These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet
      twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us—and then, with
      a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single
      sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared. I replied as best I could—as only a true lover can. I spoke at
      length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion—of her
      exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In
      conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils
      that encompass the course of love—that course of true love that
      never did run smooth—and thus deduced the manifest danger of
      rendering that course unnecessarily long. This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her
      determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she
      said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This
      was a delicate point—for a woman to urge, especially so; in
      mentioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her
      feelings; still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She
      alluded to the topic of age. Was I aware—was I fully aware of the
      discrepancy between us? That the age of the husband, should
      surpass by a few years—even by fifteen or twenty—the age of the
      wife, was regarded by the world as admissible, and, indeed, as
      even proper; but she had always entertained the belief that the
      years of the wife should never exceed in number those of the
      husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too
      frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware
      that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on the
      contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugénie
      extended very considerably beyond that sum. About all this there was a nobility of soul—a dignity of
      candor—which delighted—which enchanted me—which eternally riveted
      my chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport
      which possessed me. “My sweetest Eugénie,” I cried, “what is all this about which you
      are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But
      what then? The customs of the world are so many conventional
      follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs
      a year from an hour? I am twenty-two, you say; granted: indeed,
      you may as well call me, at once, twenty-three. Now you yourself,
      my dearest Eugénie, can have numbered no more than—can have
      numbered no more than—no more than—than—than—than—”

      Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame
      Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a
      Frenchwoman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to
      an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her own. In
      the present instance, Eugénie, who for a few moments past had
      seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at length let
      fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up
      and presented to her. “Keep it!” she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. “Keep
      it for my sake—for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly
      represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket you may
      discover, perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is
      now, to be sure, growing rather dark—but you can examine it at
      your leisure in the morning. In the meantime, you shall be my
      escort home to-night. My friends are about holding a little
      musical _levée_. I can promise you, too, some good singing. We
      French are not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I
      shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of
      an old acquaintance.”

      With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion
      was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of
      this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge; for
      it was just dark as we arrived; and in American mansions of the
      better sort lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their
      appearance at this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about
      an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp
      was lit in the principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I
      could thus see, was arranged with unusual good taste and even
      splendor; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which the
      company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole evening, in
      a very agreeable shadow. This is a well-conceived custom, giving
      the party at least a choice of light or shade, and one which our
      friends over the water could not do better than immediately
      adopt. The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of
      my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abilities
      of her friends; and the singing I here heard I had never heard
      excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumental
      performers were many and of superior talents. The vocalists were
      chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than well. At length,
      upon a peremptory call for “Madame Lalande,” she arose at once,
      without affectation or demur, from the chaise longue upon which
      she had sat by my side, and, accompanied by one or two gentlemen
      and her female friend of the opera, repaired to the piano in the
      main drawing-room. I would have escorted her myself, but felt
      that, under the circumstances of my introduction to the house, I
      had better remain unobserved where I was. I was thus deprived of
      the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing, her sing. The impression she produced upon the company seemed
      electrical—but the effect upon myself was something even more. I
      know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no
      doubt, from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but
      chiefly from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the
      singer. It is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or
      recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her
      utterance of the romance in Otello—the tone with which she gave
      the words “Sul mio sasso,” in the Capuletti—is ringing in my
      memory yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice
      embraced three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D
      to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently powerful to have
      filled the San Carlos, executed, with the minutest precision,
      every difficulty of vocal composition—ascending and descending
      scales, cadences, or fiorituri. In the final of the Somnambula,
      she brought about a most remarkable effect at the words:

     Ah! non guinge uman pensiero
     Al contento ond ’io son piena.