but in turning to make good his retreat, he half stumbled and fell.

The banker instinctively extended his hand to assist him. Fagiano bowed
low as he recovered himself, and went into another room.

There was certainly nothing very remarkable in this incident, but Carmen
started and instantly hastened to the side of the banker, who seemed
calmly indifferent to what had taken place. Seeing this, her anxiety, if
she felt any, was dissipated, and she began to talk to Goutran.

At this moment the footman announced two names: "Mademoiselle Jane
Zeld!" "The Vicomte de Monte-Cristo!"

"You see, I did have two surprises for you," said Goutran.

But suddenly he exclaimed, "My dear Monsieur de Laisangy, you are ill, I
fear--"

"No, no," stammered the banker, "but it is very warm here, and I will go
out on the terrace a while, if you will permit me."

He left his daughter, who seemed to attach little importance to this
sudden indisposition of her father's.

Goutran went forward to receive his new guests. A murmur of admiration
greeted the lady--Jane Zeld, the cantatrice.

She was tall and slender, and dressed in black tulle with crimson roses.
She advanced with a smile on her lips. She was young, not more than
twenty-two, with dark hair raised over her brow like a diadem and
falling at the back of her head in loose braids. Her complexion was
clear but pale, her eyes were almond-shaped with long lashes and had a
singular fixity of expression.

Who was she? No one knew. She had appeared on the stage of public life
in a singular way. There had been a fire about two months before at one
of the theatres, and a musical evening had been organized for the
benefit of the victims.

Society, which likes amusements and is willing to be benevolent at the
same time, had responded to the appeal, and on the evening of the
performance the hall was crowded. The principal attraction was the
return to public life of a tenor, who had had a fit of the sulks and had
deserted the stage. He had promised to sing with the Diva a celebrated
duet. When the audience had assembled a message arrived at the theatre.
The Diva was ill, or pretended to be so, and now, at the last moment,
announced that it was impossible to appear.

This was terrible. The tenor was implored to sing alone, but he
positively refused, and the non-appearance of the two stars made the
affair an utter fiasco. Artists and journalists, director and
secretaries assembled in the