nothing remarkable, or at least nothing so ghost-like as the spectacles, and to make matters right Nathaniel resolved to buy something of Coppola. He took up a little and very neatly worked pocket telescope, and looked through the window to try it. Never in his life had he met a glass which brought the objects so sharply, plainly and clearly before his eyes. Involuntarily he looked into Spalanzani's room; Olympia was sitting as usual before the little table, with her arms laid upon it, and her hands folded. For the first time could he see the wondrous beauty in the form of her face;—only the eyes seemed to him singularly stiff and dead. Nevertheless, as he looked more sharply through the glass, it seemed to him as if moist-born beams were rising in the eyes of Olympia. It was as if the power of seeing was kindled for the first time; the glances Hashed with constantly increasing liveliness. As if spell-bound, Nathaniel reclined against the window, meditating on the charming Olympia. A hemming and scraping aroused him as if from a dream. Coppola was standing behind him: "Tre zecchini—three ducats!" Nathaniel, who had quite forgotten the optician, quickly paid him what he asked.
"Is it not so? A pretty glass—a pretty glass?" asked Coppola, in his hoarse, repulsive voice, and with his hoarse malicious smile. "Yes—yes," replied Nathaniel, peevishly; "good bye, friend."
Coppola left the room, not without casting many strange glances at Nathaniel. He heard him laugh loudly on the stairs. "Ah, thought Nathaniel, "he is laughing at me, because, no doubt, I have paid him too much for this little glass. While he softly uttered these words, it seemed to me as if a deep, deadly sigh was sounding fearfully through the room, and his breath was stopped by inward anguish. He perceived, however, that it was himself who had sighed. "Clara," he said to himself, "is right in taking me for a senseless dreamer, but it is pure madness—nay, more than madness, that the stupid thought, that I have paid Coppola
