"This country is not frightful, Madame," I replied. "Beauty is so
great and so august a quality that centuries of barbarism cannot
efface it so completely that adorable vestiges of it will not always
remain. The majesty of the antique Ceres still overshadows these
arid valleys; and that Greek Muse who made Arethusa and Maenalus
ring with her divine accents, still sings for my ears upon the barren
mountain and in the place of the dried-up spring. Yes, Madame, when
our globe, no longer inhabited, shall, like the moon, roll a wan
corpse through space, the soil which bears the ruins of Selinonte
will still keep the seal of beauty in the midst of universal death;
and then, then, at least there will be no frivolous mouth to blaspheme
the grandeur of these solitudes."

I knew well enough that my words were beyond the comprehension of the
pretty little empty-head which heard them. But an old fellow like
myself who has worn out his life over books does not know how to
adapt his tone to circumstances. Besides I wished to give Madame
Trepof a lesson in politeness. She received it with so much
submission, and with such an air of comprehension, that I hastened to
add, as good-naturedly as possible,

"As to whether the chance which has enabled me to meet you again be
lucky or unlucky, I cannot decide the question until I am sure that
my presence be not disagreeable to you. You appeared to become weary
of my company very suddenly at Naples the other day. I can only
attribute that misfortune to my naturally unpleasant manner--since,
on that occasion, I had had the honour of meeting you for the first
time in my life."

These words seem to cause her inexplicable joy. She smiled upon me