"By her name," said M. de Brévannes, "it is easy to guess that she is a German; fair, and full of conceits as a melody of Schubert, I am sure." "You mistake," said the domino; "she is dark and wild as Othello's jealousy, to follow out your musical and high-flown comparison." "Is there also a Prince de Hansfeld?" inquired M. de Brévannes. "Most certainly." "And to what school does this darling prince belong? the German or Italian school, or to the school of--husbands?" "You ask a question which no one can answer." "What! is this lovely princess wedded to a prince _in partibus_?" "Certainly not," said M. de Fierval; "the prince is here, but no one has yet seen him, he never goes into the world. He is talked of as a whimsical, eccentric being, and some very extraordinary tales are told of him." "It is said that he is quite an idiot," said one of the party. "I have heard it stoutly maintained that he is a man of genius," said another. "To reconcile the two assertions, gentlemen," said Brévannes, "it must be confessed they are somewhat similar, especially when the man of genius is in repose. Tell me, is this prince young or old?" "No one knows," said Fierval; "some declare that he is kept from society for fear his whims should excite laughter." "And others assert that he has so profound a contempt for the world, or so much love for science, that he never leaves the house." "The devil!" said M. de Brévannes; "then this German must be a very mysterious personage--as a husband he must be very agreeable. Does any one know who plays the cavalier to the princess?" "No one!" said Fierval. "Every body!" exclaimed the domino. "That's the same thing," resumed M. de Brévannes. "But this Madame de Hansfeld, is she really so very captivating?" "I am a woman, and I must confess that nothing can be seen more strikingly handsome," said the domino. "She has such eyes--such eyes!--oh! there never were such eyes!" said M. de Fierval. "As to her figure," added the domino, "it is a perfection of contrasts--dignified as a queen, and as graceful as a Bayadère." "Such praises are very like Scandal's damning breath," said Brévannes. "But, in truth," continued Fierval, "there is no one comparable to the princess for shape, dignity, grace, and distinguished features. Her look has in it something sombre, enthusiastic, and proud, which contrasts with the habitual placidity of her countenance." "I confess that there seems to me something sinister in Madame de Hansfeld's look; handsome as are her eyes, yet they are almost diabolic in expression." "_Peste_! this becomes interesting!" cried M. de Brévannes; "the princess is the real heroine of a modern romance. After all I have heard of her countenance, I dare not ask you as to her mind. It is the custom to magnify certain miraculous qualities at the expense of the most marked imperfections."