The girl sat down at the piano, and there, to her own accompaniment, without the printed score, sang such songs of Provence as tug at the heart strings, one knows not why.

There seemed to be a wail in the music--and in slurring, as it were, from one note to the other--a trick such Southern songs demand--I heard the tone I loved.
Madame listened while she worked.

The Vicomte dropped gently to sleep.
I sat with my elbow on my knee and looked at the carpet.

And when the voice rose and fell, I knew that none other had the same message for me.
"You are sad," said Lucille, with a little laugh, "with your face in your hand, comme ca." And she imitated my position and expression with a merry toss of the head.

"Are you thinking of your sins ?" "Yes, Mademoiselle," answered I, truthfully enough.
Many evenings I passed thus in the peaceful family circle--and always Lucille sang those gaily sad little songs of Provence.
The weeks slipped by, and the outer world was busy with great doings, while we in the Rue des Palmiers seemed to stand aside and watch the events go past.
The Emperor--than whom no greater man lived at the middle of the present century--was losing health, and, with that best of human gifts, his grasp over his fellowmen.