“We are an odd set, with the most opposite opinions.  For me, I am a Legitimist; then there is Durocher, my physician and friend, who is a rabid Republican; Hedouin, the tutor, is a parliamentarian; while Monsieur our sub-prefect is a devotee to the government, as it is his duty to be.  Our cure is a little Roman—­I am Gallican—­’et sic ceteris’.  Very well—­we all agree wonderfully for two reasons:  first, because we are sincere, which is a very rare thing; and then because all opinions contain at bottom some truth, and because, with some slight mutual concessions, all really honest people come very near having the same opinions.

“Such, my dear Count, are the views that hold in my drawing-room, or rather in the drawing-room of my niece; for if you would see the divinity who makes all our happiness—­look at her!  It is in deference to her good taste, her good sense, and her moderation, that each of us avoids that violence and that passion which warps the best intentions.  In one word, to speak truly, it is love that makes our common tie and our mutual protection.  We are all in love with my niece—­myself first, of course; next Durocher, for thirty years; then the subprefect and all the rest of them.

“You, too, Cure! you know that you are in love with Elise, in all honor and all good faith, as we all are, and as Monsieur de Camors shall soon be, if he is not so already—­eh, Monsieur le Comte?”

Camors protested, with a sinister smile, that he felt very much inclined to fulfil the prophecy of his host; and they reentered the dining-room to find the circle increased by the arrival of several visitors.  Some of these rode, others came on foot from the country-seats around.

M. des Rameures soon seized his violin; while he tuned it, little Marie seated herself at the piano, and her mother, coming behind her, rested her hand lightly on her shoulder, as if to beat the measure.

“The music will be nothing new to you,” Camors’s host said to him.  “It is simply Schubert’s Serenade, which we have arranged, or deranged, after our own fancy; of which you shall judge.  My niece sings, and the curate and I—­’Arcades ambo’—­respond successively—­he on the bass-viol and I on my Stradivarius.  Come, my dear Cure, let us begin—­’incipe, Mopse, prior.”

In spite of the masterly execution of the old gentleman and of the delicate science of the cure, it was Madame de Tecle who appeared to Camors the most remarkable of the three virtuosi.  The calm repose of her features, and the gentle dignity of her attitude, contrasting with the passionate swell of her voice, he found most attractive.

In his turn he seated himself at the piano, and played a difficult accompaniment with real taste; and having a good tenor voice, and a thorough knowledge of its powers, he exerted them so effectually as to produce a profound sensation.  During the rest of the evening he kept much in the background in order to observe the company, and was much astonished thereby.  The tone of this little society, as much removed from vulgar gossip as from affected pedantry, was truly elevated.  There was nothing to remind him of a porter’s lodge, as in most provincial salons; or of the greenroom of a theatre, as in many salons of Paris; nor yet, as he had feared, of a lecture-room.