indifference, for he had neither seen nor been told of anything that had taken place, and consequently could guess nothing. Remarking, therefore, that his obeisance obtained him no acknowledgement, he advanced one step further, and in a voice which he tried, though vainly, to render calm, said: “I have the honor to present my most humble respects to your royal highness.” Upon this Madame deigned to turn her eyes languishingly towards the comte, observing. “Ah! M. de Guiche, is that you? good day!” The comte’s patience almost forsook him, as he continued,--“Your royal highness danced just now most charmingly.” “Do you think so?” she replied with indifference. “Yes; the character which your royal highness assumed is in perfect harmony with your own.” Madame again turned round, and, looking De Guiche full in the face with a bright and steady gaze, said,--“Why so?” “Oh! there can be no doubt of it.” “Explain yourself?” “You represented a divinity, beautiful, disdainful, inconstant.” “You mean Pomona, comte?” “I allude to the goddess.” Madame remained silent for a moment, with her lips compressed, and then observed,--“But, comte, you, too, are an excellent dancer.” “Nay, Madame, I am only one of those who are never noticed, or who are soon forgotten if they ever happen to be noticed.” With this remark, accompanied by one of those deep sighs which affect the remotest fibers of one’s being, his heart burdened with sorrow and throbbing fast, his head on fire, and his gaze wandering, he bowed breathlessly, and withdrew behind the thicket. The only reply Madame condescended to make was by slightly raising her shoulders, and, as her ladies of honor had discreetly retired while the conversation lasted, she recalled them by a look. The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais. “Did you hear what the Comte de Guiche said?” the princess inquired. “No.” “It really is very singular,” she continued, in a compassionate tone, “how exile has affected poor M. de Guiche’s wit.” And then, in a louder voice, fearful lest her unhappy victim might lose a syllable, she said,--“In the first place he danced badly, and afterwards his remarks were very silly.”