akened in her heart, she paid no attention to what was
passing in the house. And yet something calculated to excite curiosity
was taking place in the opposite stage-box.

The door of this box opened. A man about forty years of age, of a yellow
complexion, entered; he was clothed after the East Indian fashion, in a
long robe of orange silk, bound round the waist with a green sash, and he
wore a small white turban. He placed two chairs at the front of the box;
and, having glanced round the house for a moment, he started, his black
eyes sparkled, and he went out quickly. That man was Faringhea. His
apparition caused surprise and curiosity in the theatre; the majority of
the spectators not having, like Adrienne, a thousand reasons for being
absorbed in the contemplation of a picturesque set scene. The public
attention was still more excited when they saw the box which Faringhea
had just left, entered by a youth of rare beauty, also dressed Oriental
fashion, in a long robe of white Cashmere with flowing sleeves, with a
scarlet turban striped with gold on his head, and a sash to correspond,
in which was stuck a long dagger, glittering with precious stones. This
young man was Prince Djalma. For an instant he remained standing at the
door, and cast a look of indifference upon the immense theatre, crowded
with people; then, stepping forward with a majestic and tranquil air, the
prince seated himself negligently on one of the chairs, and, turning his
head in a few moments towards the entrance, appeared surprised at not
seeing some person whom he doubtless expected. This person appeared at
length; the boxkeeper had been assisting her to take off her cloak. She
was a charming, fair-haired girl, attired with more show than taste, in a
dress of white silk, with broad cherry-colored stripes, made ultra
fashionably low, and with short sleeves; a large bow of cherry-colored
ribbon was placed on each side of her light hair, and set off the
prettiest, sprightliest, most wilful little face in the world.

It was Rose-Pompon. Her pretty arms were partly covered by long white
gloves, and ridiculously loaded with bracelets: in her hand she carried
an enormous bouquet of roses.

Far from imitating the calm demeanor of Djalma, Rose-Pompon skipped into
the box, moved the chairs about noisily, and fidgeted on her seat for
some time, to display her fine dress; then, without being in the least
intimidated by the presence of the brilliant assembly,