Marillac bowed, partly consoled by this compliment, but thinking to himself that a hostess’s first duty was to have her piano in tune, and not to expose a bass singer to the danger of imperilling his low “E” before an audience of forty.

“Madame, can I be of any more service to you?” asked Gerfaut, as he leaned toward Madame de Bergenheim, with one of his coldest smiles.

“I do not wish to impose further upon your kindness, Monsieur,” said she, in a voice which showed her secret displeasure.

The poet bowed and walked away.

Then Clemence, upon general request, sang a romance with more taste than brilliancy, and more method than expression.  It seemed as if Octave’s icy manner had reacted upon her, in spite of the efforts she had made at first to maintain a cheerful air.  A singular oppression overcame her; once or twice she feared her voice would fail her entirely.  When she finished, the compliments and applause with which she was overwhlemed seemed so insupportable to her that it was with difficulty she could restrain herself from leaving the room.  While exasperated by her weakness, she could not help casting a glance in Octave’s direction.  She could not catch his eye, however, as he was busy talking with Aline.  She felt so lonely and deserted at this moment, and longed so for this glance which she could not obtain, that tears of vexation filled her eyes.

“I was wrong to write him as I did,” thought she; “but if he really loved me, he would not so quickly resign himself to obeying me!”

A woman in a drawing-room resembles a soldier on a breastwork; self-abnegation is the first of her duties; however much she may suffer, she must present as calm and serene a countenance as a warrior in the hour of danger, and fall, if necessary, upon the spot, with death in her heart and a smile upon her lips.  In order to obey this unwritten law, Madame de Bergenheim, after a slight interruption, seated herself at the piano to accompany three or four young girls who were each to sing in turn the songs that they had been drilled on for six months.

Marillac, who had gone to strengthen his stomach with a glass of rum, atoned for his little mishap, in the trio from La Dame Blanche, and everything went smoothly.  Finally, to close this concert (may heaven preserve us from all exhibitions of this kind!), Aline was led to the piano by her brother, who, like all people who are not musical, could not understand why one should study music for years if not from love for the art.  Christian was fond of his little sister and very proud of her talents.  The poor child, whose courage had all disappeared, sang in a fresh, trembling little voice, a romance revised and corrected at her boarding-school.  The word love had been replaced by that of friendship, and to repair this slight fault of prosody, the extra syllable disappeared in a hiatus which would have made Boileau’s blond wig stand on end.  But the Sacred Heart has a system of versification of its own which, rather than allow the dangerous expression to be used, let ultra-modesty destroy poetry!