‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make me a dowry. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. Here you only waste your time. Maggot. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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