Perhaps Madame de Pënâfiel was jealous of the deep emotion of her companion, who had scarcely taken notice of the last few words which had been addressed to her, for when the marquise spoke to her again, it was to say something so unkind that I saw tears shining in the young girl's dark eyes, and a shadow pass over her face; then, shortly afterwards, she took up her silk mantle, and, wrapping it around her shoulders, she went out with the old gentleman who had accompanied Madame de Pënâfiel. He probably put the young girl in the carriage, for he very soon returned alone. I was pondering on the meaning of this scene, of which I had doubtless been the only attentive spectator, when M. de Cernay came into our box, and said, quickly, "Well, is it true then? Is Madame de Pënâfiel here to-night? It seems she is perfectly wild about my assassin; it is quite delightful! People are talking of nothing else; the news spread with telegraphic rapidity. But where is she? I am sure she is looking as though she knew nothing whatever about it." "It certainly would be quite impossible to appear more indifferent," I answered M. de Cernay. The count stepped forward, looked at her through his glass, and said: "That is true. There is no one in the world can brave a thing out as she can! The very evening after poor Merteuil's death, after all the stories that are going around,--for it is the talk of all Paris,--to dare to come here to the opera, in her own box! It passes everything!" I carefully noticed M. de Cernay's face, and believed I saw there an expression of spite, not to say hatred, which I had already seen when he spoke of Madame de Pënâfiel. I had a great mind to tell him that no one knew better than he that every word of the story about Ismaël was false and stupid, and that Madame de Pënâfiel could not behave in any other way than in following the course she was now pursuing; for, if the stories were true, she owed it to her self-respect to give them the lie by affecting an entire indifference; while if they were false, her indifference was perfectly natural. But as I had no reason to take up her defence a second time, I contented myself with asking some questions about her, after the count's strange indignation had spent itself. "Who is that very pretty brunette that was with Madame de Pënâfiel until just now?" I asked. "That is Mlle. Cornelia, her companion. The Lord knows what a life she leads, that poor girl; her mistress treats her with the greatest cruelty, and with unequalled tyranny. She pays dearly for the bread she eats, so they say. She has been living with her three years, and is so afraid of her that she doesn't dare to leave her." This strange reason made me smile, but I kept on. "And who is the old gentleman with the white hair?"