farthest removed from the noise of the courtyard, the domestics, even their guests. Profound silence would have reigned in it now, but for the ring of a hooked hard beak drawn sharply at intervals across a row of gilt wires, and a ghastly muttering, like that of a demoniac, between whisper and croak, for the encouragement of somebody or something named "Pierrot."
It was Madame's West Indian parrot, beguiling his solitude by the conscientious study of his part. Presently the bird gave a long shrill whistle, for he heard a well-known step on the garden stair, and his mistress's voice singing—
"Non, je te dis
Ma sœur, c'est lui,
C'est mon Henri,
A l'habit gris
Des Mousquetaires, des Mousquetaires,
Des Mousquetaires
Du roi Louis.
"Amant gentil
Qui chante, qui rit,
Joli, poli,
Fidèle? Mais, Oui
Comme Mousquetaire, comme Mousquetaire,
Comme Mousquetaire,
Du roi Louis."
At which conclusive point in its argument Pierrot interrupted the ballad with a deafening shriek, and Madame, sliding the panel back, passed into the apartment.
She was dressed in a simple morning toilet of white, with scarlet breast-knots, and a ribbon of the same colour gathering the shining masses of her black hair. It suited her well. Even Pierrot, gazing at her with head on one side, and upturned eye, seemed to be of this opinion, though bigger and better talkers by rote had probably long ago informed her of the fact. She had a large bouquet of flowers, fresh gathered, in her hand, and she gave the bird a caressing word or two as she moved through her boudoir, disposing of them here and there to the best advantage; then she selected a few of the rarest, and put them carefully in water, telling the parrot "these are for Cerise, Pierrot," and endeavouring to make it repeat her daughter's name. Of course, without success; though on other occasions this
