Frahender and Marguerite came running in. They found her pale
and bathed in perspiration. Her lips were trembling, stammering. It
was five minutes before she recovered herself. She described her
dream, and the old Mademoiselle prescribed a little walk in the air.
The child followed her chaperon with nervous docility.
It was the day after the next when Albert Styvens was to come to
dinner. Esperance had thought of saying that she was ill, but her
heart misgave her at the thought of the anxiety she would occasion her
mother, and then ... and then ... the dinner would be postponed, and
"This man will have what he will have, and I am the prey of his
dream," she said with a sigh of resignation.
The dinner was arranged for seven-thirty. The young Count presented
himself at seven-fifteen, having been preceded by two great bunches of
flowers, for Madame Darbois and Esperance, who was at the piano when
he came into the room. The Count entered with Madame Darbois, whom her
husband had just presented to her, and they stopped silent to listen
to Mendelssohn's beautiful nocturne, "Song of a Summer Night." When
the last echoes of the last phrase had died away, discreet applause
was wafted to her. She swung quickly on her stool and found herself
before the young man who was bowing, and taking the hand she held out
to him. She had not yet overcome that terror he inspired in her, and
was surprised to find him so much at ease.
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