He was thinking much more of presenting the cat to the countess than of the papers by which his liberty might be, according to the laws relating to foreigners, forever sacrificed.
"You assure me that these little papers with the stamps on them--" "Don't be in the least uneasy," said the countess.
"I am not uneasy," he said, hastily.

"I only meant to ask if these little papers will give pleasure to Madame du Tillet." "Oh, yes," she said, "you are doing her a service, as if you were her father." "I am happy, indeed, to be of any good to her--Come and listen to my music!" and leaving the papers on the table, he jumped to his piano.
The hands of this angel ran along the yellowing keys, his glance was rising to heaven, regardless of the roof; already the air of some blessed climate permeated the room and the soul of the old musician; but the countess did not allow the artless interpreter of things celestial to make the strings and the worn wood speak, like Raffaelle's Saint Cecilia, to the listening angels.

She quickly slipped the notes into her muff and recalled her radiant master from the ethereal spheres to which he soared, by laying her hand upon his shoulder.
"My good Schmucke--" she said.
"Going already ?" he cried.

"Ah! why did you come ?" He did not murmur, but he sat up like a faithful dog who listens to his mistress.
"My good Schmucke," she repeated, "this is a matter of life and death; minutes can save tears, perhaps blood." "Always the same!" he said.

"Go, angel! dry the tears of others.