mental, so nothing was forced—all gushed. Her little mouth seemed the mouth of Nature. The ditty, too, was as pure as its utterance. As there were none of those false divisions—those whining slurs, which are now sold so dear by Italian songsters, though every jackal in India delivers them gratis to his customers all night, and sometimes gets shot for them, and always deserves it—so there were no cadences and fiorituri; the trite, turgid, and feeble expletives of song, the skim-milk, with which mindless musicians and mindless writers quench fire, wash out colour, and drown melody and meaning dead.
While the pure and tender strain was flowing from the pure young throat, Gerard’s eyes filled with tears. The countess watched him with interest, for it was usual to applaud the princess loudly, but not with cheek and eye. So when the voice ceased, and the glasses left off ringing, she asked demurely, “Was he satisfied?”
Gerard gave a little start; the spoken voice broke a charm, and brought him back to earth.
“Oh, madam!” he cried, “surely it is thus that cherubs and seraphs sing and charm the saints in heaven.”
“I am somewhat of your opinion, my young friend,” said the countess, with emotion; and she bent a look of love and gentle pride upon her girl: a heavenly look, such as, they say, is given to the eye of the short-lived resting on the short-lived.
The countess resumed:
“My old friend requests me to be serviceable to you. It is the first favour she has done us the honour of asking us, and the request is sacred. You are in holy orders, sir?”
Gerard bowed.
“I fear you are not a priest, you look too young.”
“Oh no, madam! I am not even a sub-deacon. I am only a lector; but next month I shall be an exorcist; and before long an acolyth.”
“Well, Monsieur Gerard, with your accomplishments you can soon pass through the inferior orders. And let me beg you to do so. For the day after you have said your first mass, I shall have the pleasure of appointing you to a benefice.”
“Oh, madam!”
“And Marie, remember I make this promise in your name as well as my own.”
“Fear not, mama: I will not forget. But if he will take my advice, what he will be is Bishop of Liège. The Bishop of Liège is a beautiful bishop. What! don't you remember him, mama, that day we were at Liège? he was braver than grandpapa himself. He had on a crown—a high one, and it was cut in the middle, and it was full of oh! such beautiful jewels: and his gown stiff with gold; and his mantle, too; and it had a broad border all pictures: but, above all, his gloves; you have no such gloves, mama. They were embroidered and covered with jewels, and scented with such lovely scent; I smelt them all the time he was giving me his blessing on my head with them. Dear old man! I dare say he will die soon—most old people do—and then, sir, you can be bishop, you know, and wear—”
“Gently, Marie, gently: bishoprics are for old gentlemen; and this is a young gentleman.”
“Mama! he is not so very young.”
“Not compared with you, Marie, eh?”
“He is a good bigness, dear mama; and I am sure he is good enough for a bishop.”
“Alas, mademoiselle! you are mistaken.”
“I don’t know that, Monsieur Gerard; but I am a little puzzled to know on what grounds mademoiselle there pronounced your character so boldly.”
“Alas, mama!” said the princess, “you have not looked at his face then;” and she raised her eye-brows at her mother's simplicity.
“I beg your pardon,” said the countess, “I have. Well, sir, if I can not go quite so fast as my daughter, attribute it to my age, not to a want of interest in your welfare. A benefice will do to begin your career with; and I must take care it is not too far from—what call you the place?”
“Tergou, madam.”
“A priest gives up much,” continued the countess; “often, I fear, he learns too late how much:” and her woman’s eye rested a moment on Gerard with mild pity and half surprise at his resigning her sex, and all the heaven they can bestow, and the great parental joys: “at least you shall be near your friends. Have you a mother ?”
“Yes, madam; thanks be to God!”
“Good! You shall have a church near Tergou. She will thank me. And now, sir, we must not detain you too long from those who have a better claim on your society than we have. Duchess, oblige me by bidding one of the pages conduct him to the hall of banquet; the way is hard to find.”
Gerard bowed low to the countess and the princess, and backed toward the door.
“I hope it will be a nice benefice,” said the princess to him, with a pretty smile, as he was going out; then, shaking her head with an air of solemn misgiving, “but you had better have been Bishop of Liège.”
Gerard followed his new conductor, his heart warm with gratitude: but ere he reached the banquet-hall a chill came over him. The mind of one who has led a quiet, uneventful life, is not apt to take in contradictory feelings at the same moment and balance them, but rather to be overpowered by each in turn. While Gerard was with the countess, the excitement of so new a situation, the unlooked-for promise, the joy and pride it would cause at home, possessed him wholly: but now it was passion's turn to be heard again. What, give up Margaret, whose soft hand he still felt in his, and her deep eyes in his heart? resign her and all the world of love and joy she had opened on him to-day? The revulsion, when it did come, was so strong, that he hastily resolved to say nothing at home about the offered benefice. “The countess is so good,” thought he, “she has a hundred ways of aiding a young man's fortune: she will not compel me to be a priest when she shall learn I love one of her sex: one would almost think she does know it, for she cast a strange look