Beate was not at all disinclined to take a peep into the secrets of the gaming hell; perhaps she might succeed in discovering something that could be useful to her friend; she allowed herself to be persuaded, laid cloak and hood aside, while Baluzzi said to her-- "You are doing me a slight favour, Beate! I need the fair sex in my parties, my graces gain wrinkles! But you are quite a pretty child, such a little snake with red, fiery eyes, you are a _diavolessa_. I know you; _tanto meglio_!" Meanwhile they had traversed two empty rooms, and entered a brilliantly lighted saloon, the windows of which were made doubly safe by shutters and curtains. A loud buzz of conversation met the new comers, the game having been interrupted. Baluzzi seemed happy to have captured an Italian woman, and, with some pride, introduced Beate to those present as his countrywoman. "Beate Romani--whence did this golden orange drop?" said an elderly lady, with a complexion yellow as a citron, to her young neighbour, in a low dress. The latter put her eyeglass more firmly upon her pug nose, and replied-- "Little and impudent--a soubrette! The captain is talking to her already; she seems to be pert." The Polish Captain of Lancers, a Herr von Mierowski, did, indeed, find pleasure in the wily Italian, whose smile was so charmingly reserved. At the same time she let her eyes pass over the assembly, and especially examined the ladies; of these there were four: the mother, with the yellow tint in her face, and daughter, with the pug nose, also bore Polish names, consisting of a whole _plica polonica_ of letters. Then there was another beauty in pink silk. That rose was a Berlin lady, of remarkable loquacity. Her face did not correspond with her toilet's language of flowers; she was pale as wax, and the pink ribbons flowed down from flaxen hair. The fourth lady was an unusually slender sylph, and Beate guessed correctly and quickly that she must be a late performer in some ballet, who, after having gradually retreated from the front row into the very last, had retired with honours from the field of renown. She was a French-woman, who pretended to have taken part in the Grand Opera, but who certainly had earned her questionable laurels in booths, or on similar stages. The female company answered to that which is termed refuse at an annual fair--gay glazed ware, full of bubbles and cracks. Beate soon recognised this, but without being particularly contented with that result of her observations. She knew only too well that none of these Circes could have won Baluzzi's affections.