rying to win a glance from her lovely
eyes--but then, she was a singular girl, this sweet Isabelle! At length,
exasperated by her utter indifference, Vallombreuse suddenly took the
initiative, and said to her, "Mademoiselle, you take the part of Sylvia
in this new play, do you not?"

"Yes, sir," Isabelle answered curtly, without looking at him--not able
to evade this direct question.

"Then never will a part have been so admirably played," continued the
duke. "If it is poor your acting will make it excellent, if it is fine
you will make it peerless. Ah! happy indeed the poet whose verses are
intrusted to those lovely lips of yours."

These vague compliments were only such as admiring gallants were in the
habit of lavishing upon pretty actresses, and Isabelle could not with
any show of reason resent it openly, but she acknowledged it only by
a very slight bend of the head, and still without looking up. At this
moment de Sigognac entered the green-room; he was masked and in full
costume, just buckling around his waist the belt of the big sword he had
inherited from Matamore, with the cobweb dangling from the scabbard. He
also marched straight up to Isabelle, and was received with a radiant
smile.

"You are capitally gotten up," she said to him in a low, tone, so low
that he had to bend down nearer her to hear, "and I am sure that no
fierce Spanish captain ever had a more superbly arrogant air than you."

The Duke of Vallombreuse drew himself up to his full height, and looked
this unwelcome new-comer over from head to foot, with an air of the
coolest, most haughty disdain. "This must be the contemptible scoundrel
they say she's in love with," he said to himself, swelling with
indignation and spite--filled with amazement too--for he could not
conceive of a woman's hesitating for an instant between the magnificent
young Duke of Vallombreuse and this ridiculous play-actor. After the
first rapid glance he made as if he did not perceive de Sigognac at all,
no more than if he had been a piece of furniture standing there; for him
Captain Fracasse was not a MAN, but a THING, and he continued to gaze
fixedly at poor Isabelle--his eyes fairly blazing with passion--exactly
as though no one was near. She, confused at last, and alarmed, blushed
painfully, in spite of all her efforts to appear calm and unmoved, and
hastened to finish what little remained to be done, so that she
might make her escape, for she could see de Sigognac's