“You have not offended me, my good Hérode,” de Sigognac hastened to reply, holding out his hand to the honest tyrant with a genial smile, “whatever is worth doing is worth doing well. But I could not help remembering that I had dreamed of and hoped for very different triumphs from this.” Isabelle, who meantime had been dressing for the other piece, passed near de Sigognac just then, and gave him such an angelic look—so full of tenderness, sympathy, and passionate love—that he quite forgot the haughty Yolande, and felt really happy again. It was a divine balm, that healed his wounded pride—for the moment at least; but such wounds are all too apt to open and bleed again and again. The Marquis de Bruyères was at his post as usual, and though very much occupied in applauding Zerbine, yet found time to go and pay his respects to Mlle. Yolande de Foix. He related to her, without mentioning the baron’s name, the affair of the duel between Captain Fracasse and the Duke of Vallombreuse saying that he ought to be able to give all the details of that famous encounter better than anybody else, since he had been present as one of the seconds. “You need not be so mysterious about it,” answered Yolande, “for it is not difficult to divine that your Captain Fracasse is no other than the Baron de Sigognac. Didn’t I myself see him leaving his old owl-haunted towers in company with this little _Bohémienne_, who plays her part of ingenuous young girl with such a precious affectation of modesty?” she added, with a forced laugh. “And wasn’t he at your château with these very players? Judging from his usual stupid, silly air, I would not have believed him capable of making such a clever mountebank, and such a faithful gallant.” As he conversed with Yolande, the marquis was looking about the house, of which he had a much better view than from his own place near the stage, and his attention was caught and fixed by the masked lady, whom he had not seen before, as his back was always turned to her box. Although her head and figure were much enveloped and disguised in a profusion of black laces, the attitude and general contour of this mysterious beauty seemed strangely familiar to him, and there was something about her that reminded him forcibly of the _marquise_, his own wife. “Bah!” said he to himself, “how foolish I am; she must be all safe at the Château de Bruyères, where I left her.” But at that very moment he caught sight of a diamond ring—a large solitaire, peculiarly set—sparkling on her finger, which was precisely like one that the Marquise de Bruyères always wore.