“What do you want me to read to you, madame?”
“Mon Dieu! whatever you choose, it makes no difference to me!”
Chérubin opened the album again, at random, and read:
“Fair countess, on this page,
You bid me pen some verse:
Quick your commands engage;
For you the universe
Would rhyme.—But clear to see
My lines good sense ignore.
How could it other be?
You’ve reft me of its store.”
“Oh! that is that absurd Monsieur Dalbonne!” murmured Madame de Valdieri, twisting about impatiently on the couch. “He is forever writing such nonsense; he adores all women.—Are you like that, Monsieur Chérubin?”
“I, madame!” Chérubin replied in confusion; “oh, no! I—I—But I continue:
“‘STORY OF A MOUSE.’”
“Ah! this is much longer.”
The fair Emma, who evidently did not care to hear the story of a mouse read at length, and who thought that Chérubin was making sport of her, determined to resort to violent measures; she fell back on the couch, murmuring:
“Oh! I can’t stand it any longer! these different scents set my nerves on edge; I am fainting!”