[*] _Macedoine_, in the sense in which it is here used, is a game, or rather a series of games, of cards, each player, when it is his turn to deal, selecting the game to be played. “Monsieur de Lanty has not owned this house very long, has he?” “Oh, yes! It is nearly ten years since the Marechal de Carigliano sold it to him.” “Ah!” “These people must have an enormous fortune.” “They surely must.” “What a magnificent party! It is almost insolent in its splendor.” “Do you imagine they are as rich as Monsieur de Nucingen or Monsieur de Gondreville?” “Why, don’t you know?” I leaned forward and recognized the two persons who were talking as members of that inquisitive genus which, in Paris, busies itself exclusively with the _Whys_ and _Hows_. _Where does he come from? Who are they? What’s the matter with him? What has she done?_ They lowered their voices and walked away in order to talk more at their ease on some retired couch. Never was a more promising mine laid open to seekers after mysteries. No one knew from what country the Lanty family came, nor to what source--commerce, extortion, piracy, or inheritance--they owed a fortune estimated at several millions. All the members of the family spoke Italian, French, Spanish, English, and German, with sufficient fluency to lead one to suppose that they had lived long among those different peoples. Were they gypsies? were they buccaneers? “Suppose they’re the devil himself,” said divers young politicians, “they entertain mighty well.” “The Comte de Lanty may have plundered some _Casbah_ for all I care; I would like to marry his daughter!” cried a philosopher. Who would not have married Marianina, a girl of sixteen, whose beauty realized the fabulous conceptions of Oriental poets! Like the Sultan’s daughter in the tale of the _Wonderful Lamp_, she should have remained always veiled. Her singing obscured the imperfect talents of the Malibrans, the Sontags, and the Fodors, in whom some one dominant quality always mars the perfection of the whole; whereas Marianina combined in equal degree purity of tone, exquisite feeling, accuracy of time and intonation, science, soul, and delicacy. She was the type of that hidden poesy, the link which connects all the arts and which always eludes those who seek it. Modest, sweet, well-informed, and clever, none could eclipse Marianina unless it was her mother.