ong all her votaries, the
divinity herself."

I looked round, bewildered.

"Recognise!" I echoed. "I should not recognise my own father at this
moment. I feel like Abou Hassan in the palace of the Caliph."

"Or like Christopher Sly, when he wakes in the nobleman's bedchamber,"
said Dalrymple; "though I should ask your pardon for the comparison. But
see what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salary
per week. See these panels painted by Muller--this chandelier by
Deniere, of which no copy exists--this bust of Napoleon by Canova--these
hangings of purple and gold--this ceiling all carved and gilded, than
which Versailles contains nothing more elaborate. _Allons donc_! have
you nothing to say in admiration of so much splendor?"

I shook my head.

"What can I say? Is this the house of an actress, or the palace of a
prince? But stay--that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plain
gold circlet on her head--who is she?"

"Phedre herself," replied Dalrymple. "Follow me, and be introduced."

She was sitting in a large fauteuil of purple velvet. One foot rested on
a stool richly carved and gilt; one arm rested negligently on a table
covered with curious foreign weapons. In her right hand she held a
singular poignard, the blade of which was damascened with gold, while
the handle, made of bronze and exquisitely modelled, represented a tiny
human skeleton. With this ghastly toy she kept playing as she spoke,
apparently unconscious of its grim significance. She was surrounded by
some ten or a dozen distinguished-looking men, most of whom were
profusely _decore_. They made way courteously at our approach. Dalrymple
then presented me. I made my bow, was graciously received, and dropped
modestly into the rear.

"I began to think that Captain Dalrymple had forsworn Paris," said
Rachel, still toying with the skeleton dagger. "It is surely a year
since I last had this pleasure?"

"Nay, Madame, you flatter me," said Dalrymple. "I have been absent only
five months."

"Then, you see, I have measured your absence by my loss."

Dalrymple bowed profoundly.

Rachel turned to a young man behind her chair.

"Monsieur le Prince," said she, "do you know what is rumored in the
_foyer_ of the Francais? That you have offered me your hand!"

"I offer you both my hands, in applause, Madame, every night of your
performance," replied the gentleman so addressed.

She smiled and made a feint at him with the dagger.