said the Count, smiling at her distress, "the first evening that you remain at your balcony alone, watching the clouds as they flit across the moon, and listening, I conclude, to the strains of the nightingale." "Then," she said, affecting unconcern, "I claim your promise for to-morrow night, punctually at nine." He approached the piano-forte. "Ah not now—I am engaged,—I must dance." "Now or never," said the Count. "Never then, never," she answered, almost crying, though she affected to laugh. Lady Augusta entreated for the song, and the Count, after a short prelude, placed the manuscript paper before him, and in a low tone of voice began:—
(To the air of "Ils ne sont plus.")
Waters of Elle! thy limpid streams are flowing,
Smooth and untroubled, through the flow'ry vale:
O'er thy green banks once more, the wild rose blowing,
Greets the young spring, and scents the passing gale.
