The pretty countess lay back a moment, put her handkerchief to her face, and drew a long breath.
Chérubin looked at her, and dared not stir. There was another long pause; the young man would have liked to say a multitude of things, but, as he did not know how to express himself, he inquired at last:
“Is your husband well, madame?”
The pretty creature burst into laughter which seemed a little forced, and replied:
“Yes, monsieur, my husband is singing! So long as he is making music, that is all that he wants.—Mon Dieu! there’s a smell of patchouli here, too, and musk. Ah! it gives me a sort of vertigo!”
And whether as a result of the vertigo, or for some other reason, the young woman half-reclined against Chérubin, so that her face almost touched his, and he would have had to move very little nearer to kiss her; but, deeply moved to find that lovely mouth so near to him that he could almost feel her breath, he dared not move a muscle, and finally he faltered:
“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: