We wandered through the _salons_, the Marquis and I. It was no easy matter to find a friend in rooms so crowded. "Stay here," said the Marquis, "I have thought of a way of finding him. Besides, his jealousy may have warned him that there is no particular advantage to be gained by presenting you to his wife; I had better go and reason with him, as you seem to wish an introduction so very much." This occurred in the room that is now called the "Salon d'Apollon." The paintings remained in my memory, and my adventure of that evening was destined to occur there. I sat down upon a sofa, and looked about me. Three or four persons beside myself were seated on this roomy piece of gilded furniture. They were chatting all very gaily; all--except the person who sat next me, and she was a lady. Hardly two feet interposed between us. The lady sat apparently in a reverie. Nothing could be more graceful. She wore the costume perpetuated in Collignan's full-length portrait of Mademoiselle de la Valière. It is, as you know, not only rich, but elegant. Her hair was powdered, but one could perceive that it was naturally a dark brown. One pretty little foot appeared, and could anything be more exquisite than her hand? It was extremely provoking that this lady wore her mask, and did not, as many did, hold it for a time in her hand. I was convinced that she was pretty. Availing myself of the privilege of a masquerade, a microcosm in which it is impossible, except by voice and allusion, to distinguish friend from foe, I spoke: "It is not easy, Mademoiselle, to deceive me," I began. "So much the better for Monsieur," answered the mask, quietly. "I mean," I said, determined to tell my fib, "that beauty is a gift more difficult to conceal than Mademoiselle supposes." "Yet Monsieur has succeeded very well," she said in the same sweet and careless tones. "I see the costume of this, the beautiful Mademoiselle de la Valière, upon a form that surpasses her own; I raise my eyes, and I behold a mask, and yet I recognize the lady; beauty is like that precious stone in the 'Arabian Nights,' which emits, no matter how concealed, a light that betrays it." "I know the story," said the young lady. "The light betrayed it, not in the sun but in darkness. Is there so little light in these rooms, Monsieur, that a poor glowworm can show so brightly? I thought we were in a luminous atmosphere, wherever a certain Countess moved?" Here was an awkward speech! How was I to answer? This lady might be, as they say some ladies are, a lover of mischief, or an intimate of the Countess de St. Alyre. Cautiously, therefore, I inquired, "What Countess?" "If you know me, you must know that she is my dearest friend. Is she not beautiful?" "How can I answer, there are so many countesses." "Everyone who knows me, knows who my best beloved friend is. You don't know me?" "That is cruel. I can scarcely believe I am mistaken." "With whom were you walking, just now?" she asked.