"Now I am quite easy; if the piece should fail in spite of the talent displayed in those two acts, poor Gercourt will be quite innocent of the failure. I say this now without knowing what may occur--so much the better or the worse for him. Gercourt is not the author of this play — it is not in his vein at all." During this pause between the acts we will conduct our reader into Madame de Hansfeld's box. Madame de Lormoy, who accompanied her, was a woman of nearly fifty, and a high-bred lady in every sense of the word. And now a few words of the Prince de Hansfeld, to whom the reader has already been introduced in the gallery of the Hôtel Lambert. M. de Hansfeld, who was seated so far back in his box that none of the audience could see him, was of middle height, thin and slender, about twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. His features were extremely delicate, his hair chestnut, very little moustache and beard, but fine and silky of a light brown hue, which harmonised admirably with the transparent paleness of his complexion. His eyes were very large and soft, and of a blue so bright that, in spite of the half obscurity of his box, the clear glance of Arnold was distinguishable, the light seeming not to be reflected upon, but to dart through them, giving them the blue brightness of a sapphire. His smile was full of benignity, intelligence, and grace; there was only lacking to this interesting countenance the warm colouring of life and health, just as flowers which vegetate in the shade, and are denied the salutary beams of the sun, lose the brilliancy of their hues, and assume the pale tints of extreme delicacy; so had Arnold's features something languishing and pining in their expression. During some minutes he remained in the deepest reflection. When Madame de Lormoy had pointed out to the princess the ridiculous _coiffure_ of Madame Girard, M. de Hansfeld, whilst turning his eyes mechanically in that direction, had remained for some time contemplating Bertha. Madame de Brévannes' beauty was not dazzling, but her sweet and lovely countenance had such a touching expression of melancholy, that Arnold felt quite interested. At the moment of the _entr'acte_, Bertha, by an involuntary return to her own and her father's position--too proud to accept henceforth the least assistance from M. de Brévannes, and too poor to live without aid,--Bertha, being no longer attracted by the interest of the performance, gave way to the melancholy of her reflections, and, with her figure slightly bent, her head inclined towards her bosom, was mechanically moving a bouquet of red camelia, which she held in her hand, as she seemed bowed beneath the weight of some silent sorrow.