"Nor do I; but he bears a most appalling resemblance to a man who----" Michel heard no more; the beautiful young woman had lowered her voice as she walked on. Who could that man be who had just come in, and who already produced such a marked sensation? Michel looked at him and saw that he was retracing his steps as if he intended to go out; but he halted in front of him and said in a voice as soft as a woman's: "My friend, will you be kind enough to tell me which of all the ladies who are already here is Princess Agatha de Palmarosa?" "I have no idea," replied Michel, impelled by an instinctive feeling of distrust and jealousy. "Then you do not know her?" queried the stranger. "No, signor," replied Michel, dryly. The stranger entered the ball-room and plunged into the crowd, which was rapidly increasing. Michel looked after him and observed something peculiar in his carriage. Although he was dressed in the height of fashion, and with an elaborateness which bordered on bad taste, he seemed ill at ease in his clothes, like a man who had never before worn a black coat and close-fitting breeches. And yet there was in his manner a something haughty and distinguished which did not denote the petty bourgeois in his Sunday garb. As Michel turned to go away at last, he saw that the halberdier who was guarding the door was equally engrossed by the stranger's appearance. "I don't know," he was saying to Barbagallo, the majordomo, who had just accosted him, apparently to question him; "I know a peasant who looks like him, but it isn't the man." A third retainer came up and said: "That must be the Greek prince who arrived yesterday, or one of his escort." "Or else some follower of the Egyptian envoy," said the halberdier. "Or else," added Barbagallo, "some Levantine merchant. When those people leave off their native costume and dress in the European style, you can't recognize them. Did he buy his ticket at the door? You mustn't allow anybody to do that." "He had his ticket in his hand; I saw him present it all open, and the door-keeper said: 'Her Highness's signature.'" Michel had not listened to this discussion; he was already well on his way to Catania. He returned to his humble abode and sat down on his bed; but he forgot to lie down. As he threw back his hair, the weight of which made his forehead hot, he saw a small flower fall. It was a white cyclamen blossom. How had it broken off and clung to his hair? There was no reason for much surprise or uneasiness. The place where he had worked and hustled about, gone hither and thither a thousand times, was so thickly strewn with flowers of all sorts. But Michel did not remember that. He simply remembered the enormous bouquet of cyclamen which the Princess of Palmarosa carried when he had stooped tremblingly and kissed her hand. He put the flower to his lips; it exhaled an intoxicating odor. He took his head in both hands. It seemed to him that he was going mad. IX MILA