to George Sand. See Vol. I., p. 338.] She fixed her passionate
and sombre eyes upon him; the impressionable artist felt at
the same time pain and pleasure...others might listen to him:
he played only for her.

They met again.

From this moment fears vanished, and these two noble souls
understood each other...or believed they understood each
other.

Karasowski labours hard to surpass Enault, but is not like him a
master of the ars artem celare. The weather, he tells us, was
dull and damp, and had a depressing effect on the mind of Chopin.
No friend had visited him during the day, no book entertained
him, no musical idea gladdened him. It was nearly ten o'clock at
night (the circumstantiality of the account ought to inspire
confidence) when he bethought himself of paying a visit to the
Countess C. (the Marquis, by some means, magical or natural, has
been transformed into a Countess), this being her jour fixe, on
which an intellectual and agreeable company was always assembled
at her house.

When he ascended the carpet-covered stairs [Unfortunately we
are not informed whether the carpet was Turkey, Brussels, or
Kidderminster], it seemed to him as if he were followed by a
shadow that diffused a fragrance of violets [Ah!], and a
presentiment as if something strange and wonderful were going
to happen to him flashed through his soul. He was on the point
of turning back and going home, but, laughing at his own