tance, dyed whiskers, prejudices, gray hats, and weak stomach.
Why will that pitiless organ persist in playing the galop that used in other days to time your entrechats on the back of the truffled horse? Now you behold yourself again in the middle of the arena at the end of your "act," blowing your farewell kiss to the public and listening delightedly to the hailstorm of applause. Are you taking leave of your senses, comtesse? And now again you feel your heart beating, and the first delicious emotion of your girlhood comes back to you, when it seemed to you that the handsome ringmaster in his scarlet coat had tenderly squeezed your finger-tips as he led you off the track!
The sound of the organ has died away at last; the tall skeletons of the naked trees can scarcely be discerned against the dull, dark sky that grows darker and duller still. The valet de chambre enters respectfully, bringing in a lamp. He places it upon a stand and says in ceremonial tones:
"Monsieur le curé de Saint Thomas-d'Aquin is awaiting Madame la Comtesse in the drawing-room."
