they were saying, through the humming of the blood, which was boiling in his temples.

(A conversation between lovers is a very commonplace affair. It is a perpetual “I love you.” A musical phrase which is very insipid and very bald for indifferent listeners, when it is not ornamented with some fioriture; but Claude was not an indifferent listener.)

“Oh!” said the young girl, without raising her eyes, “do not despise me, monseigneur Phoebus.

I feel that what I am doing is not right.”

“Despise you, my pretty child!” replied the officer with an air of superior and distinguished gallantry, “despise you, t�te-Dieu! and why?”