keener than ours, bury his eyes under the lace of that shirt and decide conscientiously whether the contour is too swelling or not; but we warn him that the curtains are drawn and that there is a sort of half-light in the room, ill-adapted to that sort of investigation. The young gentleman was pale, but his was a golden pallor, full of strength and vitality; his eyes swam in a crystalline blue fluid; his straight, thin nose imparted a wonderful air of pride and energy to his profile, and the flesh was of so fine a texture that it allowed the light to pass through it on the edge; his mouth wore the sweetest smile at certain moments, but ordinarily it was arched at the corners, curving in rather than out, as in some of the faces we see in the pictures of the old Italian masters; a detail that gave a charmingly disdainful expression to his face, a _smorfia_ alluring beyond words, an air of childish sulkiness and ill humor, very unusual and very fascinating. What were the bonds that united the master to the page and the page to the master? Assuredly there was something more between them than any conceivable affection between master and servant. Were they friends or brothers?--In that case, why this masquerading?--It would have been difficult for any one witnessing the scene we have just described to believe that those two individuals were just what they seemed to be and nothing more. "Dear angel, how he sleeps!" murmured the young man; "I don't believe he ever travelled so far in his life. Twenty leagues in the saddle, and he so delicate! I'm afraid that he will be sick with fatigue. But no, it will amount to nothing; to-morrow there will be no sign of it; he will have recovered his brilliant color and will be fresher than a rose after the rain.--How handsome he is like that! If I weren't afraid of waking him I would eat him up with kisses. What a fascinating dimple he has in his chin! what fine, white skin!--Sleep soundly, sweet treasure.--Ah! I am downright jealous of your mother, and I wish I had brought you into the world.--He can't be sick? No, his breathing is regular and he doesn't stir.--But I believe some one knocked." In fact, some one had knocked twice, as gently as possible, on the panel of the door. The young man rose, but, fearing that he might be mistaken, waited for a repetition of the knocking before opening the door.--Two more taps followed, a little more pronounced, and a soft female voice said, in a very low tone:--"It is I, Théodore." Théodore opened the door, but with less eagerness than a young man naturally exhibits about admitting a woman whose voice is soft and who knocks mysteriously at his door at nightfall.--The open door gave passage to--whom do you suppose?--to the mistress of the perplexed D'Albert, to the Princess Rosette in person, rosier than her name, and her bosom as deeply moved as ever woman was upon entering a handsome youth's room in the evening. "Théodore!" said Rosette.