“Pardon me, madam, but Mademoiselle Mathilde is about to sing. Would you permit me to join her at the piano?”
“Oh! certainly, if you wish it,” returned Madame Nezrouge, bridling up. “Of course: oh! certainly.”
In fact, Mathilde had already taken her place at the piano. She had one of those sweet, dear, yet mellow voices which belong only to southern countries, and she sang with deep feeling, as well as artistic correctness. As Louis walked to the piano, his brother whispered in his ear, “Be firm, for God’s sake; he is here.”
The lip of Louis quivered as he prepared to turn the leaves of the page before Mathilde, and he was so excited that he did not hear one syllable of the following song.
THE MEMORY OF LOVE.
Though boundless seas between us roll
And keep our lips and eyes apart,
Thou art not absent! for my soul
Treasures thine image; and my heart
In every throb thy name repeats.