The mystery which surrounds her increases the peculiarity of our situation. Being always chaperoned by her mother, whose foreign type of features creates an imposing impression, Kondje-Gul is taken for one of those young ladies who are models of filial respect. The style of their house and of their dress, and that refined elegance which stamps them as ladies of distinction, designate them no less indisputably the possessors of a large fortune and of high rank. All this, you will perceive, formed a crowning justification for the success which Kondje-Gul's remarkable beauty had of itself sufficed to achieve for her. Then of course the fashionable reporters of the official receptions fulfilled their duty by heralding the advent of this brilliant star. They only made the mistake--one of those mistakes so common with journalists--of describing her as a Georgian. Confident in the security of our mystery, Kondje-Gul and I find nothing more delightful than the manoeuvres by which we deceive them all. We have invented a code of signs, the meaning of which we keep to ourselves, and which leads to some very amusing by-play between us. Thus the other evening, at Madame de T----'s, she was sitting by Maud and Suzannah, surrounded by a number of admirers, when the young Duke de Marandal, one of the most ardent of my acknowledged rivals, was lavishing upon her his most seductive attentions. Kondje was listening to him with a charming smile on her face. Now that evening, I must tell you, she had resolved upon a bit of fun; and knowing that in France unmarried girls are not supposed to wear jewellery, she had fastened on her wrist a heavy gold bracelet as a token of her servitude. So while the young duke was talking, she looked at me, playing carelessly the while with what she calls her "slave's ring." You may guess how we laughed together over it. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. I have to inform you, my dear fellow, that my uncle, who has always been admired so far for his virtuous conduct, and whom I should certainly have been ready to quote as a paragon of husbands, seems just now on the way to forfeiting his character. Here is what I have to relate: Two days ago I went to the Theatre des Varietes to see for the second time the play which is just now the rage. Not having obtained a good place, I left my stall at the end of the first act with the intention of not returning, when, as I passed a rather closely-curtained stage-box, I was quite surprised by seeing Barbassou-Pasha, who had pretended to be going out that evening to an important dinner with some business friends. He was accompanied by a lady whose features were obscured by the darkness. Being a discreet and respectful nephew, I was about to turn my eyes the other way, when he beckoned me with an imperative gesture to join him in his box. I immediately obeyed this peremptory summons, and, going round by the passage, got the box-opener to usher me in.