Raising his head, his eyes met those of the sisters. With that
charming femininereadiness which is never at fault, Mme. de

Vandenesse seized a cross, sparkling on her neck, and directed his
attention to it by a swift smile, full of meaning. The brilliance of

the gem radiated even upon Raoul's forehead, and he replied with a
look of joy; he had understood.

"Is it nothing then, Eugenie," said the Countess, "thus to restore
life to the dead?"

"You have a chance yet with the Royal Humane Society," replied
Eugenie, with a smile."

"How wretched and depressed he looked when he came, and how happy he
will go away!"

At this moment du Tillet, coming up to Raoul with every mark of
friendliness, pressed his hand, and said:

"Well, old fellow, how are you?"
"As well as a man is likely to be who has just got the best possible

news of the election. I shall be successful," replied Raoul, radiant.
"Delighted," said du Tillet. "We shall want money for the paper."

"The money will be found," said Raoul.
"The devil is with these woemn!" exclaimed du Tillet, still

unconvinced by the words of Raoul, whom he had nicknamed Charnathan.
"What are you talking about?" said Raoul.

"My sister-in-law is there with my wife, and they are hatching
something together. You seem in high favor with the Countess; she is

bowing to you right across the house."
"Look," said Mme. du Tillet to her sister, "they told us wrong. See

how my husband fawns on M. Nathan, and it is he who they declared was
trying to get him put in prison!"

"And men call us slanderers!" cried the Countess. "I will give him a
warning."

She rose, took the arm of Vandenesse, who was waiting in the passage,
and returned jubilant to her box; by and by she left the Opera and

ordered her carriage for the next morning before eight o'clock.
The next morning, by half-past eight, Marie had driven to the quai

Conti, stopping at the hotel du Mail on her way. The carriage could
not enter the narrow rue de Nevers; but as Schmucke lived in a house

at the corner of the quai she was not obliged to walk up its muddy
pavement, but could jump from the step of her carriage to the broken

step of the dismal old house, mended like porter's crockery, with iron
rivets, and bulging out over the street in a way that was quite

alarming to pedestrians. The old chapel-master lived on the fourth
floor, and enjoyed a fine view of the Seine from the pont Neuf to the

heights of Chaillot.
The good soul was so surprised when the countess's footman announced

the visit of his former scholar that in his stupefaction he let her
enter without going down to receive her. Never did the countess

suspect or imagine such an existence as that which suddenly revealed
itself to her eyes, though she had long known Schmucke's contempt for

dress, and the little interest he held in the affairs of this world.
But who could have believed in such complete indifference, in the

utter laisser-aller of such a life? Schmucke was a musical Diogenes,
and he felt no shame whatever in his untidiness; in fact, he was so

accustomed to it that he would probably have denied its existence. The
incessant smoking of a stout German pipe had spread upon the ceiling

and over a wretched wall-paper, scratched and defaced by the cat, a
yellowish tinge. The cat, a magnificently long-furred, fluffy animal,

the envy of all portresses, presided there like the mistress of the
house, grave and sedate, and without anxieties. On the top of an

excellent Viennese piano he sat majestically, and cast upon the
countess, as she entered, that coldlygracious look which a woman,

surprised by the beauty of another woman, might have given. He did not
move, and merely waved the two silver threads of his right whisker as

he turned his golden eyes on Schmucke.
The piano, decrepit on its legs, though made of good wood painted

black and gilded, was dirty, defaced, and scratched; and its keys,
worn like the teeth of old horses, were yellowed with the fuliginous

colors of the pipe. On the desk, a little heap of ashes showed that
the night before Schmucke had bestrode the old instrument to some

musical Walhalla. The floor, covered with dried mud, torn papers,
tobacco-dust, fragments indescribable, was like that of a boy's

school-room, unswept for a week, on which a mound of things
accumulate, half rags, half filth.

A more practised eye than that of the countess would have seen certain
other revelations of Schmucke's mode of life,--chestnut-peels, apple-

parings, egg-shells dyed red in broken dishes smeared with sauer-
kraut. This German detritus formed a carpet of dusty filth which

crackled under foot, joining company near the hearth with a mass of
cinders and ashes descending majestically from the fireplace, where

lay a block of coal, before which two slender twigs made a show of
burning. On the chimney-piece was a mirror in a painted frame, adorned

with figures dancing a saraband; on one side hung the glorious pipe,
on the other was a Chinese jar in which the musician kept his tobacco.

Two arm-chairs bought at auction, a thin and rickety cot, a worm-eaten
bureau without a top, a maimed table on which lay the remains of a

frugal breakfast, made up a set of household belongings as plain as
those of an Indian wigwam. A shaving-glass, suspended to the fastening

of a curtainless window, and surmounted by a rag striped by many
wipings of a razor, indicated the only sacrifices paid by Schmucke to

the Graces and society. The cat, being the feebler and protected
partner, had rather the best of the establishment; he enjoyed the

comforts of an old sofa-cushion, near which could be seen a white
china cup and plate. But what no pen can describe was the state into

which Schmucke, the cat, and the pipe, that existing trinity, had
reduced these articles. The pipe had burned the table. The cat and

Schmucke's head had greased the green Utrecht velvet of the two arm-
chairs and reduced it to a slimy texture. If it had not been for the

cat's magnificent tail, which played a useful part in the household,
the uncovered places on the bureau and the piano would never have been

dusted. In one corner of the room were a pile of shoes which need an
epic to describe them. The top of the bureau and that of the piano

were encumbered by music-books with ragged backs and whitened corners,
through which the pasteboard showed its many layers. Along the walls

the names and addresses of pupils written on scraps of paper were
stuck on by wafers,--the number of wafers without paper indicating the

number of pupils no longer taught. On the wall-papers were many
calculations written with chalk. The bureau was decorated with beer-

mugs used the night before, their newness appearing very brilliant in
the midst of this rubbish of dirt and age. Hygiene was represented by

a jug of water with a towel laid upon it, and a bit of common soap.
Two ancient hats hung to their respective nails, near which also hung

the self-same blue box-coat with three capes, in which the countess
had always seen Schmucke when he came to give his lessons. On the

window-sill were three pots of flowers, German flowers, no doubt, and
near them a stout holly-wood stick.

Though Marie's sight and smell were disagreeably affected, Schmucke's
smile and glance disguised these abject miseries by rays of celestial

light which actually illuminated their smoky tones and vivified the
chaos. The soul of this dear man, which saw and revealed so many

things divine, shone like the sun. His laugh, so frank, so guileless
at seeing one of his Saint-Cecilias, shed sparkles of youth and gaiety

and innocence about him. The treasures he poured from the inner to the
outer were like a mantle with which he covered his squalid life. The

most supercilious parvenu would have felt it ignoble to care for the
frame in which this glorious old apostle of the musical religion lived

and moved and had his being.
"Hey! by what good luck do I see you here, dear Madame la comtesse?"

he said. "Must I sing the canticle of Simeon at my age?" (This idea so
tickled him that he laughed immoderately.) "Truly I'm 'en bonne