Madame de B---- looked her name--Miriam--as she stood there. Her stately figure was so beautiful, her face so calm and handsome--but I shrank from her now; I could not forget the face I had seen but a few moments ago. She stood at the top of the steps; I was one step lower, while her young hostess waited at the door. She did not speak. I noted the elegance of her gown, and followed the movement of her white, ungloved hands as she raised some black lace to drape about her head and shoulders--Spanish fashion--and so I met her eyes, and instantly there was neither theatre nor hostess--there was nothing--there was no one, but just she and I. I set my teeth hard and bore her look. A hot flush swept over me, then I felt my eyebrows lifting of their own accord, a faint chill crept slowly about the roots of my hair, and presently I saw the evil, hot light glowing in her eyes again, and dreading the coming of what I had seen there before, I spoke suddenly, imploringly, and said: “O Madame, _was_ he dead, or _was_ he alive, when you found him?” Her lips drew back in silent laughter, her eyes danced in burning triumph: “_Alive! Alive!! Poor, little fool! Alive!!_” and then she leaned over me, and gripping me hard upon the shoulders, she looked deep down into my eyes, and then she said slowly, with the devil in her face: “I--wonder--what--became--of--that--devoted--valet?” She laughed aloud, turned suddenly to gather up her skirt, and I threw out my hand and felt my way by the wall, down the steps, and so into my own dressing room, where I burst into wild sobbing. Two or three nights passed, and then my friend remarked that dear, handsome Madame de B---- had sailed again. “It was funny,” she said, “the idea of asking you to come to her box, and then never opening her lips to you, wasn’t it?” I looked stupidly at her: “Why, what do you mean?” I asked. “You stood in the door all the time--you must have heard her speaking?” “Why, she never opened her lips--except when she laughed, as you went out!” I was sorely puzzled--until perhaps a week after--_apropos_ of nothing, my little chatter-box remarked: “You know poor Madame de B---- was one of Count de Varney’s nurses at the very first of their acquaintance. He was a victim of insomnia. A doctor called the Count’s attention to her. She used to make him sleep, sometimes even against his will. The doctor said she had most unusual _mesmeric_ power.” * * * * * We never spoke again of Madame de B----, but sometimes on an autumn night, dark and chill, with the rain falling stealthily on the sodden leaves that give forth no rustle when a cautious foot presses them, I have caught myself repeating those ominous words: “I--wonder--what--became--of--that--devoted--valet?” But now to that query there can be but one answer: “In Paris suddenly, Madame de B----.” Two Buds Two Buds