Paris, in all the wildness of youth. He took us by surprise at breakfast;
he took his seat at table, without ceremony, on the invitation of the
count.

"In the beginning he did not strike my fancy; I thought him somewhat of a
braggadocio. He cultivated his mustachios with, great care (the finest
mustachios in the world), and spoke quite often enough of his prowess in
battle. Some visitor interrupting us, the count went into his library, and
left us together, _tete-a-tete_. Monsieur de Marteille's voice, until then
proud and haughty in its tone, softened a little. He had at first looked
at me with the eye of a soldier; he now looked at me with the eye of a
pupil.--'Excuse, madame,' said he, with some emotion, 'my rude soldier-like
bearing; I know nothing of fine manners; I have never passed through the
school of gallantry. Do not be offended at any thing I may say.'--'Why,
sir,' said I, smiling, 'you do not say any thing at all.'--'Ah, if I knew
how to speak! but, in truth, I would feel more at home before a whole army
than I do before your beautiful eyes. The count is very happy in having
such a beautiful enemy to contend with.'--While speaking thus, he looked at
me with a supplicating tenderness which contrasted singularly with his
look of the hero. I do not know what my eyes answered him. The count then
came in, and the conversation took another turn.

"Monsieur de Marteille accepted the earnest invitation of his cousin to
stay at his hotel. He went out; I did not see him again till evening. He
did not know who I was; the count called me Marianne, and,
unintentionally, perhaps, he had not spoken a word to his cousin about the
opera, or my grace and skill as a dancer. At supper, Monsieur de Marteille
had no longer the same frank gayety of the morning; a slight uneasiness
passed like a cloud over his brow; more than once I caught his melancholy
glance.--'Cheer up your cousin,' I said to the count.--'I know what he
wants,' answered Monsieur de Melun; 'I will take him to-morrow to the
opera. You will see that in that God-forsaken place he will find his
good-humor again.'--I felt jealous, without asking myself why.

"Next day the _Triumph of Bacchus_ was played. I appeared as Ariadne, all
covered with vine-leaves and flowers. I never danced so badly. I had
recognized Monsieur de Marteille among the gentlemen of the court. He
looked at me with a serious air. I had hoped to have had an opportunity to
speak with him before