They had repaired to the drawing-room once more, and Sandoz, who was greatly distressed, had begun to wish that they would take themselves off, when he noticed Mathilde and Gagniere seated side by side on a sofa and talking languishingly of music, while the others remained exhausted, lacking saliva and power of speech.  Gagniere philosophised and poetised in a state of ecstasy, while Mathilde rolled up her eyes and went into raptures as if titillated by some invisible wing.  They had caught sight of each other on the previous Sunday at the concert at the Cirque, and they apprised each other of their enjoyment in alternate, far-soaring sentences.

’Ah! that Meyerbeer, monsieur, the overture of “Struensee,” that funereal strain, and then that peasant dance, so full of dash and colour; and then the mournful burden which returns, the duo of the violoncellos.  Ah! monsieur, the violoncellos, the violoncellos!’

’And Berlioz, madame, the festival air in “Romeo.”  Oh! the solo of the clarionets, the beloved women, with the harp accompaniment!  Something enrapturing, something white as snow which ascends!  The festival bursts upon you, like a picture by Paul Veronese, with the tumultuous magnificence of the “Marriage of Cana”; and then the love-song begins again, oh, how softly!  Oh! always higher! higher still—­’

’Did you notice, monsieur, in Beethoven’s Symphony in A, that knell which ever and ever comes back and beats upon your heart?  Yes, I see very well, you feel as I do, music is a communion—­Beethoven, ah, me! how sad and sweet it is to be two to understand him and give way—­’

’And Schumann, madame, and Wagner, madame—­Schumann’s “Reverie,” nothing but the stringed instruments, a warm shower falling on acacia leaves, a sunray which dries them, barely a tear in space.  Wagner! ah, Wagner! the overture of the “Flying Dutchman,” are you not fond of it?—­tell me you are fond of it!  As for myself, it overcomes me.  There is nothing left, nothing left, one expires—­’

Their voices died away; they did not even look at each other, but sat there elbow to elbow, with their faces turned upward, quite overcome.

Sandoz, who was surprised, asked himself where Mathilde could have picked up that jargon.  In some article of Jory’s, perhaps.  Besides, he had remarked that women talk music very well, even without knowing a note of it.  And he, whom the bitterness of the others had only grieved, became exasperated at sight of Mathilde’s languishing attitude.  No, no, that was quite enough; the men tore each other to bits; still that might pass, after all; but what an end to the evening it was, that feminine fraud, cooing and titillating herself with thoughts of Beethoven’s and Schumann’s music!  Fortunately, Gagniere suddenly rose.  He knew what o’clock it was even in the depths of his ecstasy, and he had only just time left him to catch his last train.  So, after exchanging nerveless and silent handshakes with the others, he went off to sleep at Melun.