitude in this kind of conversation.  If the words were those of a freshman, the accent and pose were those of a graduate.

The Baroness’s first thought was to rise and leave the room, but an invincible charm held her back.  She was not mistress enough of her eyes to dare to let them meet Octave’s; so she turned them away and pretended to look at the old lady.

“I have a particular talent for putting my aunt to sleep,” said she, in a gay tone; “she will sleep until evening, if I like; when I stop playing, the silence awakens her.”

“I beg of you, continue to play; never awaken her,” said Gerfaut; and, as if he were afraid his wish would not be granted, he began to pound in the bass without being disturbed by the unmusical sounds.

“Do not play discords,” said Clemence, laughing; “let us at least put her to sleep in tune.”

She was wrong to say us; for her lover took this as complicity for whatever might happen.  Us, in a tete-a-tete, is the most traitorous word in the whole language.

It may be that Clemence had no great desire that her aunt should awaken; perhaps she wished to avoid a conversation; perhaps she wished to enjoy in silence the happiness of feeling that she was still loved, for since he had seated himself beside her Octave’s slightest action had become a renewed avowal.  Madame de Bergenheim began to play the Duke of Reichstadt’s Waltz, striking only the first measure of the accompaniment, in order to show her lover where to put his fingers.

The waltz went on.  Clemence played the air and Octave the bass, two of their hands remaining unoccupied—­those that were close to each other.  Now, what could two idle hands do, when one belonged to a man deeply in love, the other to a young woman who for some time had ill-treated her lover and exhausted her severity?  Before the end of the first part, the long unoccupied, tapering fingers of the treble were imprisoned by those of the bass, without the least disturbance in the musical effect—­and the old aunt slept on!