all that's supernatural; and more exquisitely
lovely than ever!"

"Then it was true, after all, the strange story we heard," said
Beauchamp, "of the young lady's resurrection and marriage to Maximilian
Morrel, somewhere far away in parts unknown?"

"No doubt," replied the Count, "for, if I mistake not--and I'm sure I
don't mistake, now that I look more closely--that stalwart, splendid
fellow, with the broad forehead, black eyes and moustache, and the order
of the Legion of Honor on his breast, to set off his rich uniform of the
Spahis, and on whose arm the fair apparition is leaning, is no other
than Maximilian Morrel himself--the identical man who saved my
worthless neck from a yataghan in Algeria."

"How dark he's grown!" said Debray.

"No more so than all these African heroes--for instance, Cavaignac and
Lamoriciere."

"But what a splendid contrast there is between the young Colonel of the
Spahis and his lovely bride, if such she be! He, dark as a Corsican;
she, fair as an Englishwoman--he, upright as a poplar; she, drooping
like a willow--his hair and eyes black as midnight, while her soft,
languishing orbs are as blue as the summer sky, and her glossy ringlets
as brown as a chestnut!"

"On my word," said Beauchamp, "the Count grows poetical! Morrel had
better keep his beautiful wife out of the way! But have you discovered
who are the other couple in the box?" he added to the Secretary, who had
his lorgnette in most vigilant requisition. "Any more discoveries,
Debray?"

A sigh might have been heard as the Secretary took his glass from his
eye, and replied simply:

"Yes."

"And who now?" asked Chateau-Renaud. "There seems no end to discoveries
to-night."

"The young man who, by his decorations, seems a chef de bataillon of the
Spahis," replied Debray, "I cannot make out. But, be he whom he may, he
is effectually disguised from his most intimate friends by his luxuriant
beard and moustache. As for the lady--there is but one woman in the
world I have ever had the good fortune to behold who could be mistaken
for her."

"And that is?" said Beauchamp.

"Herself."

"And who is herself, Lucien?" asked Chateau-Renaud.

"Have you forgotten the Countess de Morcerf?"

"The Countess de Morcerf?--the wife of the general who was convicted by
the peers of felony, treason and outrage in the matter of Ali Tebelen,
Pacha of Yanina?" said Beauchamp.

"And who blew his brains out in despair?" added the Count.