“Madame, I believe that I was to read poetry to you.”
The little countess abruptly raised her head and rested it on the back of the couch, as she replied with a touch of spite in her voice:
“Mon Dieu! what a memory you have, monsieur!--Well, take that album in front of you and read.”
Chérubin took up an album that lay on a chair, opened it and saw a medley of drawings, poems, portraits--everything, in short, that one finds in a woman’s album; and, after turning the leaves a moment, he glanced at the countess and asked timidly:
“What do you want me to read to you, madame?”
“Mon Dieu! whatever you choose, it makes no difference to me!”
Chérubin opened the album again, at random, and read:
“Fair countess, on this page, You bid me pen some verse: Quick your commands engage; For you the universe Would rhyme.--But clear to see My lines good sense ignore. How could it other be? You’ve reft me of its store.”
“Oh! that is that absurd Monsieur Dalbonne!” murmured Madame de Valdieri, twisting about impatiently on the couch. “He is forever writing such nonsense; he adores all women.--Are you like that, Monsieur Chérubin?”
“I, madame!” Chérubin replied in confusion; “oh, no! I--I--But I continue:
The fair Emma, who evidently did not care to hear the story of a mouse read at length, and who thought that Chérubin was making sport of her, determined to resort to violent measures; she fell back on the couch, murmuring:
“Oh! I can’t stand it any longer! these different scents set my nerves on edge; I am fainting!”
Chérubin uttered a cry of alarm, dropped the album, and gazed at the lovely blonde, who had chosen the most bewitching attitude that a coquette could devise in which to faint, and whose half-closed eyes wore an expression which did not indicate any very serious danger. But instead of admiring it all, Chérubin rose and ran about the room, looking for smelling-bottles and crying:
“Great God! you are losing consciousness, and I am the cause of it! I am so distressed. I will call for help.”
“No, no, monsieur, just unlace me!” murmured the countess, with a sigh.
“Unlace you! Why, I don’t know how; still, if you think----”
And Chérubin returned to the pretty creature, to do what she suggested; and she, seeing him lean over her, closed her eyes altogether, presuming that that would give him more courage and that he would succeed at last in behaving himself more becomingly; but, when he saw that the countess had closed her eyes entirely, Chérubin jumped back, ran to a bell cord and jerked it violently, and cried: