Marie would retire to her own room, but Frederick would conduct David to his chamber, and there, how many times, standing within the embrasure of the door, the preceptor and pupil forgot themselves in the charm of a long friendly chat; one listening with faith, responding with eagerness, questioning with the ardour of his age, the other speaking with the tender solicitude of the mature man, who smiles compassionately on youth, impatient to try the mysterious path of destiny.
How many times old Marguerite was obliged to ascend to the floor upon which David's chamber was situated, and say to Frederick:
"Indeed, monsieur, it is midnight, it is one o'clock in the morning, and you know very well that madame never goes to bed before you do."
And Frederick would press David's hand and descend to his mother's chamber.
There, David would still be the subject of long conversations between the young woman and her son.
"Mother," Frederick would say, "how interesting was his account of his travels in Asia Minor."
"Oh, yes, nothing could be more so," Marie would answer. "And besides, Frederick, what curious things M. David has taught us about the vibrations of sound, and all that, too, by a few chords on this broken old piano."
"Mother, what a charming account he gave us, in comparing the properties of sound and light."
"And that delightful strain from Mozart that he played. Do you remember the choir of spirits in the 'Enchanted Flute?' It was so aerial, so light. What a pleasure for poor savages like us, who have never known anything of Mozart; it is like discovering a treasure of harmony."
"And how touching his anecdote about the old age of Haydn. And what he told us of the association of the Moravian brethren in America. How much less misery, how much benefit to poor people if those ideas could be applied in our country!"