“I see you have got the best side of the argument; and I must therefore suppose that I have no real talent for music. To appreciate Oscar’s playing, however, only requires feeling—it is a sort of thing one never could get tired of—something like the conversation of a person who talks well. I only hope you may soon have an opportunity of judging for yourself. I wish, too, you could hear him read aloud. I never imagined anything like it. He read for Mademoiselle de Hoffmann and me, and we both felt cold and warm alternately—it was too delightful!”
“What did he read?” asked Crescenz.
“Heine’s poems,” answered Hildegarde, drawing from her pocket a small volume—“this is called the Book of Songs; and he has given it to me. Shall I read you The Dream?”
“By all means,” said Hamilton.
Hildegarde began, her voice trembling from eagerness. She had, however, scarcely read a couple of verses, when her mother entered the room, and asked directly, “What have you got there, Hildegarde?”
“A book, mamma.”
“That is evident: but what book? You know I do not wish you to read anything but French; and this is German, and poetry into the bargain—and Count Raimund’s too!” she said, taking it out of Hildegarde’s unwilling hand—“You see, Major, he has already begun with his books, just as you told me. I dare say it is full of improprieties!”
“As well as I can recollect, you are mistaken,” said Hamilton. “Some of the poems are beautiful, and all original, and full of talent.”
“If that be the case, I suppose I may let her read them—but the book must be returned as soon as possible.”
“But——” began Hildegarde.